Suburban Sidewalks, Spectral Omens, and a Very Bad Case of Premonition-Induced Destination Anxiety (Riverdale, We Have a Problem).
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Author Note: Melinda's just trying to enjoy a post-coven stroll, but her subconscious has other, more apocalyptic plans involving pale boys and crumbling realities. Looks like a road trip might be in order, and you know what they say: the end of the world rarely fits neatly into a weekend getaway.
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Melinda descended the worn stone steps of the meeting hall, each footfall echoing with the fading tension of the gathering. The cool air of evening brushed against her face, a welcome contrast to the heavy atmosphere she had left behind. Beside her, Maggie walked in easy silence, her presence like a quiet ember of warmth in the otherwise muted night. Though neither of them spoke, the comfort of companionship wove an invisible thread between them—soft, steady, and unspoken.
Their steps carried them across the gravel path that led toward the parking lot, a space that always struck Melinda as strangely sterile. Cold white lights glared down from tall, metal poles, illuminating the rows of cars that sat like silent beasts, waiting to carry their occupants back to lives that never quite fit together. The sharp scent of asphalt mingled with the distant hum of traffic, grounding her once more in the strange crossroads between the magical and the mundane.
Her eyes drifted to the nearby sidewalk, where "normals"—the ordinary, unknowing humans—strolled without urgency, laughing, chatting, existing in blissful ignorance. They moved with a certain carelessness, their feet unburdened by centuries-old codes or ancient threats. Some clutched iced drinks, others stared down at glowing screens, locked in worlds even further from the truth than they realized.
A familiar sensation bloomed low in Melinda's chest—detachment. It wasn't envy. Not quite. But there was a hollowness to it, a quiet ache that reminded her she no longer belonged to that world. Maybe she never had.
She often found herself wondering what those humans really saw when they passed witches on the street. Did they notice anything at all? Could they feel the subtle crackle in the air, like static just before a storm? Did they see the shimmer that clung to their robes, the faint distortion that bent the light ever so slightly around their bodies? Or did their minds simply smooth over such irregularities, desperate to preserve a version of reality they could control?
It was said—by scholars of old and witches of high rank—that the human brain had built-in safeguards. That its low-frequency brainwaves acted like natural blinders, dulling the senses to anything that didn't conform to the physical laws they believed in. To them, a glowing sigil was a reflection on a windowpane. A spell was just the wind. A whispering chant was only rustling leaves. The mind, after all, was a master of self-preservation, endlessly creative in its denial of magic.
Melinda sighed, her gaze still fixed on the passersby. To them, she was just another tired woman in a dark coat, perhaps a bit pale, perhaps a little strange, but still part of the landscape. And that illusion suited her just fine. It was easier, cleaner, safer. Better for them—and perhaps, in some distant corner of her guarded heart—better for her too.
She couldn't help but also think of what they saw the elders as?
Perhaps, to the unsuspecting passersby, the witches trickling out from the old stone hall looked no more remarkable than a group of tired women wrapping up a book club meeting. Their cloaks could easily be mistaken for oversized scarves, their staffs for walking canes or quirky costume props. From a distance, it might've even resembled a gathering of housewives, trading whispered gossip about their children's teachers or complaining about rising food prices.
Melinda found herself clinging to that illusion. She wanted them to be perceived that way—mundane, forgettable, tucked neatly into the fabric of everyday life. Anonymity was safety. If the world saw them as anything other than ordinary, they risked losing the fragile protection that ignorance provided. And after everything that had happened—after the blood, the banishment, the betrayal—Melinda had learned to covet safety more than acceptance.
Still, even as she walked among her kind and among the unknowing, a heaviness lingered in her chest like a stone pressed against her ribs. Something had been festering inside her, growing day by day, feeding on the scraps of her fear and doubt. It wasn't just paranoia. Not anymore.
For weeks now—maybe even longer—her sleep had grown shallow and restless, invaded by visions that refused to fade with the morning light. These were not fleeting nightmares brought on by stress or guilt. They felt... real. Visceral. As though she were being shown something, rather than imagining it. Like her mind had been hijacked by a force greater than her own.
At the center of every dream was the same figure. A white raven—only it was never just a raven. It was a boy, and yet not entirely human. His form shifted between the two as easily as breath. His hair was the color of ancient bone, so pale it seemed to glow in the dark, and his eyes—when visible—were hollows of quiet, emotionless judgment. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… still.
