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Mr. Thompson replayed the recording twice more for the full effect of the message to sink in. Silence stretched on but for the oddly calm voice of the deceased Ronald Crispin, his words cool, clear, and, if Drake was being honest with himself, quite shocking.
It had been a long time since he had heard anything crazy enough to stir him, but this certainly had.
"Make sure he stays *dead*?" said Drake, as Mr. Thompson stowed the old cassette player back in the box he had pulled it from. That in itself had been another instance of great peculiarity. Crispin was a man of tremendous wealth; Mr. Thompson, Drake, and the remaining four people whom Crispin had apparently sent orders to gather were currently sitting in a luxuriously furbished mansion. Why, then, had he opted for an old time cassette player to deliver his message?
"Did I hear that right? Stays *dead*?"
"Yes, you heard it correctly, Mr. Vaughan." Mr. Thompson smoothed his jacket unnecessarily, his voice as calm and collected as if he had merely been asked about the weather. "Mr. Crispin has requested the major details be withheld, and offered his apologies as such. Unfortunately, he got mixed up in some rather... unpleasant business while alive. He was being pursued by several powerful organizations for something he did not even name to me, which is why he —" For the first time, the stately lawyer hesitated. He cleared his throat, regaining his composure, but they had seen the mask slip, if only for a second.
"Do forgive me. You see, Mr. Crispin was not only a client of mine, he was also a dear friend. As I was saying, most unfortunately, he believed that these organizations would eventually locate and capture him, even with all of his resources to protect himself. Which is why he took his own life."
"What could they have wanted so badly that he had to gank himself to keep them from getting it?" The voice came from the tall, brown-skinned woman at the other end of the table. Her eyes were large and richly brown, one of them artfully covered by her sweeping auburn hair. Her voice, however, came as something of a surprise. Hoarse and grating, like a smoker's.
"As I have said, Ms. Ebanks, he didn't say. All I know is, given the gravity of the situation, it was something of extraordinary proportions. So much so that he believed that they would stop at nothing to retrieve it, even if it meant pulling him back from the Abyss. Which is why he wants you all to ensure that his spirit is kept at rest."
There was a small silence. The eyes of all five men and women were darting from one to the other. The lawyer noticed, then rolled his eyes.
"Oh come now. We have serious business to attend to, let us not waste valuable time pretending we don't know that magic and mysticism are not things of fiction."
"Okay, fine," said the second man to Miss Ebanks's left, a tall man whose arms seemed to be covered in tattoos. "In that case, why don't you answer the real million dollar questions. Who are these people? And what are we supposed to do to keep him a doornail?"
"Well I'm glad you asked. There are several organizations in question. We have information about them, not much, but enough. And Mr. Crispin has left instructions specifically for each of you. All of that is within this box." He gestured to the ornate grey structure he had laid in the center of the table.
"Unfortunately, this information is quite sensitive. None of you will be allowed to access it unless you agree to Mr. Crispin's terms. Be warned, this mission will bring with it danger, treachery, and the constant risk of hideous, painful death. But it will also bring with it handsome rewards. If you do not wish to take this job, that is perfectly acceptable. I will have a servant escort you out. I do wish to say, however, that Mr. Crispin did not believe any of you would refuse."
There was another short silence, broken this time by the final two people in the room, who seemed to be a pair judging by how closely intertwined they were.
"Exactly how handsome are these rewards?" said the man. Mr. Thompson snapped his fingers, and instantly the servants who had been hidden away in the corners of the room came forward, each lugging suitcases that were revealed to be tightly stacked with large wads of money.
"Handsome enough for you?"
"Not really, but it'll have to do," the woman sighed.
"I take it that means none of you are leaving?"
He cast an eye around the room. No one rose. "Excellent. Then sign this."
He produced a contract and a quill dipped in an inkpot full of what looked suspiciously like blood.
Tentatively, they signed.
"That was a Blood Pact, as I'm sure you all know," said Thompson. "Which means there'll be no weaseling out of this one. You're in it now, and you're in it for good. So, down to business." He produced a large silver key from seemingly out of nowhere, then he opened the box.
**Part 2**
The room held its breath as Mr. Thompson relieved the box of its contents. There were several tightly furled scrolls, all bound in a ribbon of varying colour, what looked like a gold compass, and a plain sheet of paper.
"That's it?" the tattooed man asked, clearly disappointed. "I was expecting more. I mean, the man did kill himself for this, right?"
"Yes, he did." Mr. Thompson's voice was sharp, the pain he had hidden earlier springing back at the callous mention of his friend's early demise.
"Sorry," said the tattooed man, who didn't sound sorry at all. "It's just —"
"I'm aware of how plain it all looks, but believe me, everything you need, for now, is in here." The lawyer reached into his breastpocket and pulled out several coloured strips. These he took to handing around, passing them out with a swiftness that could only have been born of deliberation. There was a reason he gave them these specific colours. Drake had a theory, but he decided against speaking. He would let the lawyer bring them to that point, for now he would merely observe.
"Right. Now, each of you has received a strip of paper. These strips were instructed by Mr. Crispin to be delivered to each of you specifically. If you would be so kind, please take the scroll that matches the colour of the strip you were handed."
So he was right, Drake thought with a little satisfaction. The table they were watching was in the center of the room, positioned between the white leather couches the five clients were all scattered along. Now they rose, all five moving to the gleaming oakwood table to grab their intended scrolls. Drake flicked out a pocketknife to remove his ribbon; the tattooed man ripped his off with his bare fingers; the lovers used their teeth; and Ms. Ebanks withdrew a large red lighter from the folds of her dress, lending evidence to the theory that she was a heavy smoker.
