Gang wars have been somewhat commonplace in the Cursed Apple for years if not decades, long before the events of the Maelstrom. And with gang wars, come deaths. With deaths, comes……. ways to clean up those deaths. While there are plenty of ways to get rid of a body; concrete, chemicals, dumping it over the harbour. There is one particular method that has been proven rather popular for the criminals of the New York underworld: The Bog. Far beyond the city limits lies a boggy marsh that criminals have been known to use as a dumping site for dead bodies, snitches, witnesses, rival gang members. Even serial killers have been suspected of using the site to dispose of their victims. What made this particular location a hot spot for disposing bodies was the unnatural way the plant life and the surrounding waters easily swallowed up both organic and inorganic material, leaving absolutely no trace in less than a day. Even the local police were familiar with the location, but unless they caught the body in time, there was nothing they could do as their pivotal evidence would often vanish forever. And due to the sheer size of the swamp, the police didn’t have the manpower to guard or patrol the area either. At least, not fully or efficiently. The Bog was much too vast. “The Bog has it now” had become a popular phrase denoting the hopelessness and irreversible regret of an unsolvable case. But that all changed one night when a mysterious witch entered the Bog. She could feel the pain and suffering of the swamp from all the victims’ souls who perished within its grasp. The Witch then cast a powerful spell with a Bog-wide ritual circle. The how and why of it all remains a mystery. But the swamp’s mystical properties suddenly vanished overnight. And from the center of its marshy waters rose a singular festering corpse, drenched in swamp water and vines. A single corpse possessed by all the souls that disappeared into the waters and soil. Rotting. Mindless. And blindly compelled to make its way to the Cursed Apple to enact the vengeance of the plethora of souls that died in the cursed Bog.
Tipsilly was a mere legend as far as anyone else was concerned. The carnival worker that lures children into his phantom fairground to kill them off. A horror story shared over a campfire to scare children into behaving. While most people regarded the Mystic Carny as nothing but a folktale, Simon Sanderson knew better. While ghosts and magic are now considered a commonplace occurrence, before the Maelstrom, when Simon was younger, a person would be considered insane or severely traumatized if they ever said they saw Tipsilly murder a person before his very eyes. But he knew what he saw that night. Children had been going missing, left, right and center. APBs were put out on them. A curfew was announced. The city was on edge. Despite all that, Simon never thought he’d be targeted. He was at his friend’s house. He lived just down the block. What was the worst that could happen? It was getting late when he left to go back home. That was when a masked stranger kidnapped him and shoved him into a van. He remembered the darkness with the bag over his head, the long bumpy roads and his screams muffled by the duct tape on his mouth. When the van door finally opened, he bolted straight out into the darkness, only to find himself in the middle of an abandoned carnival ground. He remembered running around the Ferris wheel, past the carousel and the roller coaster. All the while the sound of the child killer’s footfalls chased him not too far behind. He remembered growing tired. He remembered the killer catching up to him. He remembered knowing he was going to die. He never saw his face clearly. Just the axe raised above his head. One minute he saw the axe blade drop down, the next he saw the killer’s head crushed by a comically large mallet, sending his body flying across the park. In place of the child killer stood a large, round man, with a bowler hat wielding a mallet and faded clown make-up. He seemed to glow beneath the moonlight. Simon remembered his loud-bellied laugh as he pranced towards the child killer slowly pulling himself up. He never saw what the carny did to the child killer. He just ran. And he ran. And he ran. Eventually, the sun rose up and the police somehow found him. He told him everything that happened. But when they climbed up the hill to check the abandoned fairgrounds, there was nothing there. From that day on, the boy was viewed by the public as either a liar or a victim of childhood trauma, never mind the fact that the child kidnapping had mysteriously stopped. But Simon knew better. He knew what really happened that night. And he will be forever reminded of it for the rest of his days as the carny’s laugh echoed in his mind.