Melinda never heard him speak, and yet his presence was louder than thunder. He didn't scream, didn't attack. But wherever he walked, ruin followed. In each dream, the world cracked around him—the earth bleeding light, the skies burning in slow motion. Cities crumbled like sandcastles against an incoming tide. Trees writhed as though in pain. Rivers ran black. And through it all, he simply watched, detached, as if it were all inevitable. As if it had already happened before.
Each time she awoke, drenched in sweat and trembling, a single phrase echoed in her mind—not in a voice, but in a feeling, a compulsion so profound it struck bone: Curb this.
She didn't know who or what had planted that message. But it didn't feel like a request. It felt like a warning. A directive. One she couldn't ignore.
The name "Riverdale" surfaced again and again in her subconscious, slipping past the fog of sleep with increasing urgency. A small, quiet town tucked away in the folds of some unassuming region—she hadn't heard of it before the dreams began. But now it clung to her thoughts like ivy on a stone wall.
Somewhere in Riverdale, the boy waited. Or perhaps he wandered, unaware of the devastation destined to bloom in his wake. Regardless, the message was clear: it was Melinda's burden to find him. To stop whatever was coming. And perhaps, just perhaps, to stop him.
Maggie was the only person Melinda could even begin to consider confiding in. Out of everyone in the coven—every calculating glance, every passive-aggressive whisper behind half-closed doors—only Maggie still looked at her the same way she always had: with warmth, trust, and that unwavering sense of loyalty Melinda had never quite earned but desperately clung to.
And yet, even that loyalty felt fragile in the face of what she now carried.
The knowledge—the terrifying, prophetic weight of it—pressed against her like a leaden cloak, tightening with every step she took. As they continued descending the weather-worn stone steps, Melinda subtly increased her pace, her boots clinking softly against the ancient rock. She drew closer to Maggie, until they walked shoulder to shoulder. That familiar scent of lavender, always clinging to Maggie's skin like a second aura, drifted gently toward her. For the briefest moment, it offered comfort—something solid, something that reminded her of calmer times, of laughter over tea and shared secrets in hushed tones.
But the words—the words—remained stuck in her throat, sharp and unwieldy. How could she say them out loud? How could she even begin?
"Hey Maggie, I've been having these apocalyptic nightmares. There's a pale boy I have to find and possibly kill because the world might end if I don't…" Even in her mind, the thought spiraled into madness. It sounded like something from a bad story, some half-digested myth twisted by fear. Absurd. Impossible. And yet… undeniable.
The absurdity of it was exactly what paralyzed her.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. The muscles in her jaw tensed, her breath caught somewhere between lungs and lips. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, not from fear of the vision itself, but from the fear that speaking it aloud might make it real. That once Maggie heard it, she wouldn't look at her the same ever again. That the warmth would vanish.
So instead, silence.
Not the companionable kind they often shared, when words were unnecessary. No. This was a strained stillness, thick and suffocating. An invisible barrier rose between them—a quiet made heavier by the weight of all Melinda wasn't saying. She hated it. She hated herself for letting fear win. But the truth was a monster she wasn't yet brave enough to unleash.
And then, just as Melinda's mind spiraled further into that suffocating space, Maggie spoke.
"Have you heard?" she asked, her voice cutting through the quiet with effortless cheer.
The suddenness of it startled Melinda, and she blinked, almost grateful for the interruption. Maggie's tone was light, almost teasing—completely unaware of the storm brewing beside her. It was so Maggie, so gently oblivious, that it made Melinda's throat ache. Because here she was, drowning in dread, and her best friend was still offering her sunlight.
Melinda, still tangled in the uneasy web of her premonitions—the grotesque dreams that felt too vivid to be fantasy—struggled to drag herself back into the rhythm of the present moment. Her mind, a storm of confusion and buried fear, felt like it was operating on two separate tracks: one rooted in the mundane conversation unfolding beside her, and the other chasing fragments of prophetic terror that had followed her even into waking hours.
She blinked, forcing herself to focus on Maggie, who was still walking beside her with that ever-present air of relaxed confidence. "Heard what?" Melinda asked, her voice sounding oddly detached—like it had traveled from some distant part of her. Even she could hear the hollow note in her tone.
