Chapter Text
Statement of Noah O’Connor, regarding a visitor to his flower shop. Original statement given May 18, 2019. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims; the Archivist.
Statement begins.
It was always raining when she came in, or the rain happened because she was coming. I never exactly figured that part out.
I own a flower shop, see, or I did before all of this happened. She was one of my best customers. Came in once a week, every week, no matter what else was going on. She always bought the same things; forget-me-nots— always those— and then sunflowers, hyacinths. Sad flowers, flowers for memory and loyalty and regret. Never said a word, either. Just came in, paid, and left again.
It became almost a game I played, trying to find the right words to describe her. Trying to work out what her deal was. Judging by looks alone, I had absolutely no idea what to make of her. She was about six feet tall, for one, looked like she could throw me through a wall, with this crazy black-and-white dye job that I was secretly just a little jealous of. I think she walked around in coloured contacts or something, too— there was no way they were that colour naturally. I never saw her wear a thing that wasn’t black, except this awful gaudy charm bracelet she always had on that didn’t fit the rest of her at all.
(Once, she came in with another person— he matched the bracelet in terms of taste, so I guess he must have given it to her? Whoever he was… that was the only time I saw her with anyone else. She was always alone.)
There was just something about her, something about the way she carried herself; all sad and quiet and strange. It was exactly the kind of mystery that I liked, and I wanted to solve it. I wanted to solve her. Wish I’d just left it as a mystery. God, I wish I’d left her alone. I just… couldn’t stop myself from opening my stupid mouth.
It was about the fifth or sixth time she’d come in. I’d been working up the nerve to talk to her for the past few weeks, just to learn a little more about her. I was just curious, really, nothing malicious or weird about it at all. So, when she got up to the counter with her forget-me-nots, I smiled at her, and I asked who the flowers were for. That’s all.
She… I don’t want to say that she snarled at me, but that’s exactly what it looked like. For a moment, her face was twisted up with so much hate I could barely recognise her. More than that— and I know it sounds like I’m making this up, but her eyes went black, and so did all the veins on her face. It was like this awful inky map across her skin, charting out every path she could take to tear me apart. I should have been afraid. I know I should have been scared of her. Anyone with any sense would have been.
I wasn’t. I was just hollow. She’d scraped me out from the inside and left nothing but an endless empty catacomb that I’d never get out of. I could feel that fear I was meant to have echoing around there somewhere , but I couldn’t find it. You know those itches you get sometimes, where every time you scratch them they move around, always just out of your reach? Every time I was almost afraid, it’d move away.
And then she left. Just dropped her money on the counter, turned around, and left.
The whole encounter really shook me up , so I decided to pack up the shop early and just go home. It seemed like the reasonable thing to do, like that was my decision that I made, but, given what happened after… I can’t help but wonder.
It was while I was walking home that I ran into Micah Galloway. He was a friend of mine. We’d gone through school together, coping mostly because we had someone to complain to. We’d known each other for years. And I promise you we were close, okay? I’d never actually—
The second I saw Micah, I—
I don’t know how to describe it, really. I wasn’t in control anymore. I was in the back of my own mind, screaming at myself, but I was also standing in front of him. He said hello, and I opened my mouth to greet him back, but what I said was something completely different. I don’t even know what it was, but it must have been awful, because his face fell and he started crying. He looked so hurt, standing there, and I couldn’t do anything to fix whatever I’d done.
Of course, I got control of myself back once he ran away. He was already halfway down the street by the time I was present enough to move, and he wouldn’t pick up the phone when I called him later. If that had been the end of it, maybe things would’ve been fine. I’d have lost my closest friend, but I’d still have everything else.
Well. Obviously, that wasn’t the end. If it was, I wouldn’t be here, would I?
It was a phone call from my sister next, and then a delivery man coming in to drop off the things I needed for some new arrangements. Every time, the same thing. Trapped in my head, vitriol and venom spilling out of my mouth. Strangers walking past me, little old ladies out with their dogs—
I can’t stop.
It’s been weeks, and this is the closest I’ve gotten to talking to another person. I can’t do it. . You understand. I’m… basically, I’m all alone now, and I’m going to be for about as long as I live unless this suddenly fixes itself. I can’t be around anyone for even a few seconds without it starting up. My friends all hate me, my family think I’ve gone off the deep end— Hell, I had to write a note beforehand to give to your receptionist, explaining what was going on. Even then, she looked at me like I was telling her she was as ugly as something my dog threw up.
...I probably did tell her that at some point, now that I think about it. I’d apologise, but I know that’d only make it worse.
Haven’t seen the flower woman again, either, and I don’t think I will. Whatever she did to me stuck, so there’s no need for her to come back and add to it. But if anyone else asks about her, would you mind warning them?
Tell them there are some mysteries that are better left alone.
Statement ends.
Archivist’s notes:
The receptionist on duty at the time of Mr O’Connor’s visit did, when pressed, say that he’d called her a number of unpleasant things while scribbling profuse apologies on a napkin.
More importantly:
It took me a while to remember why the description of Mr O’Connor’s ‘flower woman,’ sounded so familiar, but I got it in the end. There are four other recorded cases of the Orphanmaker in the Archive, though the behavior and powers exhibited in this statement are markedly different to anything previously noted. In fact, I had believed her to be an agent of the Slaughter. The other cases are gruesome, gory, and very much in that Power’s domain.
However… this statement and the powers that she exhibits would indicate the influence of the Spider. It positively reeks of mind control, entrapment, the stripping away of free will, all things that the Web enjoys.
Apparently, Mr O’Connor has become something of a recluse; he lives in a highly isolated area, does consulting work exclusively via email, and has his groceries delivered. He appears to be making the best of an unpleasant situation.
Whoever his ‘flower woman,’ really is, I can’t help but wonder if she’s doing the same.
End recording.