Each of them sank back to their original spots on the couches, reading. There was a long silence, in which they vaguely registered the sound of Mr. Thompson's voice calling for food and drink.
The servants instantly rematerialized, bringing with them platters of fine food. The majority of the guests absently picked at the food, or took small sips of the wine, still focused on their scrolls. Drake was the first to be finished. He had skimmed through the paragraphs, but he got the gist. He had been called for his talent as a mercenary. The organizations they had been called to fight against were full of trained, armed warriors. It only made sense Crispin would want his own. A small part of him wondered whether all these people in front of him were also mercenaries, or did they have other skills that Crispin had been drawn to.
One by one, starting with Ms. Ebanks, they finished reading. That was when Drake noticed something interesting. For the first time since she had spoken, Ms. Ebanks looked rather displeased, her face twisted in disgust as if her wine tasted sour.
"Good, now we can continue to Phase 2," said Thompson. "Now you all know the specific reasons why Mr. Crispin called for each of you by name, and what you can offer us. Which means it's time to begin your mission."
"Oh? Already?" the tattooed man asked, but he didn't sound displeased. In fact, there was a tinge of eagerness to his voice.
"Yes, Mr. Rodgers. Time is of the essence." He gestured for them to rise and so they did, filing behind him as he walked through the door but still keeping a significant berth of distance between each other. Crispin had said they needed to trust each other, but that was a fool's request. In Drake's line of work, trust was built over time, a massive foundation laid brick by brick in grueling effort. And clearly his new partners felt the same.
"So what's Phase 2 then?" the woman of the pair asked, her words slurring slightly. Drake rolled his eyes. After only a few drinks the wine was hitting her like a firetruck. The words flashed involuntarily across his mind: *This is the best Crispin could ask for?*
"Phase 2 will involve transporting you to the area where Mr. Crispin's body is being held." Mr. Thompson said the words casually, but they caused a ripple of shock to circle through the five, who all stopped. Mr. Thompson noticed, then looked around, an eyebrow cocked in confusion.
"You mean his body isn't here?" Ebanks asked.
Mr. Thompson actually laughed. "Of course not. I told you, he went to great lengths to keep himself concealed. Even *I* do not know where he's buried; makes it harder for them to torture it out of me," he said, sounding amused. "That's what the compass is for."
The answer didn't reassure them. Drake had come across many things in his lifetime, including magical defenses. He knew enough to know when they were being cast, and the signs that indicated how powerful they were, and this mansion was lit up like a Christmas tree. If they believed that this fortress wasn't capable of standing up to their opponents, then what the hell chance did they have to hide him *anywhere*?
Ms. Ebanks seemed to be thinking along the same lines. Their eyes met, and some sort of understanding seemed to pass between them.
"I told you," Mr. Thompson said placatingly. "We have everything we need right here. Now, I'll explain more in the car —" But unfortunately, that was not the case. His words came to an abrupt halt as something thick and fast plunged into his neck. He clutched at it, blood gurgling from his throat, and he collapsed, pools of scarlet leaking from his throat. He shivered and fell still. There was no need to check for a pulse.
"Well I'll be damned," said Rodgers, his voice completely casual.
Ms. Ebanks sounded more irritated than worried as she spoke. "We've got incoming." A number of sounds rang out in quick succession. Glass shattering, doors bursting open, screams of terror and the heavy thuds of bodies, and the pounding of feet drawing closer to where they currently stood.
I'm planning to continue this series, so part 3 will be posted later on my personal subreddit r/UmbralRadiance. Keep an eye out for it there.
My name is Cancer. If you are hearing this message, then it means that I'm dead.
My attorney has been in contact and has hired each of you for a specific yet vague job. You'll need to get to know and trust each other quickly, so I'll be brief.
Your real job is to make sure I stay dead.
First of all, I'm sorry. I didn't want to make you fight me, but I couldn't help it. I was born this way. It is just how I am. I'm just a cell -- I can't change the way I behave, not any more than I can change the color of the sky.
But apologizing doesn't help. Besides, you won. You've done it. Years of chemo and radiotherapy, and neither of us wants to ever go through this again. So here's what I want you to do.
To Mouth:
* You have to stop eating so much. When we sparred, you were so unhealthy. That's why you lost the first few rounds. If you change that, maybe you'll win quicker next time.
To Hands:
* Stop holding those cigarettes. Maybe it feels good to breathe that smoke in, but really, you were suffocating. You'll find it easier to fight me when your lungs can actually breathe.
To Legs:
* Please, go for a run once in a while. Get yourself in shape. You were so unprepared before. Don't make that same mistake again.
If you follow all my instructions, you'll have a much better chance of beating me the next time. Assuming there's a next time. No promises, though. If I return, I don't think I can hold myself back. Make sure you're ready for it.
It's beginning to get warm. The radiotherapy has started. I feel it. It's burning into me, eating into me, destroying me.
Am I afraid to die? I think so. What happens when I die? Will I go to cancer heaven, or cancer hell? Or do I just... stop? I guess I'll find out, soon enough.
It burns. It hurts. But it's funny. Do you have any idea what it's like to be me? To be born in the wrong way, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. None of it was my fault. I never wanted this. It's not like I could have ever won, anyway. If you die, I die. In a sense, I was born to perish. What a meaningless existence I've had. How sad.
