#Haunted Mansion Wallpaper Dress

[rosieroseblossom]

Chapter One - Dream Date

Eleanora

Finally, it was here Halloween at last it falls on the thirty-first. This One however, comes around and reviving this hollows eve. Every inhabitant resident that’s lived in Mystic Connecticut had, suddenly, changed, once Halloween comes for a midnight bite at their toes. The whole village was captured in a spell, like, the town has been put under. Their maintained lawns are completely transformed into ghoulish graveyards. The ancient tombstones had rouse up on the earthly soil; with rotting human remain draped in crimson covered every olive jade bushes. Just on top are giant cobwebs glittering in the pale ghostly light, in total darkness suspend in the mild air. A gust of wind moves across the white porches, above the decorated ceilings where vampire bats hanging down with their big black eyes glowing in the blackness. However though, on the other side of the street are decaying and rundown mansions, as they loomed but there was one with their solid windows are glowing, crimson shooting past the glass. Others chose to display outdoor lights, sweet pumpkins, as they automatically switch colour. Their where also ghostly ones too, that had hanged over the edge of their roofs shining into the deeply darkly night. At each street porch step facing the white fences a plump, orange jack o' lanterns. Each one carved with a shrill blade. All fixed with permanent grins, and their ample eyes, they stare blanky in the midnight. Shooting out of there obscure eyeballs. A milky yellow flicker of waxed candles burnished. Awaking once again the mighty fiery fury of hollows eve. The radiance of the convex horned moon beams against the deep sapphire water that is surrounding Mystic. It silent and there no, massive surges are splashing like a dozen crystals onto the dark sand. Just a calm night and feeling merely excited, and as tradition to go door to door collecting bags of enjoyable candies, chocolate bars, lollipops and red apples in toffee coating. As cold air blows. Drifting a carmine drape; it was floating in the gust of air. A cloud of grey mist slips through the rose window the long silk of a moon and sun print black curtains.

Creeping into a haunted forest, instead it was of a large bedroom. It was a dark dim room having the wallpaper of a dark misty woods, with naked tress but on the walls are black Victorian photo frames, inside them are finely inked pend Illustrations of gothic dark art, but some others occult alchemy symbols and stunning drawings. Around the massive room all the furniture pieces, is very transparent except, at the open window is a mesh red wine claret winged armchair, prompted near the wide window, but quickly across is a big black dresser on top. Absent from their small cardboard boxes all lined up of small-scale of funko pop vinyl figures, and I mean after all, it is Halloween. I’d heard on the TV; that a mental asylum had accidently let loose some of cinema massacre's little terrors. Jason Voorhees wearing his icon famous hockey mask, holding a bloody drenched machete in hand, Michael Myers in a navy boiler suit with a steak knife, and Carrie a honey blonde wearing her prom dress, her silky light pink silk dress, even with Carrie’s smooth golden hair drips in dark crimson. Then there was Reagan, her bright amber eyes, looking right at you, her blazing ambers glare menacing look and oozing, at the corners the small lips of dripping green vomit seeping off it and onto the white laced collar. Just behind them is a beautiful range of paper bound books with, in between a phoney human skull on top. Pulled up alongside is a lucent red-cherry dressing table. Above is a bevel encircled mirror that limpid on a vanity drawer was raised on squat cabriole legs between the gap in the middle of it, a mesh black cushion chair is placed at the of the dresser.

