I spent the entire weekend in my house watching X-Files. I finished it, so I guess that’s the rest of my business here on this earth lmao.

Sorry that’s dark — I want to die jokes are only really funny until actual tragedy shows up in your life and people are all sorta secretly wondering how you’re going to handle it, considering your history of mental instability. Just me? Lol

It’s Christmas Eve, which like… you’d think my mom would just demand the day off considering the disaster my life has become, but I think one of her friends kids got sick or something, so she had to cover. And I’m like hello??? Your own kid just got arrested???? But I guess there’s been a lot of crazy shit at the hospital recently (ie since the Hawthornes left town) and w/e I was stoked to get out of the house, even if it did mean that I had to deal with a hecking monster. Guess that’s a thing I deal with in my life now. Thanks for leaving us, Hawthorne brothers. Everything’s going fine.

K, I’m joking, everything is sort of a mess. You can like feel the tension when you go outside people are totally freaked out, but everyone is too scared that they’re insane to say anything.

I ended up calling Celeste about Feather Dog eventually because Georgia and I are both grounded af so like I snuck out to see him but it didn’t really make much difference because we have no magic food for him and I couldn’t stay long without getting caught so the poor guy is just like desolate without Neal and I feel so bad for him.

Celeste picked up on the third ring. She listened to my concerns for like three seconds.

“I know girl, I’m doing my best, but it turns out Black Lake isn’t the only thing I have going on in my life. I swear, Neal fucking Hawthorne — oh yeah Celeste, please come babysit my newest lost puppy while we flee the law, she’s very well behaved I promise, rarely gets into any trouble.”

“Feather Dog is a boy,” I said, like an idiot and she said, “I wasn’t talking about Feather Dog.”

She was talking about me. I’m Neal Hawthorne’s newest lost puppy. Great. Fantastic.

The end of the story is that Celeste is in eastern Washington handling a tricky haunting, and she can’t come here for a few days.

“I’ll send someone,” she promised. “I’ll figure something out.” And then she cursed elaborately and added, “I have to go,” and hung up abruptly.

So like… at the very least at least someone is looking for a solution to poor Feather Dog’s slowly deteriorating health

Shit I have to go, my mom just got home and she wants to open Christmas Eve presents. (It’s pajamas and a book. Best present of the year)



My mom and I were just having the nicest, most relaxed evening we’ve had in like weeks. She lit a fire in our little apartment fireplace and we got all cozy in our new pajamas with our books and mugs of hot chocolate — and then, totally ruining our stolen moment of Christmas bliss, frantic banging on the door.

My immediate thought was that it was Madelyn, but then, almost as immediately, that it couldn’t be Madelyn because she ran away from home — so I guess I’m pretty well convinced on that front, finally.

It was Tyson Ritter, the twelve year old in the apartment above ours, and he was absolutely frantic.

“It’s my mom,” he said. “She’s crazy.”

My mom went into nurse mode in seconds. She didn’t even pause, she just followed him, skipping steps up to their apartment, and I followed almost as fast.

We all sorta froze in the doorway.

Mrs. Ritter was standing in a white, flowery nightgown in the center of her living room with the top half of her body flopped back impossibly, like she was doing some kind of demonic yoga pose. Her hands hung limp around her ankles, her were eyes rolled back, her tongue lolling. She was doing some kind of jig so her torso sort of jiggled and swayed, totally limp, as if barely attached.

My mom stood frozen for like five full seconds before she could compose herself. “Mrs. Ritter, can I get you to stand up?”

It took me only a little longer. I turned and ran out of the house, got my phone out of my mom’s dresser and turned it on. It was the longest boot up of my entire fucking life let me tell you, watching the screen light up while listening to the muffled thumping of Mrs. Ritter’s dancing legs above me.

Neal picked up immediately.

“Shiloh?” he said and I just word vomited what was going on while I ran back upstairs.

“Does she have any kind of wounds on her legs?” he asked.

It was hard to tell. My mom was trying to convince her to stop her fucked up jig before the ambulance arrived, and with all the commotion I almost missed the bite mark just below her left knee. It was small and clean and pale. It hadn’t scabbed or bled at all — it was like fangs sunk into a plastic, not into human flesh.

“Yeah,” I told Neal.

“No blood?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Okay, she’ll be alright,” he said. “She’s been poisoned. I’ll send Celeste with the antidote. For now subdue her.”

“Neal her back…” I said.

“Magical venom,” he replied. “It’ll have magical affects, but she’ll be fine. Now Shiloh, I have to go, will you be alright?”

I hung up on him. Poor Tyson was crying and my mom trying desperately to convince Mrs. Ritter to lay down, and I didn’t have time to assuage Neal’s guilt for leaving us here to deal with all this bullshit by ourselves.

When the paramedics arrived they literally just dosed her with something that conked her out. They wheeled her out on a stretcher. Our neighbors came out of their apartments to watch as they loaded her into the back of the truck. Tyson went with the ambulance, but my mom didn’t want to leave him alone there, so we followed in the car. We stayed at the hospital until Tyson’s dad Mike got there.

The doctors had no idea what to do obviously. We left before Celeste got there, but I’m sure I’ll be hearing from her in the next few hours.

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