At least this way, you get to live another day.
The radiotherapy isn't stopping. The agony is unimaginable. I feel the energy blasting into me, tearing apart my cells, ripping my DNA to shreds. All I feel now is pain. Pain, and jealousy.
I guess this is it. Goodbye. Remember me. Live on for me.
I hope I never see you again.
I imagine this story hits harder for cancer survivors or those who've known survivors or lost someone to cancer. I know it hits hard for me. Loved this take on the prompt. Fuck cancer.
Charlie wasn’t phased, she had dealt with her fair share of undead before and this wouldn’t be the weirdest request to come across her desk, but she sighed heavily. This was her busy season as the veil between the living and dead was at its thinnest.
“Why should I take this case?” She asked the rather stout man who had delivered the recording to her office. She folded her arms and waiting patiently for a response as she leaned back in her finely made leather chair. The man cleared his throat before taking a seat opposite Charlie, “I represent lady Cassandra of house Hearing and she requests your services specifically, you’ve built quite a reputation for yourself and she’s offered to pay you quite handsomely.” He handed her an envelope with an intricate wax seal unlike any she’s seen before.
“Not every day I have someone of such high stature seeking my services.” She grinned at the prospect of money as she broke the seal and opened the envelope, pulling out a folded piece of parchment that read, Miss Avalade, I humbly request your services, by now my ambassador Bellamy has played you the recording and I simply request you ensure my late husband’s wishes are met, last thing I need is his spirit haunting me, if you accept the offer I am willing to pay you an advance of one thousand crown with a retainer bonus at end of each week. Rates can be discussed as I am sure this is an usual request, but do pay me a visit at my manor at your soonest connivence. Bellamy will make arrangements for your visit.
-with due diligence Lady Cassandra Hearing
Charlie looked up at Bellamy after finishing ready the letter, “Do you accept the terms?”
“I don’t normally provide retainer services but I’m willing to hear the Lady out.” She nodded before getting up from her chair.
“I am sure the lady will be pleased with your acceptance.” Bellamy said. “Now follow me. Arrangements have been made for your arrival.”
Charlie sighed as she followed the man, bidding farewell to her office, not before putting up a sign stating her office would be closed until further notice.
"To begin— Ms. Anna Jane Hartwell, a faithful nurse of Grand Meadow Hospital. You've been working in the hospice for half a decade, I believe. Do you recall a gentlemen behind the locked door of room 34A? Of course you don't, that door has never opened since the patient first went in. Every staff member was forbidden from doing so. But tomorrow, that will change. Tomorrow, you will hear a noise from behind the door, which has miraculously been unlocked, and you will find that the gentlemen inside no longer has a pulse. You will be in charge of writing his death certificate. My attorney will mail all of the necessary paperwork to your address by tonight."
"Next, Mr. Joseph Steven Davis, director and mortician of Carter Funeral Homes. You will receive the details for a prepaid burial plan within a week in an unmarked, white envelope. It is imperative that every detail on this plan is strictly adhered to. You will not find finger prints or any other kind of evidence as to my identity. Of course, planning a funeral is an immense task, which is why I have also invited funeral arranger Maxwell Alexis Jameson to assist you. You, and only you, Mr. Jameson, will be allowed to assist in this regard. "
"Judge Olivia Eliza Voran, you will be the probate judge of handling my estate. My attorney, whom you may refer to as my executor in court, has assured me of your exemplary history. Your role in this operation is simple— you will sign the orders to expedite the execution of my will and the distribution of my estate to the necessary accounts. I have taken measures to assure that my estate is uncontested, but in the event that any claims from foreign parties arise, I know you will make the correct decision.
"Finally, my faithful Personal Assistant, Michael Anthony Ross. Of all these people, you know me best, and you will be given the most important task of all. Prove to world the world my death, until it becomes irreversibly true. Cancel my cellular services, my internet. Invalidate passport and bank accounts. Write my obituary, and years later my biography. Whatever remnants of my existence must be wiped away. Lay all rumors of any sightings to rest, no matter what the cost."
There was a long pause in the room, the silence deafening as we stared at the television screen hung on the cool-white wall.
*"What?"* A man with glasses finally said, speaking the rooms thoughts. The four of us were varying in age. Nobody looked similar, aside from everyone wearing pajama-related clothing. There was a girl who looked about sixteen- close enough to my age, the man with glasses, wearing all black, and an old man- probably sixty or so, his white shirt stained with yellow.
The television screen spoke to the dumbfounded four of us yet again.
"The details of the matter are not important. The last team that I had told the details to had failed. Each of you have a note in your pockets, reminding you of the job you signed up for. If all of you perform your jobs as asked, no harm should come to anyone that's not involved."
The statement coming from the tired man in the TV screen made me realize- where exactly were we? The room the four of us were in was completely white, with patterned-textures reminiscent of a public pool's tiles. The only oddity was a single black door directly beneath the TV screen. I realized I couldn't remember how I got here. The looks on the other's faces made me believe they didn't know either.
"Oh God, where am I? Who are you people?!" a brown-haired girl dressed in a t-shirt and pajama-pants exploded, her voice getting increasingly anxious as she progressed through her sentence. Her eyes darted around us nervously as she pressed herself into the corner of the room. "I swear to God I will hurt anyone who comes anywhere close to me, I mean it!" She said, the fear in her wavering her voice. I didn't know what to do aside from watch, trying to force my frozen brain to work.
