( Kennedy Ft. Kieran ) - Blog Posts

the silence between is heavy and the house seems to settle within it, wind whistling through the room as if to cut the tension. a shiver runs through them once more, the chill more physical than mental this time. kennedy is hyper-aware of their surroundings. of the dust particles floating in the air, the stray moonlight peeking into the room from poorly boarded-up windows, and kieran talbot. standing as the centerpiece.  illuminated by a warm light, lips parted slightly, a small twitch in his brow, dark eyes trained on them with a reflected caution. he almost looks like a painting. like something they would see in some museum, drawn by an unknown tragic artist, toeing the line between beautiful and unsettling. so kennedy does flinch when kieran moves closer, all instinct, eyes narrowing into daggers— a silent warning.

the mention of their book is unexpected and the wary glare softens into something kennedy can’t quite place, somewhere between amusement and surprise. they were sure that their parents did their best to spread the word about kennedy's achievement around town but they didn’t actually expect anyone care enough to pick up their book. they haven't spoken to anyone about it, not even santiago. so under kieran's mention of it, they suddenly find themselves thinking back on their time in italy.

a small church yet beautifully ornate with stained glass windows depicting idolized saints and dutiful angels. their eyes meeting his— the priest in their story. father caruso. the last murderer they were in a room with as far as they know .  the man who had the whole town wrapped around his finger. kennedy remembers looking around the cathedral, catching glimpses of the people in the pews looking up at him with teary reverence, clinging to his every word.

kieran’s voice pulls them back to the present, directing their attention to the battered bed nearby. sybil thorne’s bed. kennedy’s flashlight follows instinctively, skimming over the surface before snapping back to kieran, unwilling to lose sight of him. they feel disoriented, trapped between two worlds—the cathedral in their memory and the decaying thorne house.

kieran’s words settle in the room like the dust swirling in the faint light. more lamb than butcher. the phrase plays over in their mind, the weight of it heavier than they expect. "yeah?" they finally speak up, canting their head slightly, a slow-growing smile making its way to their features. "so what's a sweet little lamb like you doing out here then? hoping to find a purpose to bleed yourself into?" kennedy wasn’t fully convinced, they would be foolish to be, but they’ve never been the type to look to god or the universe for guidance. their gut was their bible and right now, it’s telling them that the kid who spent years buried in old articles and cold cases might be better used as an asset than dismissed as a suspect. they lower their flashlight some, and perhaps their guard as well. for now at least. "'cus i might just be on the same boat as you. " there's another pause then, only this time it doesn't feel so daunting. "do you think this place is actually haunted?" a sudden ask. they just can't help but shake the feeling that they were being watched. was it paranoia? god?

ꜜ ﹙ ⚰️  ﹚ ﹕ the questions hung heavy in the air for a few moments, met with kieran's silence as the thorne house creaked and groaned with every cold autumn breeze, almost as if the very walls were an audience reacting to this confrontation. he held his stance even against the blinding light of kennedy's flashlight, expression caught somewhere between surprise and something more akin to indignance against the returned accusation. it should be expected ﹕ he probably checked off multiple boxes in some litmus test for serial killers, but allegations felt like smoke sometimes ⸻ it could be suffocating if left unchallenged. he let the silence stretch out between them just for a few more beats, the weight of it pressing down on him like the dust that covered this old rotten place, before finally taking a small step forward. just to see if it would rattle them, just to see if they would flinch, just to see how much kennedy actually believed him to be red creek's newest murderer. then, a smile as he shook his head. “ i read your book, y'know ? great work you did there. but people look at it like it was an exposé on that priest, the oh so terrible things he did to maintain people's faith ... but the way i see it, it's more a revelation of the lies people tell themselves. ” kieran shrugged nonchalantly, casting his light on the bedside table, where sibyl thorne's weathered bible remained after all these years. and he wondered if she believed god would save her son from the misplaced wrath of this town. “ they need something to believe in, something bigger than their own insignificance. faith healing, prayers to some god, a big dose of hope and dopamine from the bible— because to live in a world without that, without the illusion of purpose, of salvation, would be too much. it's easier to believe in that whole weird apocalyptic scifi literature than accept we're just specks of dust drifting in a universe that doesn't really give a damn. ” and finally another step forward, hands raised in feigned surrender. he didn't always say much, sometimes not even enough, but kieran felt an affinity for kennedy ﹕ both of them only trying to make sense of what was happening in their town. “ guess what i'm tryin' to say is, i may not look like it, but i give too much of a damn to be an indifferent killer like this goddamn universe. i'm really just like all those people, ken. more a lamb than a butcher. ” a mess of belief, fighting too hard for meaning to ever be an empty murderer.

