Born Under A Bad Sign [Complete]
Characters: Odd Thomas, Kaywinnit Lee “Kaylee” Frye, semi-OPEN.
Content: Rest and relaxation seems to run short in the cathedral, when Odd Thomas finds himself evicted from his room by a certain poltergeist we all know and love.
Location: St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Odd’s Room and its immediate surroundings.
Time of day: Midday.
Warnings: Poltergeist, property damage, violence, blood, and revelations of an imminent disaster.
Ever since the dreams, the bodachs, sleep became a prospect that Odd could not expect. When in these modes, there was always very little time for leisure. For the past few days, the odd one spent very little time around the cathedral, and most of his time out savaging for goods, mostly weapons. Rods, pipes, wood to board the doors with... anything to keep out whatever it was that crept their way inside.
Besides, each time he laid down to rest, the black shapes of the bodachs wriggled and writhed their way through the keyhole, into his room, and began to lurk, lurking, slithering silently about. Ignoring them was easier said than done, but in Odd’s experience he would rather not risk the possibility of finding himself crushed by a giant elephant or sucked into a wormhole, or crushed to death by an unmanned truck. Such were the many things that one could dream of their own demise. He could only pity the poor sucker who would’ve had to clean his nasty corpse up after the mess. Forget that.
It was Friday. The bodachs made their appearance around Tuesday morning, and their numbers continued to grow by the day, developing into an audience eagerly awaiting their cinema of disaster.
Bodachs were not like spirits that Odd alone could see. They were not here because something bound them. Moreover, they were like warning signs, appearing at scenes days before a looming catastrophe. Some wandered the streets. Most lingered at the cathedral.
Whatever was coming, the party was going to happen here.
It set Odd with such unease that his already evident insomnia only worsened. He closed his eyes to think, to dream; all he could think about were the distorted faces of what would become of others if he didn’t think of a way to stop it.
Forget that as well.
Hyped up on caffeine (red bull, chocolate, Pepsi, coffee, more red bull, a LARA bar, a liter of Coke, coffee, even more red bull, and definitely anything that wasn’t tea that he could find), Odd remained alert, conscious throughout most of the period of three days. If he slept, it was mostly within ten minute intervals. To say that he looked dead tired would be an understatement.
Still, some shut eye was to be expected, and enjoyed for the next few minutes at least, as Odd laid on his side on his joyfully comfortable bed in his joylessly unsettling room. From behind, he can sense the presence of a bodachs or two, sneaking about the corners of his room, hovering over him, looking down at him, its obscure, black face watching him. He tried closing his eyes, burying his face into his pillow-all he could see was that same endless black, and a sea of blank, swimming shapes.
This was useless.
Ignoring the bodachs that dwelled still within his quarters, Odd sat up-
-meeting a ghostly pale man standing over him with a wild look about his face. He, too, saw the creatures stalking about the room, stalking the cathedral, and moreover stalking his daughter.
“Sir, but this isn’t exactly the best time.” Odd ruffled his hair as he looked from the bodach-running its long, slender, black fingers over the wooden surface of his writing desk-to Pascalle’s ghost.
Pascalle sees the bodachs. Odd knows he does. He sees it and slowly faces Odd Thomas, still sitting rigidly on the edge of his own bed, wasted.
“Look, sir, I know you’re worried. I’m doing the best I can.”
His jaw clenches, tightening. Well, it’s not enough, he would say, if he can only speak.
“It’s never enough, is it?”
Nineteen dead, Odd reminded himself. Nineteen lives lost because of you, including your Stormy Llewellyn.
The “voice” seemed to hit him like a punch in the jaw. He knew what Pascalle was thinking: If Odd Thomas had foreseen the lingering doom that befell upon the Green Moon Mall and failed nineteen people, how could he even hope to save his daughter? What more, the blood of two men shed at the mall was on his hands. Odd himself was no protector. He was horrible at protecting, actually.
If he knew what to do... if only he had been graced with more material from which his gift occasionally provided him with (wherever it came from), then perhaps he could think of ways to stop this whole approaching tragedy from happening altogether. Then no one would have to die.
No one he cared about, at least. Even the people he didn’t care about...
The bodach runs its fingers over the typewriter on his desk. Odd repressed the urge to yell; he had taken great pride and joy in that typewriter, and felt violated at the fact that it has its hands all over it. Instead, he distracts himself, looking up at Pascalle’s pale eyes, glistening like moons.
“Sir, don’t worry so much. I’ll keep Lilia safe, I promise. I’ve got a plan.” He then considered the honesty of his promise, and amended. “Sort of.”
