The Devil's Playground (Kail/Ryona)

[Kail DeWraith]

A beautiful blonde teen, maybe 16 or 17 years old, struggled violently against the ropes that binded her to large wood table. Her body was covered in a tattered white shirt and jeans. Dirty, sweat, and blood had soaked into the clothing. Her blue eyes were blood shot, puffy, and strained from hours of crying. He mouth was gagged tightly by an old rag that had once been white but was now more red than anything else.

The only light in the room was a small light bulb hung from the ceiling right above the table. Surrounding the table were black robed figures. None of the robed figures spoke or moved. At the head of the table a red robed figure walked forward holding a sinister looking blade and a live chicken. The figure held the chicken over the girl. With a quick swing of the blade, the chickens head was lying on the ground and blood sprayed from the carcass across the young girl. She moaned loudly. The figure raised the blade high, a chant started from the surrounding robed personages. Growing louder and louder as they went. On the final word the knife came down and sunk deep in the flesh of the teenage girls chest, piercing her heart......

....One day later....

Dave lived a normal life. He woke up every morning, grabbed his coffee, and went to work at the paper mill in St. Helens. That was his life. He had a beautiful family. He and his wife, Karen, had been married for 17 years. They had 3 girls together. Along with his normal life, Dave was a normal looking man. He stood average height, his once black hair was slowly fading to grey, his skin had deep lines of stress and worry because of the years of working a blue collar job, and his clothing was that of a Foreman who worked in a paper mill.

His home was the typical small house that was in Scappoose. The outside showed years of wear from the constant wet weather that was common to Oregon. The wood siding that was once yellow was now a dingy tan and showed spots of moss growing on it. The yard was kept in decent shape.

Dave pulled his 90’s white Ford pickup truck into the drive way. He parked it and slid out of the front seat. His back pack slung over his shoulder. Tiredly, he walked from the driveway and through the front door. His house was typical, nothing extravagant but very comfortable and warm feeling. Dave looked around the front room as he walked through the door. The first thing he noticed was Karen, tear stained eyes, holding the cordless phone up to her ear. Worry and fear stabbed through him as he dropped everything and rushed to her side.

“Dave,” Karen spoke in a quivering voice, “the cops found a body. The…They…They think it’s Brrr…” Karen couldn’t finish the rest of her sentence. She dropped the phone and buried her face into her husband’s shoulder moaning in sadness and pain that her oldest daughter, only 16, was dead. She had gone with a few of her classmates to Astoria, a neighboring town, to see the Aquatics museum. She had not come home because she was going to stay the night at her friends house.

Sadness, shock, and every other emotion he could feel at this time rushed through him. He didn’t cry. He couldn’t cry. Slowly reaching down, Dave picked up the phone and hung up. His daughter was dead? How could she be? She had her first Prom was this weekend….


….. Somewhere in Northern Idaho……


The buzz of his cell phone startled him awake. Opening his eyes slowly stared at the interior of his Ford Explorer. The clock on the dashboard read 4 am. He had only gone to sleep an hour ago. Who the fuck was calling this early. Jon’s large hands fumbled for his phone that would normally sit in the cup holder of his SUV. Cursing, he sat up full and turned on the dome light. The phone was not in the cup holder but on the passenger seat right next to the bottle of vodka and his H&K pistol. Grabbing it he looked at the number. It was his old friend Danny. He hit the answer button on the phone and raised it to his ear.

“Danny, there better be either naked women involved or an army of Arab zombies breaking down your front fuckin’ door for you to be calling me this god damn early.” Jon spoke as he rubbed his eyes trying to focus on what Danny would say next to him. He prayed to God that it would be naked women and not Arab zombies.

“Nice to hear from you to. Meet me in Boise this afternoon, exit 285 waffle house north of the exit. I got some information on a job for you.” The click told Jon that Danny had ended the call. Cursing, Jon looked at the clock again. He had a few more hours of sleep before he had to go meet Danny. Jon set his phone down, closed his eyes, and drifted back off to sleep.


....Noonish, Boise, ID....


The black Explorer pulled into the Idaho Waffle House. Jon parked the SUV and slid out of the front seat. He was wearing his normal dress shirt, dark gray suit, and had a pink tie on. He slammed the door and walked into the diner. Standing taller than most of the people in the small diner it was easy for him to pick out the bald, thick bearded, heavy set man Jon was looking for. Walking up, the man shoveled syrup soaked waffle's into his mouth.

