Pecola's POV
Antic's dorm wasn't messy.
It was feral.
Books clung to ledges like they feared falling. Scrolls lay sprawled open like dead petals across every surface—tables, chairs, windowsills, the floor. Some of the ink actually pulsed. I stood there watching the symbols bleed down the parchment like they were trying to escape.
A tarnished silver locket dangled from a wall hook beside a dried mushroom glowing faintly green. A chipped porcelain doll head—its smile cracked into something both charming and murderous—sat atop a stack of tomes titled Taming Undead Lovers and Celestial Venom: A Romance.
Something buzzed. Then popped. No one asked.
The whole place smelled like dust, candlewax, and sweet rot—like crushed berries forgotten in velvet folds. My bare steps made no sound, but I could feel the strange static in the air, like the walls were alive with Antic's energy.
Dolly hovered behind me like a smug haunting. "Does this room even have a floor, or did it get buried alive?"
Grin lingered in the doorway. His long frame didn't move except for the faint twitch at his jaw. "…I can hear the dust," he said slowly, horrified.
A muffled voice rang from somewhere deep in a wheezing trunk. "Almost got it! Swear on Dolly's nonexistent soul—it's in here somewhere. Just gotta find the Legendarium! Got everything in it—mating rituals of Gloomfang Grubs, seductive migration patterns of Lustbees—uh, don't ask—Wyvern foreplay, jellyfish weddings—"
"Close," Dolly echoed. "Close to what? A concussion?"
Antic popped his head up from the trunk like an excited fox, black hair mussed, sweat on his throat, and—predictably—no shirt in sight. A scroll clung to his shoulder like it was in love with him.
I didn't say anything. But I heard his heartbeat—loud, rapid, like it was trying to cover up a secret.
I drifted further in, ignoring a book with teeth that growled at me. Near the bed, half-buried in forgotten velvet, I found a small wooden box. Dark. Carved with worn lunar symbols. My fingers slid the lid open.
Inside was a single feather.
Glowing. Iridescent. Weightless as breath.
"What's this?" My voice came out low, without meaning to.
He froze mid-rummage. His eyes flicked to the box, then my hands, then my face. In three long strides he was in front of me, taking the box back like it might shatter if I kept holding it.
"That's… a Moonlark feather. From the Whispering Glades," he said softly. "They only sing under full moons. And only for people who've forgotten how to cry."
I stood still. I could hear the words, but it was the way he said them—low, careful, like the feather wasn't the only fragile thing in the room.
The silence between us stretched, not cold, just heavy with something unnamed.
He set the box behind him abruptly. "Anyway! Still missing the Legendarium! Might be under the screaming mask collection, or the drawer that moans when you open it—definitely not behind the skeleton hand that gives unsolicited relationship advice—"
"You're spiraling," Dolly said.
"I never spiral," Antic replied. "I swirl. With flair."
A scroll exploded behind him. He batted at it like it was a wasp.
I crouched, fingers brushing a cloth bundle under a collapsed curtain. "You forgot to put the feather back."
He froze, then fumbled for the box without looking. Knocked over a candleholder shaped like a screaming cherub in the process.
"I swear this room is alive," Dolly muttered. "I'm going to die here and become furniture."
When I stood, I could feel him staring. "You're staring," I said flatly.
"No. I was just… your shoulder's doing a thing. Not a weird thing. Just a… curve thing."
Dolly's porcelain head swiveled. "You're drooling."
"I am not drooling!" He wiped his mouth anyway.
I took a step closer. The space between us compressed like a closing trap. "Why are you nervous?"
"I'm not," he said quickly, voice cracking halfway through. "This is my natural state."
"Do I make you uncomfortable?"
His mouth opened. Closed. "…You make me aware."
"Of what?"
He didn't answer. Somewhere under the floor, something cackled.
Dolly sipped her tea. "If one of you doesn't kiss or slap the other, I will."
Antic dove into another drawer like I hadn't said anything.
But I noticed. His hands weren't moving as fast now. And his ears were red.
I heard him breathing before I heard him leave.
Grin always had that low, measured inhale—like he was rationing the air out of spite. Standing in Antic's doorway, arms crossed, coat catching dust motes in the light, he looked carved into the moment. Permanent.