Sitting their motionless on the soft seat and facing to the vanity mirror. Arms bent outwards and seated on the polished wood, with the elbows are placing at the ends of the lucent cherry table and gazing through at a solid looking glass mirror, a reflection stare backed. A glimpse of a light-toned skin girl, with exquisite long auburn hair as it fells and curls past under her shoulders, Eleanora Thornton, a Mystic high school student, but mostly though, she is a confident reigning queen for the goths. She has an oblong face, thin carrot top eyebrows and gorgeous sapphire eyes and heart-shaped blood-rose lips. Eleanora is a kind and slender, but. Dark, no, no she is defiantly not a blood sucking vampire or a moon hugging werewolf, that was far from the truth, rather that she had loved everything that is spooky. Though having long wavy auburn strands, and her smooth mouths stained in black, painting her rosy lips in a midnight gloss, and selections of lovely mini dresses are, which are not all entirely black, but rather red, white, brown and yellow. Eleanora has been a goth for over five years. It all began when I fell in love with horror movies, with creepy ghouls and undead creatures, the ones in fanfiction stories and films, she guesses that Eleanora was exposed to the dark aesthetic side but feels that she has turned from light to darkness. Also, for her father, is a heavy rock and metal music lover, he would be down in his man cave, booming and blaring Alice Cooper, Metallica, Guns and Roses. What sweet music they made. My childlike self so thoughtfully. Then on that day, Eleanora went out and with all my pocket money, left over from Christmas by her grandparents. Eleanora brought her first spiky choker but, the long silver claws weren’t very long just small. Only just at the age of six and Eleanora felt amazing. She could remember on that day when both of her mum and dad’s jaws immediately dropped, when they captured their little six-year-old Eleanora in the hallway.

She then realized, did she make a terrible mistake and I nearly sobbed, but as she looked up, they’d began to smile and told her on how rocking, and beautiful her choker is and since then. They accepted her, for all her strangeness, individuality she was a beauty queen, but. That all changed when she attended Stonington Middle School. Starting at a brand-new school was terrifying. It was a different atmosphere, new teachers, new students but, for me it felt like I was a small fish swimming in a big pond swarmed with deadly sharks. However, it did not stop her love for the darkness, Eleanora’s style blossomed like a red rose to a morning rose, she returned home back, from a lengthy day of school. Eleanora brought for the first chucky heeled creepers, Eleanora was filled with delight and thrilled. After having them they had lasted her through the entire winter. Though when at, middle school, they did not accept weirdoes in black creepers. However, feeling brave to be totally different, to be unique, she did not pursue any popular trends, like the other school students wearing their expensive designer outfits but, still it was not easy for her to make, a lot of friends, Eleanora was a very terrible shy. It did take her a while but, that was when, in fourth period and in her class, she began to listen intently just behind her desk. Visible whispers and a low giggling of nasty explanations about Eleanora and at that moment she felt her heart sank uncomfortably, then I feel the corners of my eyes to water and that day, was the start of the taunts of school bullies.

Before school could start for the day, Eleanora would walk her usual way and then, unexpectedly, she quickly turned back and saw two female students one had dyed blue hair, but the other had medium brown shade hair with cat green eyes and there were striding just after Eleanora, and they were glaring angrily, right at her. She turns back and continued to walk, but then, a pounding of railing squealing catches up to her, then all the, suddenly. She sensed a touch of two hands grip on her arm, ‘ouch’ Eleanora winced the long fingers wrapped around her. Eleanora glanced back and gasped, she gaped in horror, it was the girl with the dark cat green eyes narrowing madly towards Eleanora and then she began to drag hard down on my arm, and I felt my body bending uncomfortably to the side, pulling me harder and then harder. When Eleanora begun to buckle her knees and tumbled on the charcoal pathway, I could then feel her hands released violently of my arm. Eleanora fell completely faced down, lying totally flat, lashed into the solid path and a huge cramping stabbing gushed on me. Then I sense my pulse starts to become slowly faint, almost breaking down, and as Eleanora try manging to break her eyes wide open, just then a burst of wild childish laughter breeze down rhythmically in the far distance. 

