Chapter Text
The ferry horn blares, a mournful groan reverberating deep within your chest. The sound cuts through the fog as you watch the mainland shrink in size across the horizon. The air is thick with mist, and it sticks to your face and hair uncomfortably. So much for looking presentable. There’s an overbearing metallic scent of salt and rotting seaweed in the air; it’s almost as nauseating as the rhythmic swaying of the boat you find yourself on. It’s difficult to ignore the detail that you seem to be the only person occupying said boat.
You can’t help but acknowledge the innate sense of isolation curdling inside your stomach as you watch the now-thin strip of land you once called home disappear in the distance. Your grip on the duffel bag slung over your shoulder tightens; it’s much lighter than it should be, but the reasoning behind that is something you’d rather not dwell on right now.
On the other side of the ferry, the island only grows in size, taunting you with your impending reality. It’s depressingly grey, perhaps it’s the weather? There was no real personal drive behind your move here; your estranged grandfather’s will dictated this. Nothing more. In some twisted way, this was your only way out of your life back home. The same life you’d rather not think about at this very moment.
You snap the rubber band on your wrist tightly, a sharp reminder to tether yourself to this current reality. A raven lands on the railing beside you; its stare is unsettling as it is scrutinizing. A light scoff leaves your mouth as you turn away from the bird, but it doesn’t stop the knot in your stomach from tightening.
You can still feel the weight of the raven’s stare on the back of your neck; you don’t turn when you hear the ruffle of feathers as it takes flight once more. The horn blares again, making you jump. The island is now much closer than it was a moment ago; that happened far too quickly. You brush off the fleeting sense of suspicion and uncertainty; it’s not like you can turn back anyhow.
You can now make out the shapes of figures on the dock, two men in heavy oilskins who look as if they’re staring right up at you, and only you. A shiver runs up your spine as the boat comes to a sudden stop, you’re nearly knocked off balance, yet you can’t seem to look away from the two men on the dock below you.
Their stares are heavy and intense. You can practically taste the bitter judgment in their grimaces. Once they finally look away to begin securing the ropes of the ferry to the dock, you let out the breath you’d been holding. There’s a thick treeline concealing the town from your view; you imagine it’s a bit of a walk.
Along with the salt and seaweed, a new scent invades your nostrils; it’s a far more palatable scent, smoky and rosy. It’s undeniably familiar; that alone is enough to make your stomach sink. A quick snap of the rubber band on your wrist is enough to settle the tremble in your limbs. Though the stillness doesn’t last long, a metallic clang makes your head snap towards the stern of the boat.
A man of towering height steps into view, dark glasses obscure his eyes, and unkempt facial hair seems to have overtaken his face. He’s dressed in all black, and a dark hood casts shadows across his sharp features. Based on what you can see, he seems to be around his late forties or early fifties. Amid your gawking, he extends his hand towards you.
Something deep in your stomach twists once more, but you ignore the feeling, extending your own trembling hand. He takes it firmly in his hand, shaking it once before letting go. You let your hand fall to your side, not breaking eye contact with the man towering above you.
“You’re the new bookkeeper,” he mutters matter-of-factly.
You blink, taken aback. “Yes. How’d you know?”
He looks you up and down, trailing his cold eyes across your frame. “We hardly have visitors. Few come and go off the island, really only those residing in the perish.”
Your eyes narrow before you can stop yourself, “Perish?”
He turns away to gaze into the treeline. You’re not sure what he’s searching for, but his pause only worsens your sense of doubt.
Before either of you can mutter another word, the ramp of the boat is lowered. When you turn to walk towards the exit, the man grabs your hand, placing something small and cold in your palm. His palms are calloused and rough against yours. Reflexively, you tug your hand back to your chest, drawing your eyebrows tight with annoyance.
“Hey—”
He cuts you off, eyes desperately searching yours in a way that makes you feel sick, “Don’t go near him. There is no light, as they say, only black.”
Your eyes widen, and you’re rendered speechless by the delirium that has been presented to you. When you look down at the item in your hand, you’re relieved to find it’s only a small stone carving; an angel holding a sword and shield. The sight makes your purse your lips, you know the figure all too well. Archangel Michael.