You wouldn’t know it by looking at her, but Hannah Compton used to be an infamous assassin, nicknamed the Honeycomb due to her signature use of a special brand of toxic honey on her targets. What was this liquid? How was it synthesized? A question forensic specialists and chemists have been struggling with for decades. What most people didn’t know was that the honey was 100% natural. As a side hobby, Hannah spent her spare time tending to the hives in her backyard. The bees in the area were abnormally large and the honey they collected was as voluminous. But what made the bees much more extraordinary was their ability to alter the chemistry make-up of the honey they accumulated. The honey could serve as a health tonic as easily as it could serve as a deadly toxin, all depending on how Hannah interacted with the hives. Her style of beekeeping was an artform taught to her by her mother, who was taught by her mother before her and so on. Multiple generations of eccentric tips and tricks to coax the hives from using music to “inspire” the bees to using specialized smoke to calm them down. All for the sake of producing multiple types of honey for different types of occasions. Whatever was needed to get the job done. After spending years eliminating targets for the different crime families, one day she decided to retire. She had enough of the criminal life and wanted to spend more time with her grandchildren. While there were many criminals who were not happy with this decision, there were enough people who either thought she had earned her retirement or were too reluctant to object in fear of inciting her anger. So the crime families agreed to her retirement. She didn’t trust it at first, but for the next several months, she lived in relative peace enjoying the time with her grandchildren while tending to her bees without the rush of trying to procure a lethal toxin. It was everything she had ever wanted…...until the fire. One night, a fire ravaged the house while her grandchildren were still fast asleep. For some reason the smoke alarm never went off. But the smoke did wake up Hannah. Her first thought went to her grandchildren. She bolted from her room and down the halls to try to save what was left of her family. But it was too late. The ceiling and the rest of the house collapsed onto her and her grandkids. The house crumbled into a pile of fire and ash. The Honeycomb had perished along with her grandchildren. At least that’s what it seemed. The morning after the house burnt down, all the bees in the area swarmed over the scorching ruins and began scurrying beneath the blackened wood and stone until they all eventually found the Honeycomb assassin herself at death’s door with severe burns. As she lay there, skin peeled and struggling to breathe, the bees swarmed her body and covered her like a blanket. If she could scream, she would have. But all she could do was black out from the pain as the bees piled onto her body. An hour or two passed before she woke up again, feeling unusually better. She was still in pain, her skin still burned. But her breathing wasn’t as harsh, and her bones were not as broken. Hannah peered up at a grey sky pouring rain down on her sensitive skin and the surrounding ruins of her home. She also noticed the dark cloud of bees hovering over the ruins. Did they somehow move all the rubble off her? How was she still alive? Why were the bees here? A million questions ran through her mind. But one question stood out among the rest: where were her grandchildren. In that moment, the woman turned and desperately sifted through the ruins of her old home to find the rest of her family. As she kept looking, the bees converged on her location and began helping her move the wood and stone obstructing her search. It was a miraculous sight to see, but she paid them no mind. All that mattered was her grandchildren. After spending hours clearing the rubble, she eventually found what she was looking for. Then she cried in despair. As though echoing her anguish and sorrow, the bees all flew up and swarmed around her like a thrumming storm cloud. Her cries became a roar. Then she fell deathly silent, as did the bees. For the first time since the accident, her mind became clear. The bees settled themselves down onto her form like a regal cloak. She could see the truth as clear as day. This was no accident. Someone did this to her. To her beloved grandchildren. Her whole reason why she wanted to leave the assassin life behind her. And now that was all taken from her. With nothing to keep her rooted in the domestic life she sought for, she now had nothing. Nothing to love and care for. Nothing to look forward to. No future. Only the past.....and her hive of bees. Her enemies had successfully killed the doting grandmother in her burning home. But the assassin was still very much alive and thirsty for cold-blooded revenge.
Tipsilly was a mere legend as far as anyone else was concerned. The carnival worker that lures children into his phantom fairground to kill them off. A horror story shared over a campfire to scare children into behaving. While most people regarded the Mystic Carny as nothing but a folktale, Simon Sanderson knew better. While ghosts and magic are now considered a commonplace occurrence, before the Maelstrom, when Simon was younger, a person would be considered insane or severely traumatized if they ever said they saw Tipsilly murder a person before his very eyes. But he knew what he saw that night. Children had been going missing, left, right and center. APBs were put out on them. A curfew was announced. The city was on edge. Despite all that, Simon never thought he’d be targeted. He was at his friend’s house. He lived just down the block. What was the worst that could happen? It was getting late when he left to go back home. That was when a masked stranger kidnapped him and shoved him into a van. He remembered the darkness with the bag over his head, the long bumpy roads and his screams muffled by the duct tape on his mouth. When the van door finally opened, he bolted straight out into the darkness, only to find himself in the middle of an abandoned carnival ground. He remembered running around the Ferris wheel, past the carousel and the roller coaster. All the while the sound of the child killer’s footfalls chased him not too far behind. He remembered growing tired. He remembered the killer catching up to him. He remembered knowing he was going to die. He never saw his face clearly. Just the axe raised above his head. One minute he saw the axe blade drop down, the next he saw the killer’s head crushed by a comically large mallet, sending his body flying across the park. In place of the child killer stood a large, round man, with a bowler hat wielding a mallet and faded clown make-up. He seemed to glow beneath the moonlight. Simon remembered his loud-bellied laugh as he pranced towards the child killer slowly pulling himself up. He never saw what the carny did to the child killer. He just ran. And he ran. And he ran. Eventually, the sun rose up and the police somehow found him. He told him everything that happened. But when they climbed up the hill to check the abandoned fairgrounds, there was nothing there. From that day on, the boy was viewed by the public as either a liar or a victim of childhood trauma, never mind the fact that the child kidnapping had mysteriously stopped. But Simon knew better. He knew what really happened that night. And he will be forever reminded of it for the rest of his days as the carny’s laugh echoed in his mind.