"You red bearded lumberjack looking bastard. You know that shit will kill you." Jon slid into the both opposite of Danny.

"Love you to sweet heart. How you been Jay?" Danny spoke between bites of his food. The red flannel shirt he wore was dirty with syrup, dirt, and who knew what else. Jon had known Danny for a few years and never had he been a man who worried to much about hygiene.

"Good brother. I just got done with a job in Malta, Idaho. Werewolf or two." Jon stretched as the waitress came up and poured him a cup of coffee.

"Werewolves. Small towns. Back woods people. Same story right," putting the fork down, Danny grabbed a folder that had been laying on the seat next to him, "Job for ya. Astoria, Oregon. Small little coast town."

Jon opened the folder up and looked at it. Several news paper clippings. Each one was close to a year apart, each one involved a teenage girl, and each one was found just out side of Astoria. Chicken blood, other bodily fluids, and strange symbols had been carved into each girl. Each time the symbols were different.

"Jesus." Jon whispered as he read through each story. Each one made his stomach twist tighter and tighter.

"I know. I figured you would be perfect for this one. I've asked around to a few other hunters that have been in the area, they all seem to think some sort of witchcraft or hoodoo is being done up there. Some have claimed to see Demonic omens, others just stay the hell away from the area of Oregon for some damn reason." As he was talking, Danny had stopped talking. He had lost his appetite very quickly as he remembered what each article had contained.

"Alright brother," Jon pulled a money clip from his chest pocket and pulled a 20 from the clip,"I would say I appreciate this but I think we both know where this shit storm will go. Give me a call in a few days. Take care."

"Will do killer." As Jon left the table, Danny picked his fork and knife back up and started eating again.

"God damn witchcraft doing bastard," Jon whispered as he walked towards his SUV. Opening the door up he slipped his suit jacket off, folded it neatly, and laid in on the passengers seat. Jumping into the drivers seat, Jon backed out of his parking spot and drove away from the diner. His right hand reached into the cup holder and grabbed the black iron rosary and crucifix. Softly Jon started to move the beads through his hand and mutter Hail Mary's.

[Gadreille]

Jethra Ann Wilson never liked being anxious.

It had started in high school. Every time she got worried over this drama or that, struggling to study for an exam or write a report, she always found herself with sleepless nights filled with nightmares. She didn't even really realize it, but soon her life began to take shape around avoiding those nightmares. She stopped doing anything exciting or strenuous...stopped trying to achieve anything beyond mundane existence and seperated herself from anything that made her heart skip a beat. Then the dreams went away.

She didn't realize this, of course. Or if she did, she soon forgot. She blamed leaving California on "wanting adventure" and told her family that there was plenty of excitement working Aunt Cyndy's bookstore. The truth was the job was as mundane as she needed, and Aunt Cyndy was as estranged as ever.

But then things got crappy and the bookstore had to shut down. She spent six months looking for work, stressing every day that she might have to return home, live in her little brother's bedroom and face the realization that she never did anything with her life. Her dreams ran wild, ugly dreams full of death and darkness even beyond death. She could do nothing to stop it...

When she finally landed a job at the community college library, she relished in the peace. She found that her nights were peaceful once more. However she could not forget the feeling of utter failure that she had while jobless...and her job was not a secure one. The economy was no better, she could lose her job any day. Remembering this inner turmoil, she finally began enrolling in classes. With meditation and the help of a sleeping aid, she found she could handle it with minimal night terrors. They were still there though...she just managed to sleep through them.

So the next two years went, Jet carefully balancing her college schedule with sleeping meditation to try and achieve the normality that was all she ever wanted. Growing up sucks.

~***~

Jet woke up in a cold sweat. She sat up straight, her head rushing as she did so. She was still heavily drugged, making it hard to move or even think. She felt as if someone had shaken her awake, even through the sedative. She turned her head, nearly falling on her side in the process. Landing on her elbow, she used her other arm and after three times, managed to grab the alarm clock and turn it toward her. The numbers were blurry, but she was sure the clock read 12:11 AM. I took a sleeping pill two hours ago, she thought. This isn't possible. Perhaps she was adjusting to the medication, and needed to up her dosage. But she couldn't shake the feeling that it was a nightmare that woke her, she just couldn't remember what it was. She closed her eyes, pressing her palms into her eyelids, hoping the pressure would give her just enough jolt to make her able to think, to remember. A girl...a girl I knew...she was scared...something...But all it did was make her tired, and she passed out on the bed again, forgetting everything in the process.