The very next morning, Eleanora is striding casually down in the endless hallway, the soft closing of grey lockers echoed the halls, every student is getting ready for their first periods and then I hear, ‘EW! who did your hair, I would so hate to be a ginger’, ‘Yeah me too, I’d be so disgusted if my mum had red haired and passed it to be, I’d be ashamed’ somebody added nastily and fell into laughter. That was just the beginning when, after lunch the day and is nearly at an end and when I was stirring past the row of lockers when abruptly, Elise Collins, a tall girl having short toned fair-haired and with olive skin and forest green eyes, she asked me to borrow my handbag, which at that moment found very odd, on one had ever asked to use my bag before, especially the one I was holding, though. Eleanora did have a spare on in her locker, thinking nothing of it, Eleanora gave it to Elise, and she turned quickly and walked around the corner of the lockers. Eleanora, thought innocently, that they could need my bag for something special! Once when school was finally over at last, Eleanora is sitting on her bed and scrolling on Instagram, she had made the account only a while ago and it was something of a creative outlook to express and be myself more, until unexpectedly to my shock, she saw a video and to her surprise. To see a black and white printed strip body bag, her bag lay on a rusty ash grill. They a big lighter and a match and then, a soft flame pirouetted upward across her beautiful bag. It became in gulfed to a big bronze glow the black leather turning dark brown at the flickering of the burning flames, at that moment Eleanora grabbed for her pillow and dropped her head into it and burst into tears. The unending hollow of freak, weirdo, nobody likes you why can’t you accept that. It all crammed up into my mind for endless days like it is a constant reminder, I just did not understand what was wrong with me, whenever Eleanora is getting to school it was another roller-coaster ride, a bump after another. Hoping that everything will get better soon, but not as everyday was the exact very same, name calling, tugging my hair back in class and the horrible laughter which become so unbearable to my ears. Wishing that Eleanora could stay at home, just for a day, but it was not option. Soon it got even worse, like even if it could not be, for that her gorgeous auburn hair become the main centre of attention.

Basically, I was sitting at the lunch table in the cafeteria, and I sat alone. Eleanora was hearing giggling in the far distance of the school cafeteria trying to ignore it. Until something cold suddenly poured right down my long hair, it did not take me to long to realize that it was milk! Eleanora peered over her left shoulder and saw a short girl, having navy long jet hair, she had black round glasses, in an iced-blue cheerleading uniform. Glancing at me and told me, with a so not sweet, oops, ‘my bad’. A grin appeared on her face, and she chuckled and smiled triumphantly, proud of what she did. Eleanora feels the cold dripping of the wet white milk, drip off the ends of my hair and I frowned unhappily. She walked away and joined the rest of her squad and I immediately rose and ran leaving my warm tray of food, to go cold. After that incident, I was chased home by the angriest mob, she had ever seen, it was like something out of a Frankenstein movie where she had felt Eleanora was a monster. When Eleanora got home, she began to sob uncontrobely, feeling the corners of her eyes go wet and the tears slowly falling off my cheeks, about an hour later, my parents found me lying on the floor crying and exhausted. She began to them everything that had happened, at first Eleanora was much too scared to tell her mum and dad what did occur today, but I could not conceal my long agonizing pain another moment. After a few minutes just to calm down, they both wrapped themselves around me soothing and gently told me something that I thought I’d never got to hear, Eleanora, every time those voices shooting out horrible names or laughter, you just say to yourself. “Be yourself, don’t take anything from anyone, and never let them take you alive” Gerard Way, that was my mum’s favourite singer and now that I hear that, it is like a calm breeze the words felt so comforting, it had made me feel warm and quickly I felt safe again, safe to be me once more.

