Chapter 1 - Miranda

Act 1

Louisiana

Date Unknown

They say Miranda L. Augustine was a maniac.

Plagued with reoccurring nightmares and a variety of health ailments from the days of her youth, Augustine quickly became a reproach. Scorned, scoffed, and unaccepted amongst her kinsmen and her society, Laura was driven to live the life of a recluse; an ever present reminder of the darker side of life that loomed in the foothills. She would have soon quickly been forgotten if it wasn't for that night when both her insanity and her reproach would become the end of her.

In her nightmares They spoke to her.

They cried out with a loud wail and beckoned her ear to be inclined toward the sound of their voices.

"Miranda," they whispered but as much as they whispered she would yell back until their whispers turned to yelling as well and she begged them to stay away and leave her be but They would not. They were not wanted, They were not welcome, They were not but they were and as much as They were, They became a part of Miranda and, quickly, Miranda became a part of them. There was scarcely a place of sanctuary in which she could hide from them, for they were everywhere, in every place, in the shadows, in the light, at home, away, in the mountains, in the valleys, during rain, and during clarity; she could not hide until one day she would not hide.

They became Miranda's ears and she heard her own people whispering their lies, their rumors, their slander, their insults and she grew to hate her own for her own hated her first. Their words echoed in her mind and they spoke "Leave us! You are an offense and a reproach! You are not wanted, you are not welcome." And such words beckoned her to die, to go outward toward the foothills and hang from a tree.

And her hatred was made known.

That night a black cloud fell upon the town such as had not been seen since the days of Moses. It was a darkness thick, and thicker still, a darkness that could be felt and it blinded the eyes so that no light could return that gift of undeserved sight that had been so wasted upon them; and with it fear came.

Such fear seeped into their hearts like waters seeking escape only to become trapped within the vessel. Such fear drove them to behold their own nightmares. Murderers, rapists, thieves, child molesters, even to the most innocent of faults were made manifest before their own eyes, each to his own, and they were driven to the brink of their sanity at that of their own. But for Miranda, such a blackness became as a cradle and a recompense, for such blackness had become her home and now they shared in it, in the arms of such a painful cradling she had rested, and now they can rest as she did.

And the whispers screamed, "Kill them! Kill them all! They are ugly!" They cried out, "They who laughed at you, they who tormented you so!" And thus they became Miranda's voice and she cried with a loud voice saying "It doesn't matter if you're smart, dumb, ugly, pretty... it's all the same once your dead..." Her voice quieted as she looked upon the faces of those afflicted by the deep dark darkness, "and a corpse can't laugh. From now on, if anyone makes fun of me... I'll kill them."

And they became Miranda's hands.

They became Miranda's hands and with them she took the knife and she took the gun that in turn took the lives of many. Though they screamed for mercy, pleaded for forgiveness, and offered up many gifts, she would not hear them for her ears were closed to their lies and she heard only their hate, hate that had taken root within her long ago and finally gave grown to become the Nightmare that came upon them. Though she drew the blood of many, both innocent and guilty alike, she gave no quarter because They became Miranda's eyes.

They became her eyes and she saw men as monsters walking the streets each deformed in their manner, each being grotesque, twisted, and as ugly as the hate they sowed within her. She slew them where they stood; some ran, others fought, but each suffered death just the same and she would not relent, she could not relent, nothing was able to stand against her as she marched along the path of exculpation.

When there were no more lives to take and when there was no more blood to spill she fell on her knees there, in that place of darkness, amidst the flames of hate that burned hot around her and there she heard Them yet again.

There she placed the gun to her own head.

But Miranda did not die.

Years have passed since that day.

Though her memory has faded into that of myth and obscurity, Miranda's legacy lives on. In the hearts and minds of those whose minds rest a tortured fragment of what once was, what could be, what should be, there rests the same voices that spoke to that ill-fated young girl so long ago, the same voices that beckoned her attention, the same voices that overtook her.

Act 2

Lorimar Heights Research Center

1960

In an effort to understand the human mind and all therein, Patient 00334, Maria K. Reynaga, paranoid schizophrenic, has been placed under close observational study. What her researchers don't know is that Maria Reynaga would soon take upon the memory of Miranda Augustine; a memory does not wish to be so easily forgotten. Before admitting herself to Lorimar, sister institution to Belkane, Maria had been an avid researcher of urban legends, mythology, and occult history, as was her most enjoyable pass time among many. During the final stages of her sanity, Maria began to delve deeply into the recorded life of Miranda L. Augustine and developed an almost intimate, albeit obsessive, fascination with the age-old story but primarily with Miranda herself. Perhaps it was sympathy.
A pity had developed in Maria's heart as she learned more and more about the treatment Miranda had received during the years of her early life, and even after. She found herself thinking that those whom she had killed received a penalty well deserved. However, as she continued reading she found herself intuitively feeling that something was amiss, for neither book or documentary did she find a retelling of the darkness that had fallen that day.