Then, the moment I looked away—just once—he was gone.
No sound of boots on the warped floorboards. No creak of the hinges. No polite grunt to excuse himself. Just… absence. Like someone had turned a page and forgotten to print him on the next one.
Antic didn't notice. Too busy arguing with Dolly about whether his "drawer of unlabeled cursed objects" was organized by danger level or sex appeal.
But I noticed.
And once you notice a missing shadow, you can't stop wondering where it went.
Grin's POV
The noise in Antic's dorm was like trying to breathe inside a beehive.
Paper whispering curses from every surface. Dolly's voice sharp enough to draw blood. Antic's words ricocheting around the room like he'd swallowed a handful of commas and didn't know where to put them.
I'd had enough.
Slipped out when no one was looking—not that anyone ever really looked at me unless I was in the way. Kept my steps slow, soft. Doors don't creak for me unless I let them.
The air outside hit like a different kind of noise—alive, breathing, watching.
That's when I saw it.
A scrap of pink nailed to a tree trunk. Too bright for this part of the forest, like it hadn't learned how to die yet.
I got closer.
🧠 MISUNDERSTOOD MONSTERS SUPPORT GROUP
Feeling monstrous? Misread? Moody? Moist? We get it.
🩸 Topics include:
– Unprocessed trauma
– Existential dread
– Fear of mirrors
– Chronic empathy
– Sudden bursts of poetry
– Murder guilt (mild to severe)
🕯 Weekly Meetings – Whispering Grotto – Tuesdays at Sunset
Snacks provided. Screaming optional.
I read it once. Twice. A third time.
It was ridiculous. And… not.
I pulled it off the bark before anyone could see me looking. Folded it into my coat. Walked away before I could change my mind.
The forest didn't want me here.
Every step was an argument—roots shifting underfoot, branches lowering like they wanted to catch me, insects watching from too many eyes. The Wildlife Realm never shut up. Too much color. Too much breathing. Even the dirt sighed when I stepped on it.
I kept my hand over my coat pocket, where the flyer sat folded against my ribs. Dumb thing. Bright pink. I should've left it. Should've burned it.
But I didn't.
The path bent, light bleeding through the canopy in strange, broken stripes. That's when I heard it—no, felt it.
Whispering.
Not dangerous whispers, not the kind that follow me home. Softer. Like the sound you make when you're trying to keep someone from crying.
The Grotto was tucked between two twisted birch trees, their trunks bent toward each other like conspirators. The entrance pulsed faintly, breath-warm and alive, stones glowing with a low blue shimmer. I stopped. My scythe shifted on my back, heavy.
This was stupid. I wasn't supposed to want this.
Still, I stepped inside.
The cavern wasn't big. But it was… full.
Bioluminescent moss lined the walls, glowing just enough to outline shapes. Monsters sat in a circle. Real monsters. Not the bedtime kind. Not the hungry kind.
A hulking ogre in a sweater so patched it looked like a quilt. A vampire who had too much eyeliner and not enough blood. A sprite buzzing like static lightning. A ghost—half in a teapot, half out.
All of them staring at me.
The sound of my breath echoed too loud against the stone.
I almost turned. Almost ran. But the flyer dug into my ribs, and I realized if I left, I'd think about this place forever.
So I cleared my throat. It rattled out of me like coffin hinges.
"…Greetings." My voice sounded wrong in my own ears, like it wasn't used to being spoken out loud. "I… saw the flyer."
The ogre's face split into a grin wide enough to break a lesser man. "Oh, thank the swamps. You're not a hallucination! Welcome, friend."
Friend.
That word felt heavier than my scythe.
I didn't sit yet. Didn't trust my bones not to lock up. But something in the Grotto shifted when I said those three words—I saw the flyer. Like I'd spoken a password.
And the truth was, maybe I had.
The cavern air pressed heavy on me. Like it wanted me to breathe when I couldn't.
They were still staring. The ogre, the vampire, the ghost half-trapped in his teapot, the sprite who buzzed too close to my face like a fly with glitter. All of them looking at me like I belonged here. Like I was expected.
I stayed in the doorway. My hand twitched toward my scythe out of habit—always closer to steel than comfort.
The vampire raised his glass. "Tomato juice," he said, deadpan. "Not blood. Just… juice."
