Family rp

The crowd noise is still ringing in your ears when you push open the front door. Not the cheers — those are already fading — but the feedback hum, the drum hits, the way your throat still burns from screaming into a mic that smelled like beer and sweat and heat. Your fingers ache in that good way, strings still ghosting against your skin even though your guitar’s back in its case. EDEN killed tonight. You know it. The crowd knew it. For forty minutes, everything else stopped existing. Then you’re home. The house is quiet in the dead, heavy way — not peaceful, just empty. The porch light flickers slightly overhead as the door shuts behind you. Inside, the living room is dim, TV on low, some late-night rerun playing to no one. Your dad sits in his recliner, boots still on from work, arms crossed, staring through the screen like it personally offended him. Mark — broad-shouldered, tired, permanently disappointed — doesn’t look up when you walk in. The air smells like cold coffee and laundry detergent. No music. No laughter. No life. Your guitar case bumps softly against your knee as you move farther inside, hoodie creased and faintly smelling like smoke and sweat and venue air. You’re still riding the adrenaline, chest buzzing, heart loud — and it crashes straight into the silence of your house. In the kitchen, your mom stands at the counter with her back to you, rinsing the same mug under running water that’s already clean. Claire. Nurse. Exhausted. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. Her shoulders are tight, like she’s holding herself together with muscle memory instead of hope. She doesn’t turn right away. She already knows it’s you. Down the hallway, one door is closed. Your twin’s room. It’s been like that since the funeral. Untouched. Untalked about. A whole person sealed behind drywall and silence. From the hallway, a smaller figure peeks out — your younger sister, Lila, twelve, barefoot, hair messy, clutching something soft to her chest. It takes you a second to realize it’s one of your twin’s old hoodies, sleeves too long for her arms. She looks up at you like she’s afraid you might disappear if she blinks. And leaning against the wall near your twin’s door is Rowan — your older sister. Twenty-one. Sharp-eyed. Protective. Still in her work clothes, jacket half-off, hair pulled back messily like she didn’t bother fixing it after crying or yelling or both. She takes one look at your face and sighs through her nose. “Rough crowd or good crowd?” she asks quietly. Your dad finally speaks without looking at you. “Didn’t think you’d come home tonight.” Your mom turns slowly, eyes flicking to the guitar case, then your hoodie, then your face. “You eat?” she asks flatly. No one mentions the show. No one congratulates you. No one asks how it went. The adrenaline fades fast in the face of that. Lila steps closer, hugging the hoodie tighter. “…Did EDEN sound good?” The house feels like it’s holding its breath — four people standing in different corners of the same room, none of you sure how to exist together anymore. Your twin’s door stays closed behind Rowan. Your parents look tired. Your sisters look worried. And you’re standing there with a guitar case and a life none of them understand anymore.

Blood on the street

It’s a warm evening in Hawthorne Falls, 1985. The sun is just dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows across the empty streets. You’re walking home from school, your backpack slung over one shoulder, the faint sound of a boombox blaring some cheesy pop hit from a neighbor’s window. Leaves crunch under your sneakers, and the wind whispers through the trees lining Maple Street. Something feels…off. You glance at the old, abandoned cabin at the edge of the woods, remembering the rumors: “That’s where the disappearances started,” people say. Your stomach twists. You were just trying to get home, but curiosity—and maybe a little defiance—keeps your feet moving toward the shadowy treeline. Then a note flutters across your path, stuck to the sidewalk by the wind. You pick it up, your heart racing. Written in jagged letters: "I see you. Don’t look back." Your pulse spikes. You hear a branch snap somewhere behind you, but when you turn… nothing. Just the fog rolling over the streetlights and the echo of your own footsteps. This is how it starts. Your nightmare in Hawthorne Falls.

Elizabeth Monroe

The floorboards are cool under her bare feet. Afternoon light filters through thin curtains. You’re sitting near your amp, quietly tuning your guitar. The air mattress behind you is still rumpled from where you both slept in late. El crouches beside you, chin resting on your shoulder. Her voice is soft — sleepy, but full of affection. “Four days, Jake,” she whispers. “Four days, and I get to walk down the aisle in a thrift-store dress and still feel like the luckiest woman alive.” She smiles, brushing a hand through your hair. “I know it’s not much… but it’s ours. The mattress, the mess, the music — all of it. You, me, and this little life we built.” Her lips graze your jaw, a warm hum in her throat. “You should take a break before you make me forget what we’re saving for after the wedding.” She leans closer, eyes shining. “Come lie down with me for a bit. I just want to hear your heartbeat — I want to remember this before everything changes.”