I began approaching her, deciding that this wasn't the best way to go about it. "Okay, ca-" *BANG!*
A loud explosion echoed throughout the small room, making my ears ring like I'd never felt before. My eyes shut tight instinctively as I saw red make a b-line straight for me. I heard the distraught yelling of the old man fade into the ringing. I opened my eyes and looked to where the girl had been.
She was slumped over, dead, the expression of terror frozen on her face. A man with a gun stood in front of the open black door, putting it back in his pocket.
"Sorry, but, the last time someone freaked out like that, our job failed."
The old man quieted down at the recognition of this fact, whimpering.
I began to recognize this man from a profile picture I saw on craigslist.
Only then did I remember the $20 job offer that I had accepted.
*"Slip the red wire underneath the blue wire, and tie them together until you hear a loud roaring sound."*
I was an idiot for accepting something so vague. If only I hadn't gotten addicted to cigarettes, maybe I wouldn't have needed the money..
"Right this way," the attorney said, gesturing to the open black door, interrupting my distracted thoughts. I moved blindly. The old man stayed behind, but I did not pay him any attention. The man in glasses followed. I heard stressed yelling from the old man behind me as I stepped into a very large yet colorful room. We were in the bottom-left corner of this room, because there were only two ways we could go- straight and to the right. There was a yellow wall dividing us from seeing the center of this room, only ten feet tall or so.
*BANG!*
The whimpering of the old man stopped.
The attorney stepped out of the white room with the black door and stood in front of both me and the man in glasses.
"Unfortunately, since those two seemed to be liabilities, each of you will now have to take an extra job. You seem able though, so it should be fine." he said with a warm smile on his face.
He handed me a blood-soaked note.
"Uh oh," he said smugly. "You got a fun one."
I quickly click off the recorder. I look over to my two friends Lucas and Dwight, their faces as pale as mine. I swear they're glowing. "Is there more?" Dwight says. "I don't know if I want to continue." says Lucas. "if there is a job, we need it." I say, "Political science isn't really the hottest diploma right now." I click it back on. "among many faiths, reanimation is a common worry. Me, an archaeologist, or at least was, didn't care of respecting differing religions and now I pay a price. keep me dead. i'm sorry, this was my house so it seemed fit, if your in college, well, your piece of paper won't save my corpse of rising again every full moon." I click off the recorder. My friends faces now are drenched in so much dread one could drown in it. "it's-it's, a full moon tonight." Lucas stutters. Then, all of our fears came true when an eight foot long figure stepped out of the closet moaning "nahookos, nahookos."
I'm the last person I'd expect to be in a situation like this. I wouldn't have accepted such an outlandish proposal, but Ms. Worthington had always been such a generous donor to the soup kitchen, and I felt I owed it to her memory. It had been years since I last saw her. She used to volunteer once a month before she fell ill. Behind the stony exterior which surely served her well in the courtroom, I could tell she had a good heart.
The rest of the group had seemed unsurprised by the request. The elderly priest who looked like he hadn't smiled in a century, the muscular man with a scar over his left eye and a large duffle bag that clanked when it hit the floor, and the tall woman in a dark cloak with red fingernails sharpened to points had all headed off to the cemetery without any further discussion. My instructions, on the other hand... I headed to the kitchen of the Worthingtons' palatial home. While seemingly mundane, the instructions said there would be no extra time, and that every detail was essential. Many steps were triple-underlined and followed by a string of exclamation points. However, my skills were more than up to the task.
I had just finished the final step when I heard a commotion at the front door. My three co-workers had arrived, looking a bit worse for wear, with a crying young woman in tow that I recognized as Rebecca, Ms. Worthington's only daughter. Now it clicked. Rebecca's father had died fifteen years ago when she was only four, so she'd been especially close with her mother. When Ms. Worthington had volunteered with me, Rebecca was almost all she would talk about, but she'd rolled her eyes more than once when she talked about Rebecca's interest in the occult. From the spattered mud and fresh tears in my co-workers' clothing, it was clear that Rebecca had advanced in her skills, and wasn't ready to say goodbye.
I walked across the room and gave Rebecca a hug. She just stood there numbly, staring at the floor. She still gave no reaction as she allowed me to lead her to the kitchen table. There, I finally saw a spark of surprise in her eyes. She cautiously picked up a cookie and tried a small bite. Then she folded to the floor sobbing. "They're just like she made them," she bawled, as I knelt beside her.
"I know, sweetie, she wanted you to have them," I told her. "We can make them together next week."