It was only in the tall tale of a single old man whose story was a recounting handed down by his father did Maria uncover a glimpse of knowledge regarding that darkness. But she had to know more; the lack of knowing indeed drove a deep depression in her mind that could only be filled by uncovering that truth, and even if it were a lie, she would be content in at least it's confirmation.

But she would not uncover the secrets of that darkness.

Not yet.

It was a year later, when she had grown weary of her studies, that she began to hear Them. At first They were but simple thoughts floating as fleeting flickers of flames in her mind and later they became more, much more. Like a torrential storm, these thoughts began to flood the vast recesses of her mind until she was driven to the one place where hope of silence lay.

Lorimar.

Despite their compassion and care, Maria found herself sinking deeper and deeper into the ocean of the voices daily. They caused her to believe she was being watched when nobody was there, that strangers spoke of her when they did not at the very least know her name, and she screamed for their silence, she begged for their silence.

The pills and the injections were a temporary relief at first. Silence was attainable for a short while but there was never peace; peace was non-existent for she knew the voices would only return once more to haunt her mind and the more she fought to hold them back the greater they resisted her attempts. The more these voices lay siege to Maria's mind, the more her researchers and doctors held her under scrutiny.

This went on for four years.

For four whole years the eyes of Lorimar never left Maria and it was their very eyes that fed the incessant voices growing ever so louder. "Look at how they watch you," the voices spoke from within the walls, "They gape at you with their mouths as though you were a monster."

And toward the end of the fourth year it came.

The deep darkness fell upon them so heavily that even their flesh became burdened by it's weight. It took the very city and it's inhabitants like a thief in the night, quickly, and painlessly. In the twinkling of an eye that darkness had taken Lorimar and the entire city itself. Now what once stood a prosperous community of commerce and wealth, Eldorado had been rendered a shell of it's former glory; emptied as if abandoned.

Act 3

Belkane Asylum for the Criminally Insane

Present Day

A catatonic schizophrenic stands in the rain gazing into the unseen reality in which she lives in; a reality seen by only her own eyes. As a statue, this woman stands unmoved by the falling waters that consume her from above when suddenly her eyes open to a new reality.

The bright light of the sun glistened off of white walls in a room adorned with only a plain bed and a bouquet of common flowers within a blue vase sitting atop a small wood stand. Through the window she looked outward into a courtyard lined with lush trees, grass, stone tables of an ornate design, and great walls that likened this establishment to that of a prison.

"Where am I?" Her soft words went forth unto the lonely room in which only silence stood as her partner. She dared not go out through the white metal door on the opposite end of the room though even if dare presented itself she would find that the door was locked.

It was not long after that there came men dressed in white and and they asked her a series of questions about herself. Some she could not answer as though a black shroud were in place of the memory, others were found more easily accessible.

"How old are you," they asked, "Where do you come from?" and "Do you have any family?"

It was not until the Administrative Doctor asked her name that a cold fear came upon descended upon him and he was struck to the bone with fright.

When asked what her name was, she answered;

"Miranda.... Miranda Augustine."

Perhaps he knew of the legend; the myth that had been locked away in the vaults of time and stricken from the very tablets of history. Perhaps so, for no other reason could garner such terror in his heart and yet he told no one, deciding it best that such a tale of calamity be kept with him and eventually die with him. All the while, the Doctor had hoped that this girl was simply living a delusion; a second life in which she took on the name of Miranda L. Augustine without the curse she had wrought in her time. He had hoped even better that perhaps this was simply a case of a coincidental matching of names.

But this was no mere coincidence.

The next day came earlier than usual.

Some of the more sensitive mediums, psychics, became overwhelmingly restless. Their anxious wails screamed of both a people and a place of torment and wrath. Some called it Hell, others had no word for it but pain; such a collective seeing could not have been attributed to the mental state these patients are trapped in and yet the orderlies, doctors, and nurses proclaim an elaborate and orchestrated scheme. Still their incoherent words of a nightmare worse than nightmares struck fear into the most brave hearted of Belkane.

Those of a more sane mind spoke clearer, yet just as puzzling, and they told of a great flame waiting to engulf them all. To make matters worse, these pointed their own fingers at Miranda, who had come upon them so suddenly and they said "witch," and "brood of Satan." They spoke of an ever present danger waiting to feast on innocent flesh and such a danger was the embodiment that is Miranda. Much worse, their fear toward Miranda had become such, that violent attempts were placed against her life. So great did their restlessness grow that Miranda had been removed from their sight and locked in a place of Isolation, a place of solitude, and in that place there were Voices.

That early day and that fearsome hour passed.

Since then the patients of Belkane, and even those beyond the walls, have waned in their restlessness but the ever present shadow remained looming over them, as that of eyes watching from a place unseen, and it persisted from that place of which no sane sight could ever hope to behold.

Yet to all it had become apparent,

A greater nightmare was yet to come.