“Oh, sorry—I’m not religious,” you say awkwardly, attempting to hand back the statue.
The man shakes his head violently, even going as far as taking a couple of steps back from you. You can’t catch what he’s saying, but he seems to be muttering something under his breath, as if he’s reciting a prayer.
“Please, miss, enjoy the town.” He makes eye contact with one of the two men who have since lowered the ramp for you, turning away and retreating to the captain’s chambers.
You remain frozen in place, unsure whether you should step off the boat or run for the hills.
Behind you, another deep voice draws your attention back towards the island. At the bottom of the ramp stands a significantly younger man whose scowl has been replaced by something much sweeter. You should feel comforted by the stranger’s smile, but if anything, it churns your stomach further.
The man in front of you is freakishly tall, with stark white and messy hair standing out drastically against the gloomy backdrop. His eyes are an electric shade of blue, piercing you in place without even trying. He seems to be around your age. His extended hand remains in the air, a beacon whose motives you’re entirely unsure of. Despite everything in you telling you to turn back, you swallow down the doubt and step off the boat. His hand is ice cold against yours.
“Bookkeeper! We’ve been waiting. It’s not often someone new moves here, you’re a bit of a celebrity.”
You laugh nervously, his grip only tightens a fraction, you convince yourself it’s out of warmth. “Sounds flattering, I wasn’t expecting such a grand welcome.” You catch him staring down at the figure in your other hand, and the corners of his mouth twitch.
“I hope Yaga didn’t scare you off already. He’s a bit of a nut,” the white-haired man laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.
Relief settles in only a little, but you’ll take anything you can get. You look down at the figure in your hand before chuckling to yourself, shoving it into your pocket.
“I don’t mind. I get it, my parents are the same way. It’ll take a lot more than that to scare me away.”
His smile grows wider, as if he’s satisfied with your response. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. Though I do hope you’ll join us for mass, it’s kind of a town tradition, even for those who aren’t devout. You’d get to meet everyone; we’re not religious freaks, just a tight-knit community. Father Geto welcomes everyone.”
Jesus Christ (no pun intended). Alarms continue firing off at rapid speeds as the man in front of you continues his pointless persuasions. You fight the urge to snap the rubber band against your wrist, desperate for any sense of grounding.
You cut him off, “Look— I’m sorry, I really don’t want to be an asshole. I’m just not religious. I’m sorry,” you wince, already regretting the delivery.
The man’s eyes widen before he lets out a sharp laugh, “No! You’re right, I’m so sorry. Here I am calling Yaga a nut, but I’m sure I probably sound so much worse. Between you and me, mass is the most exciting thing that happens on this island. Please forgive me.” He gasps, “I’m Satoru, by the way, please—just tell me to shut up next time. I’ve been told I need reminders.”
You laugh at his joke, because what else can you do? You look around at the path ahead of you, and there’s a faint cloud of smoke rising from behind the treeline. Satoru follows your gaze, then turns back towards you.
“Shall we?”
You look around a moment, questioning your memory, “Wasn’t there two of you?”
Satoru’s white eyebrows knit, and he tilts his head down at you, “No? Just me here, I’m pretty sure.” He flashes another toothy grin at you; it’s nearly charming enough to make you forget the question entirely.
You find yourself nodding in agreement before even bothering to second-guess his response.
“Alright, let’s go.”
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
The two of you walk for about ten minutes until you arrive in town. A bit more relief seeps in as you take in the sight, normal houses, normal people, but most importantly, no creepy cult. The sun setting behind you is muted by the clouds overhead, but it’s enough to cast a faint yellow glow over the rooftops. Beside you, Satoru watches you closely, eyes narrowing in on your initial reaction.
He huffs out a laugh, “No cult, just regular people.”
You laugh as well, turning up to meet his penetrative gaze, “Was I that obvious? I’m sorry for doubting you,” you admit, embarrassed.
He sighs, “Nah, I can’t say I blame you. Creepy island you can only access by boat, the first two men you meet immediately bring up religion. I wouldn’t have blamed you for punching me in the face and running away.”
You hum thoughtfully, allowing the wall of apprehension and doubt to be chiseled away little by little. “You’re funny, Satoru. Thank you for helping me into town.”