Until one unexpected day, Eleanora’s life was about to transform. About five weeks later, and she had met an assemble of amazing and unique individuals, they were dressed in head to toe in complete black, blanker than anything else, she could barely imagine in her entire life that she, would have ever meet the traditional goths, their big, jet black frizzy hair, their dark makeup with eyeliner, wearing leather jackets, fishnet tights and other styles of leather jackets but with beautiful gothic patches, that are stitched here and there. When I first set my eyes on them, they were the birth of the 70s punk, Eleanora felt so honored and so humbled, the very first person I had talked to was. A boy with short-cut brunette hair and hazel eyes. He raised his left hand and firmly shook mine; his name was Charlie Hardy. We both to smile at each other. Until Eleanora had discovered a remarkably but, familiar face, she was amazed to see that it was, Maire Underwood. She was once a former cheerleader, only for a few years but, since then she has changed. Her life turned around and she threw her icy pompoms to a side and now turned full goth, she was once a cool ice blond but is now a winter jet black. Maire, Charlie and Eleanora soon developed a close friendship, that would last forever. At the beginning I was alone, a lost soul trapped in a very dark place when at last a shimmer of bright light, appeared and I had realized, maybe I am not the only one after all.

About a week later we got invitations written in fake-blood, of course. My heart is thrilled when I got invited by the romantic goths, the romantic is more on the loving side but to me, they were equally as royalty and they were beautiful, but focus and drawn to the dark things of life such as graveyards, the moonlight, ravens and dead roses. It was so kind of them to invite us to the Elm Grove cemetery which was on the outskirts of town. A splendid resting place for the ones that already have passed over, they were our beloved loved ones once. I always found that place very sleepy quiet, where the sky is a blue and pink casting and blending in perfectly as if dawn is setting in, in Mystic. As we went inside past the giant stoned gate, she listened carefully to the rustling in the large pine trees, but as the warm rays of sunlight dimly streamed through the thick dark green leaves, Eleanora and the other goths started strolling along the sandy stony path when we came to abrupt halt. When we spotted up the path, we then saw three silent figures standing with their backs turned toward us, but as we approached them slowly. All three whirl their heads around and stared a boy, he stood at about average height with curly black hair, light indigo eyes and was dressed in a flawless black velvet buttoned loose-fit long-sleeved shirt, black trousers and right, on the shirt is a red diamond brooch on him.

His name is Sean MacBride. He stood casually arms folded, next to him where two other girls, one tall with very long, dark brunette hair but tinted at the bottom where bleached highlights, Ivy Green, she was always in my maths class. Adored in a stunning floor-length hourglass gown which looked exquisite, it even fitted her like a glove it even was in a bloodlust red at the bottom of, is black, too. Across her long, slender neck, a lacy choker with black stones dangling on her glowing skin. But the other girl was much shorter than the other two. Jade Frost, she had the coolest silver eyes, as they resembled as a wolf’s stare, I could just imagine her at this moment, staying up all night and start howling at the moon and not caring when the sun was going to rise, but they were cold and dark and having her black wavy hair flowing under her shoulders, she wore a white long dress with ruffled sleeves. Across Jade’s face was a stunning Colombina Barocco Silver White Masquerade Mask. In the air the wind was picking up a sweet strawberry perfume of roses. I can then feel the curling of late autumn leaves, cutting under at the palms of my hands as they fall one by one off the branches of the rows of old ancient pine trees and weeping willows still looming over us.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Elm Grove cemetery. It gives me such delight to meet you all” said Sean in a charming and pleasant tone. He sounded so courtly like something out of a different century.

Eleanora must have forgotten. It sounded so old fashion. Which she had forget too, that the romantic goths loved gothic poetry, I mean, I cannot blame them for their fondness and affection. Eleanora replies.

“I am really glad to meet you, all as well”. After a few minutes, we all got together, and we all made our way through the giant cemetery. Eleanora could not believe on how beautiful the graveyard looked in autumn. No matter what the day, week, or whatever month it was, Eleanora stroked the ground was soft and green, instantly she saw something long, thin and covered in dirt sprouting above onto the earth.

Which was a worm with muck casing its slender body, it moved around the mud very slowly then in a second it sinks back into the earth. “We’re just about to make some pot of tea” Ivy said with a chuckle.

“What! Come on Ivy isn’t this like our sixth tub of tea already today” said Vlad raising his eyebrow to Ivy, still continued to smile not caring what at all.

“Well, I am sure, that our lovely guests here would love to have some of our warm tea” said Vlad once again crossing his arms back, at that moment Ivy turned to him.