Maggie didn't seem to notice. She gave a small, dismissive wave of her hand, her fingers fluttering in that effortlessly dramatic way she always used when trying to downplay something. "Oh, it's probably nothing serious," she said, a light smile tugging at her lips. "Just some weird frequency that's been buzzing out of Riverdale for a while now."
Melinda stopped walking for the briefest of seconds.
A chill licked up her spine, cold and immediate. The word Riverdale—spoken so casually, so offhandedly—snapped something into place. A flicker of something too familiar, too aligned with the cryptic whispers of her dreams, stirred inside her. The subtle pull in her chest—the one she had been trying to ignore—tightened.
"A weird frequency?" she asked, her voice softer now, but carrying an edge, as though she were treading carefully around a live wire.
"Yes," Maggie confirmed, though her brow furrowed slightly now, betraying a hint of thoughtfulness beneath her usual cheer. "Why? Don't start repeating everything I say," she added quickly, the corner of her mouth curling into a teasing grin. She gave Melinda a gentle nudge with her elbow and a sideways glance, clearly trying to lighten the mood.
Melinda tried to mirror the smile, but her mind was racing.
"What kind of frequency?" she pressed, the words sharper this time, cutting through Maggie's easy tone. Her stomach twisted, the taste of her unease suddenly bitter in the back of her throat. Riverdale again. The name echoed like a bell tolling in the back of her mind, merging with the voice from her nightmares, the silent but firm command: Curb this. The warning was no longer abstract. It was breathing into her ear.
Maggie's eyes widened slightly at the urgency in Melinda's tone, her smile faltering just a bit. "I'm not exactly sure," she admitted, more carefully now. "There's just... a pattern. Intermittent spikes in magical vibrations. The Council's monitors started picking them up about two weeks ago. Nobody's made much of it yet, but it's coming from that area."
Riverdale.
The name was no longer just a place. It was a destination. A beginning. Or an end.
"You know," Maggie began, her voice tilting toward a more contemplative tone as her expression shifted into something less casual, "like that 'lost key' kind of frequency?"
Melinda tilted her head slightly, her brows drawing together. The term was vague, almost childish in phrasing, but her instincts told her not to dismiss it. "You mean stolen?" she asked, the word slipping from her lips almost automatically. Her mind was already working, dissecting Maggie's phrasing, probing for meaning, trying to connect it to the recurring visions that had plagued her nights—visions of the bone-haired boy, of looming collapse.
"Not stolen, lost!" Maggie repeated, this time with a dramatic emphasis and a small huff, like a teacher correcting a persistent student. A glint of playful exasperation lit her features, but beneath it was something more uncertain. "Remember, the higher-ups were clear about that. It wasn't stolen, just… taken without being returned. Temporarily misplaced, you could say."
Melinda sighed, the corner of her mouth twitching with a grim kind of amusement. "Isn't that basically the same thing?" she muttered, half to herself. The bureaucratic doublespeak used by the coven's inner circle had always irked her. They dressed danger in delicate language, cloaked real threats behind soft terms and hopeful denial. It made her uneasy—like painting flames with watercolors.
"Well, I don't know much about the specifics," Maggie admitted, offering a sheepish shrug as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I just overheard my mom talking about it with her friends the other night. You know how they are—always acting like the world's going to end over a misplaced crystal or an unauthorized spell trace. It could've just been harmless gossip."
But Melinda wasn't convinced. The word frequency still echoed in her thoughts, drawing lines between the supernatural energy spikes, the cryptic boy of her dreams, and the urgency she felt deep in her chest.
"Where did you say this frequency was coming from again?" she asked, her voice low but deliberate, the question no longer casual. She was leaning forward now—figuratively and emotionally—her attention razor-sharp. The atmosphere around them shifted, no longer a shared walk but the beginning of something heavier, something real.
Maggie paused mid-step, catching the change in Melinda's tone. Her gaze flicked sideways, measuring her friend's seriousness before answering.
"Riverdale," she said, more quietly this time.
And there it was again—that cursed name.
Melinda's heart gave a single, deliberate thud. The universe, it seemed, had stopped whispering and had started to shout.
"Riverdale," Maggie said again, her voice soft but certain, the name landing between them like a dropped stone in still water. The ripple of silence that followed seemed almost tangible. For Melinda, the word wasn't just a location—it felt like a trigger, something ancient and latent stirring in response to its mention. A chill ran faintly down her spine, not from the air, but from something older, something intuitive.