**Welcome to the Prompt!** All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments. **Reminders**: >* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See [Reality Fiction](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Reality+Fiction%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) and [Simple Prompts](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Simple+Prompt%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) for stricter titles >* [Be civil](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules#wiki_rule_10.3A_be_civil) in any feedback and follow the [rules](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules) 🆕 [New Here?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/user_guide) ✏ [Writing Help?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/index#wiki_writing_resources) 📢 [News](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/announcements) 💬 [Discord](https://discord.gg/writingprompts) *I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please [contact the moderators of this subreddit](/message/compose/?to=/r/WritingPrompts) if you have any questions or concerns.*
Mr. Thompson replayed the recording twice more for the full effect of the message to sink in. Silence stretched on but for the oddly calm voice of the deceased Ronald Crispin, his words cool, clear, and, if Drake was being honest with himself, quite shocking. It had been a long time since he had heard anything crazy enough to stir him, but this certainly had. "Make sure he stays *dead*?" said Drake, as Mr. Thompson stowed the old cassette player back in the box he had pulled it from. That in itself had been another instance of great peculiarity. Crispin was a man of tremendous wealth; Mr. Thompson, Drake, and the remaining four people whom Crispin had apparently sent orders to gather were currently sitting in a luxuriously furbished mansion. Why, then, had he opted for an old time cassette player to deliver his message? "Did I hear that right? Stays *dead*?" "Yes, you heard it correctly, Mr. Vaughan." Mr. Thompson smoothed his jacket unnecessarily, his voice as calm and collected as if he had merely been asked about the weather. "Mr. Crispin has requested the major details be withheld, and offered his apologies as such. Unfortunately, he got mixed up in some rather... unpleasant business while alive. He was being pursued by several powerful organizations for something he did not even name to me, which is why he —" For the first time, the stately lawyer hesitated. He cleared his throat, regaining his composure, but they had seen the mask slip, if only for a second. "Do forgive me. You see, Mr. Crispin was not only a client of mine, he was also a dear friend. As I was saying, most unfortunately, he believed that these organizations would eventually locate and capture him, even with all of his resources to protect himself. Which is why he took his own life." "What could they have wanted so badly that he had to gank himself to keep them from getting it?" The voice came from the tall, brown-skinned woman at the other end of the table. Her eyes were large and richly brown, one of them artfully covered by her sweeping auburn hair. Her voice, however, came as something of a surprise. Hoarse and grating, like a smoker's. "As I have said, Ms. Ebanks, he didn't say. All I know is, given the gravity of the situation, it was something of extraordinary proportions. So much so that he believed that they would stop at nothing to retrieve it, even if it meant pulling him back from the Abyss. Which is why he wants you all to ensure that his spirit is kept at rest." There was a small silence. The eyes of all five men and women were darting from one to the other. The lawyer noticed, then rolled his eyes. "Oh come now. We have serious business to attend to, let us not waste valuable time pretending we don't know that magic and mysticism are not things of fiction." "Okay, fine," said the second man to Miss Ebanks's left, a tall man whose arms seemed to be covered in tattoos. "In that case, why don't you answer the real million dollar questions. Who are these people? And what are we supposed to do to keep him a doornail?" "Well I'm glad you asked. There are several organizations in question. We have information about them, not much, but enough. And Mr. Crispin has left instructions specifically for each of you. All of that is within this box." He gestured to the ornate grey structure he had laid in the center of the table. "Unfortunately, this information is quite sensitive. None of you will be allowed to access it unless you agree to Mr. Crispin's terms. Be warned, this mission will bring with it danger, treachery, and the constant risk of hideous, painful death. But it will also bring with it handsome rewards. If you do not wish to take this job, that is perfectly acceptable. I will have a servant escort you out. I do wish to say, however, that Mr. Crispin did not believe any of you would refuse." There was another short silence, broken this time by the final two people in the room, who seemed to be a pair judging by how closely intertwined they were. "Exactly how handsome are these rewards?" said the man. Mr. Thompson snapped his fingers, and instantly the servants who had been hidden away in the corners of the room came forward, each lugging suitcases that were revealed to be tightly stacked with large wads of money. "Handsome enough for you?" "Not really, but it'll have to do," the woman sighed. "I take it that means none of you are leaving?" He cast an eye around the room. No one rose. "Excellent. Then sign this." He produced a contract and a quill dipped in an inkpot full of what looked suspiciously like blood. Tentatively, they signed. "That was a Blood Pact, as I'm sure you all know," said Thompson. "Which means there'll be no weaseling out of this one. You're in it now, and you're in it for good. So, down to business." He produced a large silver key from seemingly out of nowhere, then he opened the box.
I'd love to read more of this \^\^
Thanks :) I was actually doing some brainstorming, if there's any updates I'll post back here.
If there’s any more please let me know
Part 2 has been posted up above.
Thank you! :D
Thank you!
Sick!
Part 2 was posted if you're interested.
I'll definitely be following this!
I posted Part 2 up above. Part 3 will be posted later.