~***~

Jethra climbed out of bed in the morning, and began getting ready for school. She had two classes plus a shift at the library, so she was packing for a full day out. She took a long hot shower, drying her hair half heartedly and then throwing it up in a bun. She dressed in jeans and a sweater, grabbing her coat and book bag to head downstairs. She'd need to pack a lunch.

Aunt Cyndy was in the kitchen, sitting at the bar counter. The TV was on. The only TV that was in the house was a little rabbit ear on the kitchen counter. Aunt Cyndy didn't believe in their "Bad Energy". And yet, it was on, and she was staring into it, eyes puffy from tears.

"Aunt...Cyndy?" Jethra asked, wondering what was up. She rarely saw her except on occasion when they were both home for dinner, which was rare. She wasn't prepared for dealing with tears. Cynthia Webb did not cry. Even when her beloved store was closed down, she didn't even stop to blink. She just went on going. Aunt Cyndy does not cry!

"Oh...Jethra...good morning," she said, wiping her face with her sleeve. Her eyes were glazed, as if she hadn't slept all night.

Jethra waited for her to explain the situation. There was an awkward silence as Cyndy stared at the television once again.

"Aunt Cyndy?" Jet said again.

"Oh! It's terrible. Remember Cheryl, that young girl that has been working at Penn's with me? She commited suicide." It wasn't the words so much as how Aunt Cyndy said them. She almost sounded...sarcastic? As if it were a terrible pun to a badly written joke. Even worse, Jet got an icy feeling of déjà vu on her spine. She couldn't place it, but it made her sick to her stomach. She looked at the TV, which was just the local news going over the weather. A lot of clouds coming in, and expecting some heavy rainfall this afternoon...

"I'm sorry, Aunt - " She looked back to her aunt, but Cynthia had abruptly fallen asleep on the counter. Jethra grabbed a throw from the couch and put it over her aunt's shoulders. Then she left without another word. She tried to shake that feeling from her gut, but it wouldn't budge.

[Kail DeWraith]

The smell of ocean air, rotting fish, and something else saturated the air in Astoria, Oregon. Frowning as he crossed the bridge from a small town called Warrenton, across the John's Bay bridge, and into the small city of Astoria. The little town was the typical affair. Not many people roamed the streets on this September afternoon. The streets looked dingy, all of the buildings looked old, and there was a definite feeling of despair to the small city.

Jon drove down Main Street of Astoria. He looked up at the sky which was the typical grey north western overcast. A slight mist would come and go throughout the duration of the day. Everything would stay semi wet. Jon pulled off of Main Street and into a local coffee shop. The one good thing about Oregon was the coffee. The hippies and pot heads loved their coffee. Jon wore his typical suit with a wool over coat today. His tie was, as usual, worn loose around his thick neck. Sliding from his SUV, Jon adjusted his clothes, and walked through the front door of the small cafe.

"How you doin', large cup of coffee. Thank you." His tone was calm, kind, and exceptionally soft. The young woman helping him smiled and turned to pour him a large cup. The woman was fairly attractive. Early 20's maybe, she looked younger than she probably was, her white apron was stained dark liquids, her curly blonde hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and her hands were adorned with rings, bracelets, and a tattoo on her wrist of a rose. Jon shook his head at the girls back, the gaudy jewelry some young people wore was something he would never understand.

"That will 4.75," she handed Jon the cup of coffee in exchange for a crisp 5 dollar bill.

"Thank you. So," Jon looked from the young woman's eyes to her name tag, "Sheryl. I'm a investigative reporter from Down Town Portland. I write free lance for the Oregonian. I need some information about the recent string of... Teenage female deaths involved in this area. Do you what everyone has been talking about lately?" Jon sipped the hot liquid from the insulated cup. Tastes like shit. Glad I paid 5 dollars for this hot piss Jon thought as he forced the awful coffee down.

"Oh... Well... No one has really said much about it. The police always say they have multiple leads. But I think the general feeling of the town is that it's either Tweakers over in Navy Heights or Old Cyndy is involved. Nothings official though." Sheryl had become increasingly nervous as she started to talk. Her green eyes shifted across the empty cafe as if she was trying to watch every shadow.

"Ok. Well if you remember anything or if you need anything... And I mean anything, here's my card with my personal cell phone, call any time. No matter what you need. Thanks for the coffee." Jon left the card on the counter and left the cafe. When he reached his SUV he tossed the coffee into the road and climbed into the front seat.

