i. — BEDROOM

[ In Camille's mind, the whispering, fretful voice comes with an image, conjured from her own memory. A ghost of a little girl with blonde hair pulled into pigtails, one who's haunted her for a very long time. 'Marian', she thinks, and it hurts in the same ways it's always hurt, but.... fresher. Like the wounds of her have been reopened right up.

It isn't Marian, but before Camille can do anything about the wrench in her heart, she's out. And when she wakes, she— is somewhere else.

It wouldn't be the first time Camille Preaker woke up unsure exactly where she is or how she got there, but usually there's at least one or two (or three) empty bottles near her, and that's enough explanation. The comfortable, familiar one. This.... isn't that. She sits up, blinking glossily as she looks down at her person — silky pink pyjamas with long sleeves and matching pants that look like something her mother ('a living doll' is what they called Adora back home) would wear, and that in itself makes Camille think this is a nightmare. Only it's then that she notices she's not alone in the room, and she's immediately scrabbling for her covers, drawing them up against herself as she moves backwards in her bed, eyes wide as saucers. ]

Who the fuck are you? [ A noticeable Southern accent flares up through her voice in her alarm. She sounds more frightened than incensed, like a cornered animal. ]

You wanna explain to me just what the hell's going on?

ii. — LIVING ROOM

[ Something stronger than coffee would be preferable, but searching the cabinets wields no such luck. So it's a cup of hot caffeine Camille clasps in her hands as she haunts the living room — still in those godawful silky pink pyjamas. She'd ventured outside for about five minutes before realising this is some Twilight Zone bullshit and come right back in. Retreat, retreat. Apart from any visitors who happen to ring the doorbell for some reason, she won't be opening that door again right now. So she stands in front of the collection of old-timey photos on display here, portraying.... her, and people she doesn't know, and none of it makes any sense.

Her journalist's brain tries its best to concoct some sort of explanation; there's always an explanation. Always some truth to even the strangest secret. But she can find none in the moment, and her mantra has been 'trust no one' for the greater part of her adult life, so she holes up in the living room like that: shoulders scrunched upwards, nails tapping nervously against her coffee mug as she analyses each picture, each memory that doesn't belong to her, each snapshot of a life she shares with..... a family. The Camille in these is an entirely different person altogether. She's (Jesus fucking Christ) a mom.

The nightmare continues. ]

[ The nightmare doesn't stop. The days keep coming, and she keeps waking up here, and eventually she has to get out of the house and away from the family that isn't hers, but is supposed to be. Donned in a black turtleneck sweater and grey pants (the darkest options she was able to find in her wardrobe), Camille cautiously nears the center of activity, taking in the sights. Time warp back to the 60's or not, it's just small-town enough to nudge against something discomforting in her, something too familiar. Town parties and events that she'd take any opportunity to slip away from. The too-wide smiles of ladies as they greet you just so they can see what you're wearing and gossip about it the next day. Oh, she knows how that goes, and she knows the harder you fight it, the more they latch on. Like sharks after a drop of blood. So Camille lifts her brows with a smile that's polite but strained any time the townspeople get near to her, putting up with their greetings but mostly looking for something to drink that isn't tea or lemon water.

As she stands there, eyes scanning the crowd, she notices other people looking a little... off (in the normal way, like they don't belong here either), so she might draw up closer to you, arms folded. ]

Seen anything remotely alcoholic around here?

[ Holidays aren't exactly her thing, but by the time those creepy commercials reach what they've been counting down to, Camille's well-taken to exploring the streets in her spare time. Halloween offers a bit more cover-up with all the people wandering around, so she heads out, costume-less but dressed in black. (She would say this is her being in the spirit of things, except Camille's choice of attire has been black for as long as she can remember). Her hands start out empty and shoved into the pockets of her pants, but after some seemingly well-mannered neighbourly enticing, she ends up with a couple packs of candy.

Her fingers unwrap one of the chocolate treats and slip it into her lips, but after a single chew in which she feels something thin and hard inside, Camille lets the thing tumble out into her palm. .....The shine of the razor blade pokes through just barely; she got lucky enough not to have been cut at the angle she bit into the thing with, but something up under her sternum freezes painfully as she stares down at the item for several beats too long. Then her shaking hands shove the remnants of the chocolate bar into her pocket, the woman whirling around, eyes wide. What the— What the fuck. There's so many kids out here— ]

Hey! [ She'll call out to anyone who's close to her, rushing forwards towards them. The unpleasant thing that's been lingering in the air since she woke up here, the feeling of wrongness, seems to have dropped abruptly into her lap. There's a cold sweat at the back of her neck; her stomach clenches up tightly. ] Hey, don't eat the candy!

■ WILDCARD / ETC.