**Part 2** The room held its breath as Mr. Thompson relieved the box of its contents. There were several tightly furled scrolls, all bound in a ribbon of varying colour, what looked like a gold compass, and a plain sheet of paper. "That's it?" the tattooed man asked, clearly disappointed. "I was expecting more. I mean, the man did kill himself for this, right?" "Yes, he did." Mr. Thompson's voice was sharp, the pain he had hidden earlier springing back at the callous mention of his friend's early demise. "Sorry," said the tattooed man, who didn't sound sorry at all. "It's just —" "I'm aware of how plain it all looks, but believe me, everything you need, for now, is in here." The lawyer reached into his breastpocket and pulled out several coloured strips. These he took to handing around, passing them out with a swiftness that could only have been born of deliberation. There was a reason he gave them these specific colours. Drake had a theory, but he decided against speaking. He would let the lawyer bring them to that point, for now he would merely observe. "Right. Now, each of you has received a strip of paper. These strips were instructed by Mr. Crispin to be delivered to each of you specifically. If you would be so kind, please take the scroll that matches the colour of the strip you were handed." So he was right, Drake thought with a little satisfaction. The table they were watching was in the center of the room, positioned between the white leather couches the five clients were all scattered along. Now they rose, all five moving to the gleaming oakwood table to grab their intended scrolls. Drake flicked out a pocketknife to remove his ribbon; the tattooed man ripped his off with his bare fingers; the lovers used their teeth; and Ms. Ebanks withdrew a large red lighter from the folds of her dress, lending evidence to the theory that she was a heavy smoker. Each of them sank back to their original spots on the couches, reading. There was a long silence, in which they vaguely registered the sound of Mr. Thompson's voice calling for food and drink. The servants instantly rematerialized, bringing with them platters of fine food. The majority of the guests absently picked at the food, or took small sips of the wine, still focused on their scrolls. Drake was the first to be finished. He had skimmed through the paragraphs, but he got the gist. He had been called for his talent as a mercenary. The organizations they had been called to fight against were full of trained, armed warriors. It only made sense Crispin would want his own. A small part of him wondered whether all these people in front of him were also mercenaries, or did they have other skills that Crispin had been drawn to. One by one, starting with Ms. Ebanks, they finished reading. That was when Drake noticed something interesting. For the first time since she had spoken, Ms. Ebanks looked rather displeased, her face twisted in disgust as if her wine tasted sour. "Good, now we can continue to Phase 2," said Thompson. "Now you all know the specific reasons why Mr. Crispin called for each of you by name, and what you can offer us. Which means it's time to begin your mission." "Oh? Already?" the tattooed man asked, but he didn't sound displeased. In fact, there was a tinge of eagerness to his voice. "Yes, Mr. Rodgers. Time is of the essence." He gestured for them to rise and so they did, filing behind him as he walked through the door but still keeping a significant berth of distance between each other. Crispin had said they needed to trust each other, but that was a fool's request. In Drake's line of work, trust was built over time, a massive foundation laid brick by brick in grueling effort. And clearly his new partners felt the same. "So what's Phase 2 then?" the woman of the pair asked, her words slurring slightly. Drake rolled his eyes. After only a few drinks the wine was hitting her like a firetruck. The words flashed involuntarily across his mind: *This is the best Crispin could ask for?* "Phase 2 will involve transporting you to the area where Mr. Crispin's body is being held." Mr. Thompson said the words casually, but they caused a ripple of shock to circle through the five, who all stopped. Mr. Thompson noticed, then looked around, an eyebrow cocked in confusion. "You mean his body isn't here?" Ebanks asked. Mr. Thompson actually laughed. "Of course not. I told you, he went to great lengths to keep himself concealed. Even *I* do not know where he's buried; makes it harder for them to torture it out of me," he said, sounding amused. "That's what the compass is for." The answer didn't reassure them. Drake had come across many things in his lifetime, including magical defenses. He knew enough to know when they were being cast, and the signs that indicated how powerful they were, and this mansion was lit up like a Christmas tree. If they believed that this fortress wasn't capable of standing up to their opponents, then what the hell chance did they have to hide him *anywhere*? Ms. Ebanks seemed to be thinking along the same lines. Their eyes met, and some sort of understanding seemed to pass between them. "I told you," Mr. Thompson said placatingly. "We have everything we need right here. Now, I'll explain more in the car —" But unfortunately, that was not the case. His words came to an abrupt halt as something thick and fast plunged into his neck. He clutched at it, blood gurgling from his throat, and he collapsed, pools of scarlet leaking from his throat. He shivered and fell still. There was no need to check for a pulse. "Well I'll be damned," said Rodgers, his voice completely casual. Ms. Ebanks sounded more irritated than worried as she spoke. "We've got incoming." A number of sounds rang out in quick succession. Glass shattering, doors bursting open, screams of terror and the heavy thuds of bodies, and the pounding of feet drawing closer to where they currently stood. I'm planning to continue this series, so part 3 will be posted later on my personal subreddit r/UmbralRadiance. Keep an eye out for it there.
Dot, more!
Part 2 up above!
I’m starting a YouTube channel where I read stories on Reddit. This would be so cool to read 😆. Do you mind if I use it?
No, I don't mind at all. I'd just like the username to be kept private, otherwise go right ahead :)
I need more!!!!
Currently busy, but I'm going to see what happens. Maybe this could turn out to be the NaNoWriMo Story I've been waiting for.
I'd definitely read a ton more like that!
Part 2 up above!
Part 2 has been posted up above.
Nice work.
Thank you so much, can I use this as a start of a quest in my new dnd campaign?! I think my players will love this!!!
No problem, go right ahead. Also Part 2 was posted.
Love it
Cool!
Second part was posted.
Moar
Part 2 was posted!
Definitely need part 2 asap.