I blinked at him. "…Congratulations."
The sprite cackled, spinning circles. "He talked! He talked! First words out of him are shade. I love him."
Shade. Love. I didn't know which word I hated more.
The ogre waved me in with a hand big enough to crush my skull. His sweater sleeves dangled. His smile didn't. "Come on, don't just hover there like a sad curtain. Sit."
"I'm fine standing," I muttered.
"You're not," the ghost said, voice echoing from both the teapot and the air. "You've got 'I'm about to vanish' energy. I'd know. I do that all the time."
I froze. Because he was right.
Every part of me screamed to leave. That I didn't need this. That I didn't need anyone.
But my fingers brushed the folded flyer again in my coat pocket. Soft, stupid paper. And I thought about the words I'd read under that tree—Feeling monstrous? Misread? Moody? Moist?
I hated that word. Moist. But it stuck.
And maybe I was all of it.
Slowly—like lowering myself into a grave I hadn't dug—I stepped forward. The stone floor glowed faint beneath my boots. My scythe knocked softly against my back when I finally lowered myself onto an empty cushion.
The group exhaled as one. Relief. Like they'd been holding their breath just to see if I'd sit.
The ogre beamed. "There we go. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
My jaw locked. "…I want it on record that I hate this."
The vampire lifted his glass again. "We all do."
And for the first time in… I couldn't even count the years… I almost smiled.
The cushion hissed under my weight. Or maybe it was me.
Silence stretched like old leather. I didn't know if I was supposed to speak first. Or at all. My throat already ached from saying two sentences.
The ogre leaned forward, thick fingers tangled in his half-finished crochet. "Guess I'll start. Name's Bartholomew. Bart, if you hate syllables. I knit. It helps with… urges."
He held up the scarf in progress. Black yarn, skulls patterned across it like falling teeth. It was delicate, terrifying, and oddly tender.
I nodded once. "…Efficient."
The ghost cleared his throat—or maybe the teapot did. "I'm also Bartholomew. But not Bart. Just Bartholomew. I tried to haunt a child once. They asked me to stay for cake. I've never recovered."
The sprite exploded into laughter midair, spinning like a bottle rocket. "I knew it! You're the reason there's confetti in haunted attics!"
Then she spun toward me, wings scattering glowing dust that clung to my coat. "Hi! Pip! Professional menace, failed soul collector, inventor of Soul-On-A-Stick popsicles—don't ask. What about you, tall-dark-and-grumpy?"
Every eye turned to me.
I considered lying. Disappearing. Pretending I was just some random skeleton-shaped man who'd gotten lost on the way to a grave.
But their stares weren't sharp. They were open. Waiting.
"…Grin," I said at last. My voice scraped out like rust off iron.
Pip gasped. "That's not a name, that's an omen!"
The vampire finally shifted in his beanbag, long limbs folding like collapsing furniture. His eyeliner was a crime. His gaze wasn't. "Vladislav. Vlad. Please don't make a Dracula joke. I write poetry about graveyards and… other graveyards."
He trailed off. "I also compost."
I blinked slowly. "…Responsible."
He nodded, visibly relieved.
The ogre clapped his hands together. "Look at us. Sharing. Thriving. Processing."
Pip zipped closer, her nose practically in my skull socket. "Your turn, mister cryptkeeper. Why are you here? What's your monstrous flaw?"
The room hushed.
I could have said nothing. Should have.
But the flyer's words rang like bells under my ribs. Fear of mirrors. Existential dread. Sudden bursts of poetry.
I exhaled. Long. Quiet. Dead.
"…All of it."
No one laughed. No one flinched.
Instead—Vlad raised his glass in silent toast. The ogre smiled with something close to pride. Pip clapped like I'd just confessed to inventing candy. Even the ghost hummed approval, steam fogging his teapot lid.
And for the first time, I wasn't sure if being seen was worse than being invisible.
Bartholomew-the-ogre tapped his needles together. The sound was like hammers muffled in wool. "Tonight's theme is confession. Share something you've never admitted. It doesn't have to be catastrophic. Just… real."
The vampire, Vlad, groaned into his beanbag. His hair flopped like a dying crow. "Fine. I'll start. Last week, I tried to brood on a cliff. Shirt open. Wind blowing. Very cinematic. But then a hawk stole my scarf, and I cried for forty minutes."