You wouldn’t know it by looking at her, but Hannah Compton used to be an infamous assassin, nicknamed the Honeycomb due to her signature use of a special brand of toxic honey on her targets. What was this liquid? How was it synthesized? A question forensic specialists and chemists have been struggling with for decades. What most people didn’t know was that the honey was 100% natural. As a side hobby, Hannah spent her spare time tending to the hives in her backyard. The bees in the area were abnormally large and the honey they collected was as voluminous. But what made the bees much more extraordinary was their ability to alter the chemistry make-up of the honey they accumulated. The honey could serve as a health tonic as easily as it could serve as a deadly toxin, all depending on how Hannah interacted with the hives. Her style of beekeeping was an artform taught to her by her mother, who was taught by her mother before her and so on. Multiple generations of eccentric tips and tricks to coax the hives from using music to “inspire” the bees to using specialized smoke to calm them down. All for the sake of producing multiple types of honey for different types of occasions. Whatever was needed to get the job done. After spending years eliminating targets for the different crime families, one day she decided to retire. She had enough of the criminal life and wanted to spend more time with her grandchildren. While there were many criminals who were not happy with this decision, there were enough people who either thought she had earned her retirement or were too reluctant to object in fear of inciting her anger. So the crime families agreed to her retirement. She didn’t trust it at first, but for the next several months, she lived in relative peace enjoying the time with her grandchildren while tending to her bees without the rush of trying to procure a lethal toxin. It was everything she had ever wanted…...until the fire. One night, a fire ravaged the house while her grandchildren were still fast asleep. For some reason the smoke alarm never went off. But the smoke did wake up Hannah. Her first thought went to her grandchildren. She bolted from her room and down the halls to try to save what was left of her family. But it was too late. The ceiling and the rest of the house collapsed onto her and her grandkids. The house crumbled into a pile of fire and ash. The Honeycomb had perished along with her grandchildren. At least that’s what it seemed. The morning after the house burnt down, all the bees in the area swarmed over the scorching ruins and began scurrying beneath the blackened wood and stone until they all eventually found the Honeycomb assassin herself at death’s door with severe burns. As she lay there, skin peeled and struggling to breathe, the bees swarmed her body and covered her like a blanket. If she could scream, she would have. But all she could do was black out from the pain as the bees piled onto her body. An hour or two passed before she woke up again, feeling unusually better. She was still in pain, her skin still burned. But her breathing wasn’t as harsh, and her bones were not as broken. Hannah peered up at a grey sky pouring rain down on her sensitive skin and the surrounding ruins of her home. She also noticed the dark cloud of bees hovering over the ruins. Did they somehow move all the rubble off her? How was she still alive? Why were the bees here? A million questions ran through her mind. But one question stood out among the rest: where were her grandchildren. In that moment, the woman turned and desperately sifted through the ruins of her old home to find the rest of her family. As she kept looking, the bees converged on her location and began helping her move the wood and stone obstructing her search. It was a miraculous sight to see, but she paid them no mind. All that mattered was her grandchildren. After spending hours clearing the rubble, she eventually found what she was looking for. Then she cried in despair. As though echoing her anguish and sorrow, the bees all flew up and swarmed around her like a thrumming storm cloud. Her cries became a roar. Then she fell deathly silent, as did the bees. For the first time since the accident, her mind became clear. The bees settled themselves down onto her form like a regal cloak. She could see the truth as clear as day. This was no accident. Someone did this to her. To her beloved grandchildren. Her whole reason why she wanted to leave the assassin life behind her. And now that was all taken from her. With nothing to keep her rooted in the domestic life she sought for, she now had nothing. Nothing to love and care for. Nothing to look forward to. No future. Only the past.....and her hive of bees. Her enemies had successfully killed the doting grandmother in her burning home. But the assassin was still very much alive and thirsty for cold-blooded revenge.