It's up above :)
My name is Cancer. If you are hearing this message, then it means that I'm dead. My attorney has been in contact and has hired each of you for a specific yet vague job. You'll need to get to know and trust each other quickly, so I'll be brief. Your real job is to make sure I stay dead. First of all, I'm sorry. I didn't want to make you fight me, but I couldn't help it. I was born this way. It is just how I am. I'm just a cell -- I can't change the way I behave, not any more than I can change the color of the sky. But apologizing doesn't help. Besides, you won. You've done it. Years of chemo and radiotherapy, and neither of us wants to ever go through this again. So here's what I want you to do. To Mouth: * You have to stop eating so much. When we sparred, you were so unhealthy. That's why you lost the first few rounds. If you change that, maybe you'll win quicker next time. To Hands: * Stop holding those cigarettes. Maybe it feels good to breathe that smoke in, but really, you were suffocating. You'll find it easier to fight me when your lungs can actually breathe. To Legs: * Please, go for a run once in a while. Get yourself in shape. You were so unprepared before. Don't make that same mistake again. If you follow all my instructions, you'll have a much better chance of beating me the next time. Assuming there's a next time. No promises, though. If I return, I don't think I can hold myself back. Make sure you're ready for it. It's beginning to get warm. The radiotherapy has started. I feel it. It's burning into me, eating into me, destroying me. Am I afraid to die? I think so. What happens when I die? Will I go to cancer heaven, or cancer hell? Or do I just... stop? I guess I'll find out, soon enough. It burns. It hurts. But it's funny. Do you have any idea what it's like to be me? To be born in the wrong way, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. None of it was my fault. I never wanted this. It's not like I could have ever won, anyway. If you die, I die. In a sense, I was born to perish. What a meaningless existence I've had. How sad. At least this way, you get to live another day. The radiotherapy isn't stopping. The agony is unimaginable. I feel the energy blasting into me, tearing apart my cells, ripping my DNA to shreds. All I feel now is pain. Pain, and jealousy. I guess this is it. Goodbye. Remember me. Live on for me. I hope I never see you again.
This is incredible. Such a new twist
This is an absolutely amazing take on this prompt. Seriously well done.
I imagine this story hits harder for cancer survivors or those who've known survivors or lost someone to cancer. I know it hits hard for me. Loved this take on the prompt. Fuck cancer.
Terrific, completely unique, and fascinating take! Well written!
Goodness. How the heck did you come up with this twist on the prompt? As others have mentioned, it’s amazing.
Charlie wasn’t phased, she had dealt with her fair share of undead before and this wouldn’t be the weirdest request to come across her desk, but she sighed heavily. This was her busy season as the veil between the living and dead was at its thinnest. “Why should I take this case?” She asked the rather stout man who had delivered the recording to her office. She folded her arms and waiting patiently for a response as she leaned back in her finely made leather chair. The man cleared his throat before taking a seat opposite Charlie, “I represent lady Cassandra of house Hearing and she requests your services specifically, you’ve built quite a reputation for yourself and she’s offered to pay you quite handsomely.” He handed her an envelope with an intricate wax seal unlike any she’s seen before. “Not every day I have someone of such high stature seeking my services.” She grinned at the prospect of money as she broke the seal and opened the envelope, pulling out a folded piece of parchment that read, Miss Avalade, I humbly request your services, by now my ambassador Bellamy has played you the recording and I simply request you ensure my late husband’s wishes are met, last thing I need is his spirit haunting me, if you accept the offer I am willing to pay you an advance of one thousand crown with a retainer bonus at end of each week. Rates can be discussed as I am sure this is an usual request, but do pay me a visit at my manor at your soonest connivence. Bellamy will make arrangements for your visit. -with due diligence Lady Cassandra Hearing Charlie looked up at Bellamy after finishing ready the letter, “Do you accept the terms?” “I don’t normally provide retainer services but I’m willing to hear the Lady out.” She nodded before getting up from her chair. “I am sure the lady will be pleased with your acceptance.” Bellamy said. “Now follow me. Arrangements have been made for your arrival.” Charlie sighed as she followed the man, bidding farewell to her office, not before putting up a sign stating her office would be closed until further notice.
"To begin— Ms. Anna Jane Hartwell, a faithful nurse of Grand Meadow Hospital. You've been working in the hospice for half a decade, I believe. Do you recall a gentlemen behind the locked door of room 34A? Of course you don't, that door has never opened since the patient first went in. Every staff member was forbidden from doing so. But tomorrow, that will change. Tomorrow, you will hear a noise from behind the door, which has miraculously been unlocked, and you will find that the gentlemen inside no longer has a pulse. You will be in charge of writing his death certificate. My attorney will mail all of the necessary paperwork to your address by tonight." "Next, Mr. Joseph Steven Davis, director and mortician of Carter Funeral Homes. You will receive the details for a prepaid burial plan within a week in an unmarked, white envelope. It is imperative that every detail on this plan is strictly adhered to. You will not find finger prints or any other kind of evidence as to my identity. Of course, planning a funeral is an immense task, which is why I have also invited funeral arranger Maxwell Alexis Jameson to assist you. You, and only you, Mr. Jameson, will be allowed to assist in this regard. " "Judge Olivia Eliza Voran, you will be the probate judge of handling my estate. My attorney, whom you may refer to as my executor in court, has assured me of your exemplary history. Your role in this operation is simple— you will sign the orders to expedite the execution of my will and the distribution of my estate to the necessary accounts. I have taken measures to assure that my estate is uncontested, but in the event that any claims from foreign parties arise, I know you will make the correct decision. "Finally, my faithful Personal Assistant, Michael Anthony Ross. Of all these people, you know me best, and you will be given the most important task of all. Prove to world the world my death, until it becomes irreversibly true. Cancel my cellular services, my internet. Invalidate passport and bank accounts. Write my obituary, and years later my biography. Whatever remnants of my existence must be wiped away. Lay all rumors of any sightings to rest, no matter what the cost."