A faint blush paints his cheeks, and he looks away bashfully, “Of course. As I said, it’s not often we get newcomers here. Father Geto would’ve received you, but he had a small emergency at the church.”
Father Geto.
Why does it sound so familiar?
You chew your inner cheek before forming your response. “Hopefully everything’s okay? Is he prominent here?”
Satoru is nodding eagerly before you even finish the sentence, “Oh, for sure, you could call him a town leader or sorts—Uh–I promise not in a culty way. He just coordinates events, allocates funds, and always checks in on everyone. It’s…nice.” Satoru pauses thoughtfully, a wide grin on his face as he speaks, “But yes—I’m sure everything’s okay now. You’re always welcome to visit him, though I’m sure he’ll come and find you first.”
His phrasing sends a chill up your spine; you find it best not to dwell on it, though. “Oh…okay. I’m sure that’ll be nice.” It’s an obvious lie; anyone could read the blatancy in your tone. Satoru only smiles knowingly down at you, adding nothing more.
The “town” you managed to find very little information on is nothing but a long street of houses and small businesses surrounded by thick trees and overgrown shrubbery. You blindly follow Satoru, allowing him to guide you (hopefully) towards the town library.
“Your grandfather was a wonderful man,” Satoru mutters suddenly, tone solemn. His gaze remains planted on the path ahead, yet his thumb brushes against your wrist in passing.
“I never knew him. I don’t think my parents ever told me anything about him, actually.”
Satoru’s pace falters, and his eyes snap up to yours, gaze laced with disbelief. “I’m sorry you missed out on such a wonderful person. He was especially close to Father Geto. I’m sure he could tell you much more about him. I wasn’t as close with him as he was.”
“Hmm, maybe,” you sigh, readjusting the duffel bag on your shoulder.
Satoru gasps, reaching for the bag and slinging it over his shoulder without asking. “How rude of me, please forgive me.”
You can only laugh awkwardly. “Thank you.” You chew your lip before asking your next question, “So, um, where is this library?”
He stretches a long finger towards a larger building at the end of the street; it’s two stories high, you can only assume that’s where your living quarters will be. The building itself is in surprisingly good shape, and warm yellow street lights cast a hazy glow across its olive-green exterior. A smile twitches at the corner of your mouth.
“It’s nice, right?” Satoru asks, watching you closely.
You nod along mindlessly, feeling completely and utterly drawn in by this building you’ve never even seen before. The two of you reach the building, hovering near the entrance with anticipation.
“Right well, I suppose I’ll let you off the hook for tonight. Tomorrow will be anything but calm, I’m afraid. Everyone is far too excited about this place opening up again,” He sighs, nodding his head towards the building behind you. “They’re even more excited about meeting the new librarian. Can’t say I blame them, though,” he finishes with a smirk, allowing his eyes to trace the outline of your figure.
Your ears are heating up before you can even formulate a response for him. Did he really just flirt with you? “Oh—thank you, Satoru, I hope I’ll see you again soon. I promise I’ll find a way to repay you for your kindness.”
His smirk softens, “ Come with me to mass this weekend—— just think about it. If you don’t like it, I’ll never ask again, I swear,” he pleads, even crossing his fingers over his chest to signify his promise.
You shift on your heels anxiously, fiddling with the rubber band on your wrist yet again. “I'll think about it,” you whisper, looking down at your shoes.
Your answer satisfies him. You watch him slide your duffel bag off his shoulder and place it on the ground beside you. He reaches into his pocket to retrieve the key to the library and places it in the palm of your hand. It’s heavier than you expect it to be, a cold weight in your hand that signifies more than it should. You stare down at it, as if it has all the answers.
Unable to hold himself back any longer, Satoru pulls you in for an unexpected embrace. You gasp as he squeezes you tightly against his hard chest. He smells faintly of seawater and incense, and you fight the urge to inhale deeply at the familiar scent.
When he pulls away from you, you feel colder than you anticipate, and a slight shiver travels through your body.
He gazes down at you, almost lovingly, as his eyes map out your features, “We’re so happy you’re here. The island always has a way of calling you back home.”
Weird.
Okay, very weird.
You’re unsure of what else to say, so you settle on gratitude. “Thank you, Satoru, I’ll see you tomorrow?” You ask, reaching for your duffel bag.
