In which a Kook gets in the middle of a Pogue mess.
ADVENTURE, ROMANCE, SACRIFICE, FRIENDSHIP.
{slowburn}
jj maybank x female oc
(Season 1 - Season 4)
Outer Banks - JJ Maybank fanfiction. I don't own anything related to Outer Banks. I only own my ch...
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"This place smells like dead bodies."
It was literally the last sentence Avery wanted to hear. The words seemed to echo off the high, shadow-drenched walls, each syllable falling heavier than the last. She stopped in the middle of the dust-streaked hallway and glanced sideways at John B, whose nose was wrinkled in genuine disgust.
They had just stepped into the vast, once-grand mansion perched in eerie silence at the heart of a private island—an island where no other soul lived. That fact alone had Avery's nerves on edge. But now, walking through rooms that smelled like mold and centuries-old decay, her skin prickled with a quiet tension.
John B wasn't entirely wrong. The air was stale and thick with something she couldn't quite name—like a mix of rotted wood, forgotten memories, and the faintest hint of something... wrong. It didn't smell like life. It didn't feel like it either.
She tried not to look too closely at the furniture—draped in ghostly white sheets or crusted in layers of dust and cobwebs. There was no sign of recent cleaning, no trace that anyone had truly lived here in years. Her eyes darted to the stained wallpaper curling at the edges and the chandelier above, which swayed ever so slightly despite the stillness of the air.
"I'll let Wes know you're here." Groff said with a light chuckle, the sound far too casual for the setting. He moved ahead, pushing open a pair of heavy oak doors that creaked in protest.
Inside, the firelight barely pushed back the shadows that clung to the corners of the room. It was oddly cold for such a large house, the kind of cold that didn't seem to come from outside but seeped up from the foundation. Wes gestured toward the hearth, urging them to sit. They obeyed, if only because standing made them feel too exposed.
There were spider webs stretching between the arms of chairs and coiling around table legs like warning signs. The kind that said, Nobody has touched this in a long, long time. Avery's unease deepened. Where were the maids? The caretakers? Was anyone truly watching over this place?
"I apologize for dragging you all out here," Wes began, his voice serious but not without warmth. "But I couldn't speak about this in public. I know I mentioned Blackbeard, but I assure you, treasure isn't my goal."
His gaze swept over them—studying, measuring. "My ancestor, Francis Genrette, was the British officer who caught and killed the notorious pirate."
Pope blinked, tilting his head. "Wait. Your direct ancestor?"
Wes nodded solemnly and continued. His story began to unfold like an old sea tale—after killing Blackbeard, Francis also killed the pirate's wife, Elizabeth. Since then, Wes claimed, generations of Genrettes had died violently, haunted by her ghost.
Avery shifted uncomfortably. The weight of the past clung to the room like fog. When Wes gestured toward a framed portrait of his daughter on the wall, a new chill settled into her bones.