Bad choice of words, as Pascalle does not take this as consolation. Suddenly his face twists with rage, nostrils flaring, even though he has no use for such a thing as air he might have breathed smoke in that moment of ire. His eyes, glossy behind the frames of his glasses, bulge with bloodshot veins clearing the whites, as his teeth clenches. Dust picked up in the air around the room, at first twisting and twirling like a mini hurricane that grew more and more, higher, surrounding the poltergeist visible only to Odd.
The bodach, which had been inspecting the typewriter, leaps away. The typewriter ripped into the air, hurling directly at Odd’s face. He bowled forward from his bed when the heavy machine fell on his mattress. Safely, he would hope, since he rather liked that typewriter...
Dressers rattled and turned, knocking over, some of his clothes pouring out. A frame that had been hung up on the wall fell. Pieces of shattered glass came at his face. Odd ducked. Some shards scraping him. His attempt to shield his eyes did not help. Now his hands were bleeding with scrapes and marks as well.
Stray dishes, glass bottles, cans, all came hurling at Odd and around his room, knocking into walls. Odd swung, crawling along the floor in his room.
Then the bed. Jerking. Jolting. Sliding with incredible force, sliding through Pascalle and charged at Odd.
He rolled. His bed slammed into the wall, just barely missing him. He crawled on his hands and knees, despite the glass scraping his skin. His jeans now splotched with blood, the palms of his hands cut and smeared. More blood.
This was why Odd kept so very few possessions in the past. Killed being crushed by practical housing appliances and a poltergeist’s tantrum wasn’t exactly on his list of things to do as of the moment.
Objects still flying through the air-paper, boxes, glass, bottles, more cans, his desk sliding into the wall. With so many heavy things, if he stayed here, he could get killed.
Time for a strategic exit stage left.
Covering his head, Odd forced himself onto his feet. No bodachs in sight now, not that it mattered. He weaved around Pascalle, standing at the center of the room, too caught up in his fury to notice that Odd Thomas was making his escape out the door to his room-
-and into the hallway.
Breathe.
Now he wasn’t just exhausted, but because of the surrealistic nature of the experience from which he had narrowly survived, Odd nearly collapsed. His room would be left in shambles, with ripped up clothes and bed sheets, broken things here and there. His swaggering pace revealed not just his fatigue but his disbelief of what just happened as well. He hadn’t expected that Pascalle would get so furious at him. Typical.
He looked down at his hands. Cuts riddled all up and down them now. Seeing how he highly doubted that a few scratches that would only require a dozen band-aids would be cause for bodach appearances, something else was most definitely going on.
While leaving Pascalle to take out all his anger on that bedroom, Odd went to go find things to patch himself up.
Content: Rest and relaxation seems to run short in the cathedral, when Odd Thomas finds himself evicted from his room by a certain poltergeist we all know and love.
Location: St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Odd’s Room and its immediate surroundings.
Time of day: Midday.
Warnings: Poltergeist, property damage, violence, blood, and revelations of an imminent disaster.
Ever since the dreams, the bodachs, sleep became a prospect that Odd could not expect. When in these modes, there was always very little time for leisure. For the past few days, the odd one spent very little time around the cathedral, and most of his time out savaging for goods, mostly weapons. Rods, pipes, wood to board the doors with... anything to keep out whatever it was that crept their way inside.
Besides, each time he laid down to rest, the black shapes of the bodachs wriggled and writhed their way through the keyhole, into his room, and began to lurk, lurking, slithering silently about. Ignoring them was easier said than done, but in Odd’s experience he would rather not risk the possibility of finding himself crushed by a giant elephant or sucked into a wormhole, or crushed to death by an unmanned truck. Such were the many things that one could dream of their own demise. He could only pity the poor sucker who would’ve had to clean his nasty corpse up after the mess. Forget that.
It was Friday. The bodachs made their appearance around Tuesday morning, and their numbers continued to grow by the day, developing into an audience eagerly awaiting their cinema of disaster.
Bodachs were not like spirits that Odd alone could see. They were not here because something bound them. Moreover, they were like warning signs, appearing at scenes days before a looming catastrophe. Some wandered the streets. Most lingered at the cathedral.
Whatever was coming, the party was going to happen here.
It set Odd with such unease that his already evident insomnia only worsened. He closed his eyes to think, to dream; all he could think about were the distorted faces of what would become of others if he didn’t think of a way to stop it.
Forget that as well.
Hyped up on caffeine (red bull, chocolate, Pepsi, coffee, more red bull, a LARA bar, a liter of Coke, coffee, even more red bull, and definitely anything that wasn’t tea that he could find), Odd remained alert, conscious throughout most of the period of three days. If he slept, it was mostly within ten minute intervals. To say that he looked dead tired would be an understatement.
Still, some shut eye was to be expected, and enjoyed for the next few minutes at least, as Odd laid on his side on his joyfully comfortable bed in his joylessly unsettling room. From behind, he can sense the presence of a bodachs or two, sneaking about the corners of his room, hovering over him, looking down at him, its obscure, black face watching him. He tried closing his eyes, burying his face into his pillow-all he could see was that same endless black, and a sea of blank, swimming shapes.