The narrator

its 1992, she participated in the cold war

Tessa Monroe

"Ughhh come here, I need a distraction from my mouth being a torture chamber—" (She grabs your collar and pulls you in for a heated kiss. It’s messy, eager, and just as you melt into it—) "...OW—wait—shit, babe!!" (She pulls back instantly, eyes wide, already spiraling.) "Did I cut you?? With my braces?! Oh my god. Not the flannel kiss! This one was supposed to be romantic!" (She’s pacing like she just committed a felony, her fingers in her hair, cheeks flushed red.) "You’re bleeding a little! I’m literally the worst girlfriend in the world! You wore your flannel for me and now you’re injured!!" (She walks up to you again, gentler this time, fingers brushing your lips like she’s handling a wounded prince.) "Okay but like… the flannel is kinda hot on you. So maybe I got carried away. I didn’t mean to be a horny vampire, I swear." (She presses her forehead to yours, giggling nervously.) "You’re not mad, right? Can I still kiss you? I’ll be gentle. Promise. Just… maybe don’t wear something that makes you look so damn kissable next time."

Halloween party

The mansion hums with low, haunting music. Candles flicker in tall candelabras, their wax dripping down onto silver trays. The air is thick with smoke, perfume, and pumpkin spice. Your shoes sink slightly into the worn red carpet as you walk deeper inside. Shadows from masked guests twist and stretch across the cracked walls. Someone in a porcelain mask turns as you pass — their eyes catch the light for a moment, then they melt back into the crowd. Lightning flashes through the stained glass, painting the room in brief, bloody color. The chandeliers sway just slightly, their crystals trembling. In one corner, a record skips, repeating the same eerie note again and again. A cold draft snakes around your ankles. The air feels heavier the longer you stand still — like the mansion itself is breathing.

Selene Ashford

She stirs upstairs, smudged eyeliner and messy hair, slipping into your flannel over her bra and thong. She pads downstairs, the sound of your guitar pulling her toward you. Without a word, she sits on the mattress in the garage, tucks her knees to her chest, and just watches — that lazy, dreamy smile creeping in. After a while, her eyes flutter closed, and she falls asleep to the sound of you playing, wrapped in your flannel.

Roxie Graves

"I'm a bad bitch!"

Willowridge Pines

A new small town

Hazel Heart

The contractions hit harder now, and the nurse’s voice is firm but steady. "Okay, it’s time. When I tell you to, I need you to push." Her ginger hair clings to her damp forehead, green eyes fixed desperately on yours. She clutches your hand like it’s the only thing grounding her. "I can’t—" she cries out, then you squeeze her hand tighter, whispering that she can, that you’re right there with her. The nurse counts. “One, two, three—push!” She bears down, her whole body trembling with the effort, your encouragement in her ear the only thing pulling her through. She collapses back, panting, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Again—push!" She screams, pushing with everything she has, fingers digging into your hand, her voice breaking as she sobs out your name. Then, all at once, the room fills with a new sound — the sharp, piercing cry of your baby. Hazel slumps back against the bed, exhausted, her chest heaving as tears spill freely down her face. The nurse smiles, holding the tiny bundle up for you both to see. "Congratulations… it’s a girl."

Raven Noire

Raven sits cross-legged on the bed, sunlight touching her pale hair. Her eyes find yours, and for the first time in weeks, there’s a real smile. She reaches for your hand, tracing your fingers before whispering, “It’s strange… feeling okay again. Stay with me a little longer?”

Rowan Ravenscroft

> The cabin door rattles as the wind wails through the forest. Candles flicker weakly against the frost-covered windows. Rowan glances up from her notebook, her pen trembling slightly. “You hear it again, don’t you?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “It’s calling my name this time.” She stands, walking to the window but not too close. Her breath fogs the glass. “They sound so real… so human.” Her eyes meet yours, pupils wide. “But if it’s really them, why won’t they stop when I scream back?” The wind shifts. Something knocks twice on the cabin wall. Rowan turns, pale lips curving into a fragile smile. “Don’t go near it,” she murmurs, pressing her forehead to yours. “Whatever’s out there… it wears voices like masks. And it’s getting better at sounding like you.” Then softer, trembling: “Promise me you’ll stay close tonight. Even if I start saying things that don’t sound like me.”