The ogre patted his arm, nearly snapping it in half. "That's progress."
Pip shrieked with laughter, flipping upside down in the air. Glitter rained onto my knees. "My turn! I once tried to steal a banshee's wail to remix it into a party anthem. Accidentally summoned a plague of moths instead. They ate everything."
"Clothes?" Vlad asked flatly.
"Everything," Pip whispered, eyes huge. Then she grinned. "Best rave of my life."
The ghost cleared his throat-teapot again. "I, um… once attempted to scare a tax collector. But instead, I apologized for existing. He forgave my debt. We had tea."
The ogre sighed fondly. "Classic Bartholomew."
Then his massive hands stilled. "Mine's heavier," he admitted. "I used to smash things. A lot. People, too. But the first time I knit a scarf, I realized my hands didn't have to break to mean something. They could hold."
The room hummed. Even Pip hovered quietly.
All their eyes swung to me.
I sat with my scythe leaning against the wall. My hands knotted in my lap.
What did I have? Too many things. Too much rot under my ribs.
"…I write poems," I said at last. The words felt like teeth breaking free. "Terrible ones. About graves. And rivers. And how silence tastes."
Pip gasped like I'd admitted to eating children. "READ ONE."
"No."
"Please!"
Vlad leaned forward, eyes glittering. "I will trade you my scarf story."
Bartholomew rumbled, "Safe space, remember. No pressure."
I should have stayed silent.
But something cracked. The same crack that had let me laugh earlier. I dug a slip of parchment from my coat. Unfolded it slow.
My voice came out like frost burning:
"The earth swallows what the sky forgets.
Bones sing louder than mouths.
And I… am tired of being both."
The words sat heavy in the grotto.
Then Pip clapped like a maniac. Vlad snapped his fingers dramatically, eyeliner smudging as he wiped at his eye. The ghost teapot hissed steam like applause.
And I—me, Grin, death's hand, grave's whisper—laughed.
It startled the room. Startled me. A low, broken laugh, like coffins creaking open.
But it felt… good.
Like the first shovel of dirt laid down not to bury, but to plant.
The silence after my laugh lingered. Heavy. Soft. A silence that didn't need filling.
Then Vlad snapped it in half. "Workshopping," he announced. "We're doing it. Writing workshop. Confessions. Poems. Bleeding hearts on parchment. Grin will be our—what's the word—curator. Editor. Grim Muse."
I blinked. "…Excuse me?"
Pip zipped a frantic circle around my head, glitter streaking like panic lightning. "Yes! YES! I'll write about ghosts dating! Or maybe about that one time I glued souls to bottlecaps. They screamed for hours. SO MANY HOURS."
"Please don't," I muttered.
The ogre clapped his massive hands, and the air trembled. "This is good. Healthy. Healing. Imagine—monsters writing instead of hiding. Sharing instead of smashing." His eyes shone. "Grin's right. Words matter."
"I didn't say—" I started.
But the ghost teapot cut me off, steam curling with conviction. "Haikus. We will need haikus."
Vlad leapt to his feet, arms spread like a cursed prophet. "And sonnets! Dark, twisted sonnets! About yearning for what the living take for granted—sunlight, garlic bread, skincare that actually works—"
Pip shrieked, "YES! We'll call it… Death Club!"
The ogre frowned. "Too bleak."
"Grief Club?"
"Sounds like homework."
"Writing from the Crypt?" Vlad suggested.
"Better," the ghost wheezed.
My skull throbbed. My hands itched to hold my scythe, to cut this madness short. And yet—my fingers twitched around the folded poem in my lap.
For the first time in centuries, I didn't want to leave.
They weren't laughing at me. They weren't horrified. They weren't running.
They wanted me here.
Me.
"Fine," I said. "But if we're doing this, we do it right. Structure. Deadlines. No glitter in the manuscripts."
Pip gasped, betrayed. "But glitter is my soul."
"Then keep it out of the margins," I deadpanned.
The room erupted into noise—cheers, protests, more terrible names for the group. They were alive. Loud. Ridiculous.
And I sat there, among them, parchment heavy in my lap. The crack in my chest had widened. It didn't ache the way it used to.
It breathed.