it had been years since kennedy last stepped foot in the thorne house. nostalgic and new all at once,  pictures tucked inside smashed frames, their spot on the wall replaced by old graffiti.  murderer. burn in hell. boogeyman. so and so was here. the house had been around too long, access made all too easy for the town’s angsty youths and wannabe detectives. the chances of kennedy finding anything of note were practically slim to none but unfortunately for them, this was the only lead they had. the past thirty minutes had been spent digging through the drawers of a beat-up dresser, only to come up empty. “really fucking did a number on this place ” they mumble under their breath. the house creaks in response as if to share their sentiment. on to the next room,  kennedy was beginning to feel ill-prepared for this endeavor, having only brought a flashlight and their phone, which they had been using to record from the moment they entered the house. handy for snapping photos and collecting thoughts.  “check county records to see if jacob thorne owned any property other than — fuck!.” 

the assault of yellow light landing directly in their line of vision makes kennedy stumble back a bit, a hand instinctively rising to shield their face. they hear him before they can see him and while it only takes them a second it takes them to adjust to the added source of light, it’s a second too long. his words cause kennedy’s face to pinch further, confusion lingering for a second before recognition hits. a killer who deflects—of course he would. it’s a bluff, and kennedy is quick to clock it, straightening their posture while ( bravely )  clinging to the wall.  a small laugh escapes them, humor masking the adrenaline still pumping in her veins.  “from cold case enthusiast to hot-blooded killer—how does that sound for a headline?” ever so critical of their own work, kennedy mentally answers their own question with ‘you can do better’. still, not a bad start. “did you come here to feel inspired, kieran?” they ask, their own flashlight trained directly on his person, steady despite their shivering breath. it makes his height look that much more imposing, serving as a reminder that the chances of him being stronger and faster than her are uncomfortably high. they want to look around, to find an exit that wouldn’t require them to just run out the front door or jump out of the second-story window but they refuse to let their guard down… just in case. the room is perfectly still as the two stand off. "you always did have a fascination for the macabre, didn't you?"

…                      he had been here a thousand times before, a place for solace and rumination, for youthful rendezvous and misdeeds. here, he smoked his first cigarette with taylan and thought of himself as some kind of anarchist for tarring his lungs. here, he tried to speak with the ghost of jacob thorne, trying to understand him with every mark of growth on the door frame, every old photo abandoned, and every tall tale unburied. it was a place filled with ghosts, though nothing could harm him here. but with alaina price disemboweled, her organs bagged and sewn back in, thorne house now felt like an ancient beast disturbed ⸻ spreading its teeth and devouring him, gnawing on his autonomous nervous system until all his synapses could relay would be pastpresentpastpresent. it must all be connected somehow, and kieran couldn't think of another place the boogeyman could have gone after slipping away from his sight. so he searched and searched and searched for some trace, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the dust-cloaked darkness of sybil thorne's room. the house felt more alive than ever, but kieran did not flinch when he heard the creaking floorboards the first time, only natural for old houses like this to breathe every now and then. but then he heard it again, closer this time, his body tensing as he was reminded that the ghost he chased was more flesh than memory. and at the indication of the third time, the beginning of a drawn-out groan of wood shifting under pressure behind him, kieran immediately pivoted ⸻ flashlight slicing through the darkness, illuminating another trespasser. he expected a knife, he expected a mask, but the absence did not necessarily mean innocence either. “ huh ... ” he began, heart slowing into a more deliberate rhythm, probably should known that he wouldn't be the only trying to find answers here. “ i didn't expect the boogeyman to be just some journalist trying to create her own headlines. ” he deadpanned, a half-joke, a half-accusation, head canted to watch kennedy with wary fascination. @brntout