This was useless.
Ignoring the bodachs that dwelled still within his quarters, Odd sat up-
-meeting a ghostly pale man standing over him with a wild look about his face. He, too, saw the creatures stalking about the room, stalking the cathedral, and moreover stalking his daughter.
“Sir, but this isn’t exactly the best time.” Odd ruffled his hair as he looked from the bodach-running its long, slender, black fingers over the wooden surface of his writing desk-to Pascalle’s ghost.
Pascalle sees the bodachs. Odd knows he does. He sees it and slowly faces Odd Thomas, still sitting rigidly on the edge of his own bed, wasted.
“Look, sir, I know you’re worried. I’m doing the best I can.”
His jaw clenches, tightening. Well, it’s not enough, he would say, if he can only speak.
“It’s never enough, is it?”
Nineteen dead, Odd reminded himself. Nineteen lives lost because of you, including your Stormy Llewellyn.
The “voice” seemed to hit him like a punch in the jaw. He knew what Pascalle was thinking: If Odd Thomas had foreseen the lingering doom that befell upon the Green Moon Mall and failed nineteen people, how could he even hope to save his daughter? What more, the blood of two men shed at the mall was on his hands. Odd himself was no protector. He was horrible at protecting, actually.
If he knew what to do... if only he had been graced with more material from which his gift occasionally provided him with (wherever it came from), then perhaps he could think of ways to stop this whole approaching tragedy from happening altogether. Then no one would have to die.
No one he cared about, at least. Even the people he didn’t care about...
The bodach runs its fingers over the typewriter on his desk. Odd repressed the urge to yell; he had taken great pride and joy in that typewriter, and felt violated at the fact that it has its hands all over it. Instead, he distracts himself, looking up at Pascalle’s pale eyes, glistening like moons.
“Sir, don’t worry so much. I’ll keep Lilia safe, I promise. I’ve got a plan.” He then considered the honesty of his promise, and amended. “Sort of.”
Bad choice of words, as Pascalle does not take this as consolation. Suddenly his face twists with rage, nostrils flaring, even though he has no use for such a thing as air he might have breathed smoke in that moment of ire. His eyes, glossy behind the frames of his glasses, bulge with bloodshot veins clearing the whites, as his teeth clenches. Dust picked up in the air around the room, at first twisting and twirling like a mini hurricane that grew more and more, higher, surrounding the poltergeist visible only to Odd.
The bodach, which had been inspecting the typewriter, leaps away. The typewriter ripped into the air, hurling directly at Odd’s face. He bowled forward from his bed when the heavy machine fell on his mattress. Safely, he would hope, since he rather liked that typewriter...
Dressers rattled and turned, knocking over, some of his clothes pouring out. A frame that had been hung up on the wall fell. Pieces of shattered glass came at his face. Odd ducked. Some shards scraping him. His attempt to shield his eyes did not help. Now his hands were bleeding with scrapes and marks as well.
Stray dishes, glass bottles, cans, all came hurling at Odd and around his room, knocking into walls. Odd swung, crawling along the floor in his room.
Then the bed. Jerking. Jolting. Sliding with incredible force, sliding through Pascalle and charged at Odd.
He rolled. His bed slammed into the wall, just barely missing him. He crawled on his hands and knees, despite the glass scraping his skin. His jeans now splotched with blood, the palms of his hands cut and smeared. More blood.
This was why Odd kept so very few possessions in the past. Killed being crushed by practical housing appliances and a poltergeist’s tantrum wasn’t exactly on his list of things to do as of the moment.
Objects still flying through the air-paper, boxes, glass, bottles, more cans, his desk sliding into the wall. With so many heavy things, if he stayed here, he could get killed.
Time for a strategic exit stage left.
Covering his head, Odd forced himself onto his feet. No bodachs in sight now, not that it mattered. He weaved around Pascalle, standing at the center of the room, too caught up in his fury to notice that Odd Thomas was making his escape out the door to his room-
-and into the hallway.
Breathe.
Now he wasn’t just exhausted, but because of the surrealistic nature of the experience from which he had narrowly survived, Odd nearly collapsed. His room would be left in shambles, with ripped up clothes and bed sheets, broken things here and there. His swaggering pace revealed not just his fatigue but his disbelief of what just happened as well. He hadn’t expected that Pascalle would get so furious at him. Typical.
He looked down at his hands. Cuts riddled all up and down them now. Seeing how he highly doubted that a few scratches that would only require a dozen band-aids would be cause for bodach appearances, something else was most definitely going on.
While leaving Pascalle to take out all his anger on that bedroom, Odd went to go find things to patch himself up.