“Oh-why-yes of course, please do excuse me,” said Ivy. So, Ivy walks away and vanishes behind the pines. “I’d just wanted to say, thanks for inviting us to your tea party, it’s just so madly magical,” I said. “We’ve been planning this for a while, we don’t have much time here,” said Vlad, but Vlad's tone was glum as his smile fades. “But we only come here once a year. After, “he paused. “A-after,” trying to get the words out but Vlad cuts her off, "After, the entire cheerleading and football team came and ruined it." Vlad murmured. “It had taken us almost a year to fix this cemetery, we had to skip school trips just to fix this area back together, another whole month to grow back every beautiful flower, of every kind, in this graveyard," Vlad then paused. "But we did get help from the rest of our community,” said Jade abruptly. “I mean what about, the massive oak tree,” said Maire. “Well, that’s the last thing to worry about, as it was never touched. They say that our oak tree is haunted! quite foolish is not it, Vlad laughed. This awful and horrific story started when a frat boy fell of the trail from his group, he had become lost inside the largest forests of Mystic, he walked for miles of trees, tress and tress. When he saw that the moon is full, and a white beamed down on a giant magnificent oak tree.

It was at the centre of the shadowy woods. Swarmed with dark tress, his eyes fixed on the oak like a jewel thief had happened upon a lavishing diamond. He froze. He stared at it almost fascinated, as if he had never seen an oak in his whole life, almost easily being taken by it. It was so far away from the others, as they looked like dark shadows completely sombre. Something about that, oak tree made it stand out from the rest of them. Maybe those faded brown leaves, dipped in blood are blowing through the nippy air, floating in the midnight sky. As he stood for what seemed like an hour, continuing to stare, eyes growing wider. The black eyes expand in the bright light of the moon glistening his sapphire eyes brightly. Until he unstiffens and finally, he would step forward but only for a few inches, though they were large steps forwards. Until he unstiffens and advanced his way past the perennial ryegrass.

That was going to be his biggest mistake. As he got closer to the tree, still eyes wide and locked on its gripping crimson beauty. Then the tall dark trees were swiping of its spindly branches and with the red leaves brushing in the wind, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, then, suddenly moving out his arm forward, and slowly stretching wide his long fingers onto the leaves. When the fingertips touched the leaf, then the brushing, stopped! The gust of the air died down and the night become ghostly quiet, for a moment and the Justin, a honey blonde, hazel eye boy, was not even sure what was going on and he still had his hand on the crimson leaf. Until a very faint. SNAP! The boy spun his head round, but when he did. It was only to a hole of darkness, with the rows of pines wrapping around the thick blackness, soon he had ignored it and turned back to the tree. There it was again. SNAP! It happened again. When he whirled back.  Nothing there. Justin took a deep breath and got focusing back on to the oak, once again. SSNNAPPPPP!!!!! The noise made him jumped out of his skin and he whirled around, there was nothing, only the moonless darkness, but then, Justin heart began to hammer as he tried to stare through the thick blackness of the night. When it became quiet again, he had immediately gone back on over to the oak and with his hand which is still imposed on the blood arrowhead. Everything around him is silent, dead silent, at that moment he become motionless.