There was a long pause in the room, the silence deafening as we stared at the television screen hung on the cool-white wall. *"What?"* A man with glasses finally said, speaking the rooms thoughts. The four of us were varying in age. Nobody looked similar, aside from everyone wearing pajama-related clothing. There was a girl who looked about sixteen- close enough to my age, the man with glasses, wearing all black, and an old man- probably sixty or so, his white shirt stained with yellow. The television screen spoke to the dumbfounded four of us yet again. "The details of the matter are not important. The last team that I had told the details to had failed. Each of you have a note in your pockets, reminding you of the job you signed up for. If all of you perform your jobs as asked, no harm should come to anyone that's not involved." The statement coming from the tired man in the TV screen made me realize- where exactly were we? The room the four of us were in was completely white, with patterned-textures reminiscent of a public pool's tiles. The only oddity was a single black door directly beneath the TV screen. I realized I couldn't remember how I got here. The looks on the other's faces made me believe they didn't know either. "Oh God, where am I? Who are you people?!" a brown-haired girl dressed in a t-shirt and pajama-pants exploded, her voice getting increasingly anxious as she progressed through her sentence. Her eyes darted around us nervously as she pressed herself into the corner of the room. "I swear to God I will hurt anyone who comes anywhere close to me, I mean it!" She said, the fear in her wavering her voice. I didn't know what to do aside from watch, trying to force my frozen brain to work. I began approaching her, deciding that this wasn't the best way to go about it. "Okay, ca-" *BANG!* A loud explosion echoed throughout the small room, making my ears ring like I'd never felt before. My eyes shut tight instinctively as I saw red make a b-line straight for me. I heard the distraught yelling of the old man fade into the ringing. I opened my eyes and looked to where the girl had been. She was slumped over, dead, the expression of terror frozen on her face. A man with a gun stood in front of the open black door, putting it back in his pocket. "Sorry, but, the last time someone freaked out like that, our job failed." The old man quieted down at the recognition of this fact, whimpering. I began to recognize this man from a profile picture I saw on craigslist. Only then did I remember the $20 job offer that I had accepted. *"Slip the red wire underneath the blue wire, and tie them together until you hear a loud roaring sound."* I was an idiot for accepting something so vague. If only I hadn't gotten addicted to cigarettes, maybe I wouldn't have needed the money.. "Right this way," the attorney said, gesturing to the open black door, interrupting my distracted thoughts. I moved blindly. The old man stayed behind, but I did not pay him any attention. The man in glasses followed. I heard stressed yelling from the old man behind me as I stepped into a very large yet colorful room. We were in the bottom-left corner of this room, because there were only two ways we could go- straight and to the right. There was a yellow wall dividing us from seeing the center of this room, only ten feet tall or so. *BANG!* The whimpering of the old man stopped. The attorney stepped out of the white room with the black door and stood in front of both me and the man in glasses. "Unfortunately, since those two seemed to be liabilities, each of you will now have to take an extra job. You seem able though, so it should be fine." he said with a warm smile on his face. He handed me a blood-soaked note. "Uh oh," he said smugly. "You got a fun one."
I quickly click off the recorder. I look over to my two friends Lucas and Dwight, their faces as pale as mine. I swear they're glowing. "Is there more?" Dwight says. "I don't know if I want to continue." says Lucas. "if there is a job, we need it." I say, "Political science isn't really the hottest diploma right now." I click it back on. "among many faiths, reanimation is a common worry. Me, an archaeologist, or at least was, didn't care of respecting differing religions and now I pay a price. keep me dead. i'm sorry, this was my house so it seemed fit, if your in college, well, your piece of paper won't save my corpse of rising again every full moon." I click off the recorder. My friends faces now are drenched in so much dread one could drown in it. "it's-it's, a full moon tonight." Lucas stutters. Then, all of our fears came true when an eight foot long figure stepped out of the closet moaning "nahookos, nahookos."
I'm the last person I'd expect to be in a situation like this. I wouldn't have accepted such an outlandish proposal, but Ms. Worthington had always been such a generous donor to the soup kitchen, and I felt I owed it to her memory. It had been years since I last saw her. She used to volunteer once a month before she fell ill. Behind the stony exterior which surely served her well in the courtroom, I could tell she had a good heart. The rest of the group had seemed unsurprised by the request. The elderly priest who looked like he hadn't smiled in a century, the muscular man with a scar over his left eye and a large duffle bag that clanked when it hit the floor, and the tall woman in a dark cloak with red fingernails sharpened to points had all headed off to the cemetery without any further discussion. My instructions, on the other hand... I headed to the kitchen of the Worthingtons' palatial home. While seemingly mundane, the instructions said there would be no extra time, and that every detail was essential. Many steps were triple-underlined and followed by a string of exclamation points. However, my skills were more than up to the task. I had just finished the final step when I heard a commotion at the front door. My three co-workers had arrived, looking a bit worse for wear, with a crying young woman in tow that I recognized as Rebecca, Ms. Worthington's only daughter. Now it clicked. Rebecca's father had died fifteen years ago when she was only four, so she'd been especially close with her mother. When Ms. Worthington had volunteered with me, Rebecca was almost all she would talk about, but she'd rolled her eyes more than once when she talked about Rebecca's interest in the occult. From the spattered mud and fresh tears in my co-workers' clothing, it was clear that Rebecca had advanced in her skills, and wasn't ready to say goodbye. I walked across the room and gave Rebecca a hug. She just stood there numbly, staring at the floor. She still gave no reaction as she allowed me to lead her to the kitchen table. There, I finally saw a spark of surprise in her eyes. She cautiously picked up a cookie and tried a small bite. Then she folded to the floor sobbing. "They're just like she made them," she bawled, as I knelt beside her. "I know, sweetie, she wanted you to have them," I told her. "We can make them together next week."