"Old Cyndy," Jon muttered to himself as he grabbed a small notepad and pen, quickly scribbled the names Sheryl and hold him," Navy Heights... I fucking hate small towns."

Putting the notepad into the arm rest, Jon also grabbed a stack full of leather ID/badge holders. He shuffled through until he found the fake FBI badge. The picture was his, the name on the ID was Curtis Jackson, and the office he worked for was one from California, specifically the Missing Persons/Violent Crime Unit. One good thing Jon had found out about small towns was there eagerness to trust Federal employees. The Chief of Police wouldn't think twice about giving Jon any and all information he wanted. It was a beautifully corrupt system.

...a few hours later...

The Astoria police Department did not have their own Homicide Unit. Instead it was the Sheriff's CSI unit that came from Scappoose to handle the investigation. Luckily the county files were all shared on a computer data base. That was the reason why Jon had been sitting in a dusty, dark, cramped room looking over the case work for each victim. The pictures, toxicology reports, and everything made Jon's stomach churn. These girls had gone through hell before they were sacrificed. Definitely a cult of some kind. Each kill was ritualistic. Almost methodical. Jon though to himself. He shivered slightly at the thought of what kind of person could do this.

It took an hour for Jon to read through the rest of the case work. Each time he looked at the "before and after pictures" of the girls he got a little more nauseous and a whole lot more angry. He had also looked up the name Cyndy in the town listings. A few names popped up in the search. A little more digging led him to a Cynthia Webb. An older single woman who had once owned a "strange" book shop. Reading between the lines, Jon could guess that the bookstore had books that had spells for witchcraft, demonolgy, hoodoo, voodoo, and who knew what else. In Jon's mind, she was the first person on his list to interview.

Jon walked up the stairs from the basement room in the old police station. There were only several officer working at a time. Astoria was a small town little "normal" crime. "Chief, thanks again for you cooperation." Waving to the pissed off older fat man who sat behind a desk with a smile, Jon left the station. The Astoria Police Chief had argued, screamed, pissed, and moaned about the "Feds" interfering with a local problem. Jon, having done the same thing a thousand times, pressed the local official hard and got the desired result. Checking his watch, it was 4 PM. Time to go and see the crazy old bookstore lady. Jumping into the drivers seat, Jon started his SUV up and drove away from the police station.

Cynthia Webb lived only a few blocks away from where the Police station was. Leaving his SUV, Jon slid his suit coat back on. His H&K .45 pistol was loaded and ready in a shoulder holster. Jon had dealt with only one witch before. She had been insanely powerful and he had regretted not having a pistol ready when they had first met. Along with the pistol, Jon also had his fake FBI ID. Walking in his normal casual way his big, dark skinned hand knocked on the door. Jon's hands slid into his pants pockets. His left hand grabbed the rosary and crucifix he often fiddled with when he drove. In the back of Jon's mind he started to pray. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil....

[Gadreille]

Jet had sat through her two morning classes, Psychology of Ethics and Beginning Welding. Yes, she was running out of classes to take. It was a small school. When she left her welding class, she was sweating despite the cold. The room got hot, even with only ten students. Welding definitely wasn't something Jet was any good at...but she was pretty much determined to take every class they had to offer. Her stomach gurgled as she walked toward her usual lunch spot, and she realized how hungry she was. She'd skipped breakfast, which was normal...but was exhausted and ready for lunch. Jet started digging in her bag, and then came to the sad realization that she never packed a lunch. She had forty five minutes to get something to eat...but had no money. She'd have to catch a quick bus back home.

Jet grabbed a bus off of 16th street and took it straight down to Franklin Ave, the street she lived off of. When she finally got off the bus, she had only a block or so to walk, but she was practically running. She was going to be late for work, that much was obvious. It wasn't that the bus had far to go...but buses only ran every 15 minutes, if lucky...and luck wasn't with Jet today. She decided she'd call work when she got in and let them know Aunt Cyndy wasn't feeling well. They would understand.

As she walked up to her yard, she saw a strange, dark complected man standing on their front porch. He was just knocking on the door, but Aunt Cyndy wasn't answering. Maybe she'd gone to work after all. Or maybe, this guy was trouble and Aunt Cyndy knew it.

"Hey! What are you doing?" Jet called. "Get off my property!" she shouted, with as much authority as she could muster. It wasn't much.

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