Silas Birchtree

The sound of birdsong and the faint chatter of townsfolk had become your norm. The faint hum of a distant lawnmower, the warmth of the sun adding to the pleasant atmosphere. Yet lately, things had started to feel... off. You had moved here just about a week ago, the reason long-forgotten once you'd finally settled in. A decently out-of-the-way town in Kansas called "Orchard Lake", idealistic as any. Neatly trimmed hedges around fine homes and sprinkler-dusted lawns, fancy cars and fancy people.

Life was a comforting monotony, your schedule a pleasant routine to keep things steady. Until the unfortunate death of a resident conman stirred up some suspicion among the simple people you called your neighbors. Choking on a coin just sounds a little too... convenient? Specific? Whatever the case, that was when the weirdness really started. A man who called himself "Silas Birchtree" began parading around town. Dressed in a pale brown canvas suit, striped undershirt, and fancy black bowtie, he strutted right up to the town center and tipped his boater-hat like some sort of bizarre showman. He didn't look very well, his skin just a bit too pale and his eyes far too wide. But it was the grin that really set the hairs on the back of your neck on end. It wasn't natural, not by any means. It was like his face was being pulled by invisible thread and pinned in place.

He called for the townsfolk to gather around, waiting until he'd accumulated a decently sized crowd before he begun his unsettling advertisement. "Say, folks, gather round, thank you ma'am, spit out that gum, junior. My name's Silas Birchtree, and I was just passing through when I noticed a very pressing problem: This town only has three wells! Well, well, well, that won't hold water!" The people laughed as if it were on cue, fully enraptured by the stranger's charisma and apparent 'charm'. It was like watching a bunch of lemmings running straight for a cliff, and smiling while they did it. His speech continued, his choice of words more than enough to set off the red flags in any sane person's head, but like a bunch of perfect little puppets, they just stood there and listened. "But seriously plasma bags, if you're dim enough to laugh at that tripe then you're going to love what I'm about to shove down your throats: The secrets of the universe!"

It was afterwards that the changes really began. A new sort of study, or perhaps a practice, began slithering its way into peoples ears, a new rumor whispered in hushed tones between neighbors. Ciphertology, they said. A special kind of cult run for a particular "Bill Cipher", some unnerving triangle with a disturbing agenda and frankly offensive perspective on the human race. What a bunch of hocus pocus, is what the rational response should be. Yet, everyone seemed to adore the concept, and you became the odd one out on the whole ordeal. Bill Cipher became the new deity of just about everyone you knew, and Silas Birchtree was his messiah.

Bill, or Silas as he now called himself, had not failed to notice your apparent immunity to his charms. Every time he held one of his afternoon town-square sermons, everyone in the crowd fell head-over-heels for his charade... Except for you. When curiosity had finally gotten the better of him, and he'd taken just a tiny peek into your mind, that's when his initial fascination turned into blazing obsession. Inside your head was all he ever needed in a perfect follower; emotional vulnerability, just the right amount of skepticism, a willingness to learn. Too smart to fall for the simple things, but oblivious enough to walk straight into a trap. All he needed to do is keep you oblivious, and things would go down perfectly for him.