He only nods, taking a singular step back towards the road to grant you the space to open the door.
You turn towards the front door of the library, letting out a shaky breath as you push the key into its hole and turn. It opens with ease beneath your hands with a confident click. For some reason, you feel the need to breathe a sigh of relief.
“Oh, by the way, we have quiet hours from 8 p.m. to 6 a.m.,” he says suddenly.
You turn once more, a questioning look on your face. What can you really say to that? This is your life now, your home; a new home with eccentric rules, to say the least. Therefore, you simply nod, eager for the interaction to be over.
When the door opens with a heavy creak, the overwhelming scent of old books and incense clouds your senses. It isn’t until the door swings far enough to hit the wall that you notice the small bell attached to it; it jingles playfully. You turn back to bid Satoru a good night, but you’re only met with an empty sidewalk and flickering streetlight. A faint breeze tickles your cheeks and brushes against your body, as if urging you inside the building.
You oblige, crossing the threshold with a shaky breath. An unexpected warmth engulfs you, beckoning you further into the building. The walls are lined with books that have since collected dust. Abandoned cobwebs decorate shelves and unreachable corners.
When you flip the light switch, the entire room is washed in an amber haze. It’s much smaller than you’d anticipated; ten or so rows of shelves occupy the first floor. Aged desks and worn armchairs are sprinkled amongst the rows, private areas for anyone who may need them.
The floorboards moan beneath every step you take, as if calling out to you in desperation. The further back you walk, the space opens up to a gathering area of sorts; a fireplace and couch sit at the bottom of what appears to be a conversation pit. You hum to yourself; you may have never met him, but you feel exceedingly grateful to your grandfather’s dying wishes.
At the front desk, you find a rusted call bell beside the outdated landline; it’s impossible not to ring it. The ring is sharp and echoes throughout the still rows of literature. The silence that follows sends a chill up your spine, and you decide it’s best to head upstairs now.
Before you switch off the light, the mezzanine above you draws your attention towards the spiral staircase in the corner of the room. There’s a velvet rope running across the stairs, signifying a gentle barricade of sorts. You unhook the soft material, letting it fall to the ground with a silent thud as you begin ascending the crimson stairs.
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
There is a single door at the end of the upper hall, the bookkeeper’s studio. You swallow thickly, imagining the history that must lie in the floorboards of this building and behind this door. When you open the door, something in your chest clenches tightly. Is this where he passed? Behind you, the shelves of books remain uncomfortably still, warped by the shadows of the darkness. Outside, the streetlights have turned off. Strange.
The front windows beside the main entrance present you with nothing but darkness, though a minor flash of movement catches your eye. You set your bag down before approaching the railing of the mezzanine, leaning over for a better glimpse.
Your body reacts before your mind can; a fleeting wave of dread shoots up your spine when you recognize the undeniable figure of a man outside the library window. Surely it’s just a curious townsman, right? It’s far too dark to make out much detail, but it’s plain to see that he’s clad entirely in black; it’s hard to say if he’s in robes or not. Perhaps it’s this “Father Geto” that Satoru spoke to highly about. The figure doesn't move, and you're unsure if he can even see you, though this detail does nothing to ease your nerves.
Your heart rattles your chest, and you push off the railing, nearly tripping on your own feet. You clamber backwards into the room, refusing to tear your eyes away from the mysterious shadow. When the bedroom door finally clicks shut, you snap the rubber band as tight as you can against the raw skin of your wrist. Over, and over, and over again, until you can finally steady your breathing to resemble something steadier.
You do your best to soothe your racing thoughts, convincing yourself that the man meant no harm in standing there so menacingly. Yes, it must have just been Father Geto. Satoru told you he’d come find you. He just wants to check on you. Keep you safe. You choose to ignore the way in which you’ve innately decided to trust this man whom you’ve never met, though the alternative sounds far more terrifying.
Besides, the pious kneel before men like him, trading the filth of their sins for the inherent promise of cleansing and forgiveness; if there was anyone in this town you’d inherently trust, it would be Father Geto. Right?
You swallow down the rising senses of panic and regret, desperate to find peace on this island that you’ve already poured all your remaining ounces of hope into.