"And oh," Maggie added quickly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she leaned in slightly, her body language shifting to one of secret-sharing. "Promise me you won't tell anyone. Especially Betti. You know how much of a running mouth she has. She can't hold water if her life depended on it."
"Yeah, sure," Melinda responded, her tone distant, her voice more reflex than intent. She wasn't really listening anymore—not fully. Her mind had already begun its quiet unraveling, peeling back the surface meaning of the conversation to study the underlying implications. Maggie's casual mention of Riverdale had acted like a lit match tossed into dry grass. Connections she had been struggling to make just moments ago now flickered with new clarity. Images from her dreams—the white raven, the boy with bone-colored hair, the world folding inward—suddenly had a name to anchor themselves to.
"I'll see you around then?" she added, her voice polite but tinged with the faintest trace of dismissal. It wasn't unkind, but it was clear: she needed space, she needed to think.
"Of course! I'll call you. Chao!" Maggie chirped with her usual brightness, unfazed by the shift. She turned on her heel and practically skipped toward the sleek, black car that had appeared at the curb without a sound. The vehicle was immaculate, windows darkened to the point of opacity, its silent arrival almost ghostlike. A driver stepped forward only briefly to open the back door for her.
Maggie slid in gracefully, casting one final wave through the half-lowered window. Her silhouette disappeared behind tinted glass as the car pulled away, merging into traffic with elegant efficiency. Within moments, she was gone, the soft echo of her voice already fading.
Melinda stood motionless, her eyes lingering on the street long after the vehicle had vanished from view. She wasn't seeing the cars or the people anymore. Her thoughts had turned inward, her focus now locked on that single, haunting word: Riverdale.
"Riverdale," she whispered again, testing the word aloud. It felt strange—unfamiliar in its geography, but intimate in tone. As if she'd heard it once in a forgotten lifetime. The syllables hung in the air, heavier than they should have been, weighted with meaning her conscious mind hadn't yet deciphered. But her heart knew. Her soul knew.
There was no longer any doubt. The city from her dreams existed. The boy from her visions was real. And the end… whatever form it was destined to take… had already begun moving toward her.
"I should check it out," she murmured, this time to herself, the words a quiet confirmation. No longer a question. No longer a maybe. Just a truth she had finally accepted.
She hoped—quietly, desperately—that Maggie hadn't noticed the sudden shift in her demeanor. It had been subtle, yes, but Melinda knew herself well enough to recognize the sharp flicker of tension that had surged through her body like an unexpected static charge. Her polite agreement had worn the right mask, smooth and composed, but underneath, something raw and alert had awakened.
With a silent plea, she reached out mentally, emotionally, to the intuitive connection she often shared with Maggie—a strange, silent thread that had, in the past, allowed them to feel each other's moods without words. She hoped it hadn't betrayed her now. She wasn't ready to explain. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Because Maggie's innocent mention of that "weird frequency" hadn't just been idle gossip. To Melinda, it had been more—a jarring, unmistakable confirmation. It was like hearing an echo in the waking world of something she'd only known in the realm of dreams. The spectral warnings that had haunted her nights—the boy with the bone-white hair, the landscapes crumbling beneath unseen pressure, the suffocating weight of an impending end—they all seemed to point here. To this moment. To Riverdale.
Her chest tightened as a cold, unfamiliar kind of clarity began to settle in her bones. Not fear, exactly. Not courage either. It was something different. A quiet resolve. Something sharp. Steel-like.
This was a sign. She could feel it. A whisper from the universe. A breadcrumb on a trail she hadn't asked to follow but could no longer afford to ignore. It didn't matter how vague or cryptic it was—it was enough. It was real.
The quest to find the white-haired boy, once dismissed as the irrational demand of a restless mind, now felt like a grim inevitability. Like fate made flesh. He wasn't just a dream anymore. He was out there, in a real place, with real air and real danger. And if her dreams were right, he wasn't just a child. He was the beginning of something catastrophic.
Melinda exhaled slowly, letting the breath steady her as best it could. The fear was still there, gnawing softly at the edges of her resolve. But it no longer ruled her. That privilege now belonged to purpose.
She was going to Riverdale.
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Notes:The Riverdale Tourism Board would like to assure potential visitors that while the town boasts a rich history and charming local attractions, any unusual magical frequencies, sightings of spectral youths, or premonitions of impending doom are purely coincidental and should not deter you from experiencing the "Gem of the Valley."