Nothing was going to happen. When, a quiet rustling was moving slowly underneath him. He did not look down! instead, keeping his head raised and the eyes gaze on the tree. Completely as if been put under a spell, a powerful force is drawing him near and nearer to the tree! Is somebody or something just waiting for him on the other side. Until something hard and wooden came tugging at the bottom of his jeans, Finally, taking his eyes off, off onto the ground and to his horror! he saw a tree branch, it was curling around the dark denim. Straight away of the boy's eyebrows rose, instantly there is a look of fear. His eyes began to bulge out of its sockets almost about to burst, at that moment he could feel his teeth chattering. Until the thick and heavy branch started up its way onto him and began to crawl slowly up, up and up. Carefully wrapped around his stomach, then making its way up to his strong shoulders and then roping around, his thick neck. The boy wanted to scream but he could not as his throat begin to squeeze tightly around him. His voice became raspy and wheezy, trying to get the any words out. Only the sound of frosty air could be heard from the boy's lips. Abruptly the whole brunch started to pull him up and he popped open his eyes. The night sky was even more divine especially on this midnight. Though the moon shone more on this night on the boy could not escape the horrors he is facing. His heart was still pounding and his body shaking uncontrollably like a leaf, Justin tried to loosen the branch as it snaked around him, but then the wooden grips were just too strong for him. He returned his attention back on the tree and now looking up closer. Every leaf rustled, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. He looked down then, saw, the branchlets extending wide and spreading onward.

He gasped. The tree branches started separating. As it then spread, the entire trunk moved, and he had expected to see a white glow radiation like a glowing portal. After a silent moment, and then the tree suddenly became a statue. Then he felt a slight loosening of the long branch. Justin calmed as he could get some oxygen, however it roped him once again. As my throat feels raspier. Although he can freely move his neck, locked tight in the arm of the branch, and as Justin looked up and there, a hollow pitch darkness, the deepest depths of blackness he could ever stare at. A few minutes nothing happened and feeling scared enough, until. He saw it, something, or somebody in the total darkness, when it emerged. A small figure it lingered forward. Emerging behind the naked branch was a blonde boy Justin squinted his eyes through the darkness, and then, his light brown eyes are shot with fear. Inside the tree, every limb, every leaf but, something else as well. Sitting there, above the boy she looked much older than the young boy, adorned in an electric blue dress. I felt my stomach bubbling up with trembling fear. Then, the boy, began to stand slowly, slowly up, which made my legs go totally ice cold. I feel a cold breeze slip down my spine when he sees his skin. It looked abnormally pale, with dark black rings under them. When he realized at that moment, the boy and the girl, both, had competently, jet black eyes. Justin gulped hard, he could feel the beads of sweat sweep over his forehead and as Justin gazed back. They are glancing right back at him. They caught him gawking at them, at that very second, the girl and boy both then started to smile an unnatural grin on their faces. My heart then dropped. They’re abnormal smiles look cold and dead expression and expressionless, the eyes were looking as if, straight into my soul. Justin made that mistake of taking his eyes off them. Continued to look, until he caught a glimpse at the corner his eye and saw, a glimmer of something sharp and lying there on the branch when instantly, the black eye boy picked it right up, off the leaved branch, no longer invisible. My heart is beating almost out of my chest and that was when, he saw it, that it was of, an axe.

When I took my eyes off the boy and saw that the golden fair-haired girl, sitting there like a queen on the wooden wing treating it as if a throne. With her elegant electric blue day-dress, which looked like a Victorian period, Justin could not see her face entirely since it was in darkness. All the sudden, she leaned forward carefully, and my heart is beating, faster and faster than ever before. Justin’s jaw suddenly dropped when he saw the girl’s lips are stained in. Wet-BLOOD. Blood. The word screamed in my head, as it was dribbling off her. Drip, drip, drip, sprinkling off on the dark grass. Even with my staring at them was not making things better neither, by the hour trying desperately to try and wiggle free but to my failure, I am caught in the spiders’ web. Then the girl stood up too, and my gaze at the fair-haired left arm. Which was behind her back when she did reveal of that of a severed head. At this very moment I wanted to throw up, it was Alexia Bullwinkle, the cheerleaders captain and a good friend was now all limp. Those evil monsters! How could they do this. Justin helplessly stared, but he could not help but stare, looking right at her lifeless head, the strands of chocolate curls falling in the air and her mouth unresponsive, but the tongue was still inside. A flow of red blood running down her dyed pink roots, what scared me at that second was her alluring green eyes. They were a couple of obscure crimson holes, empty, exactly like the boy and the girl were. Did they scoop them out? like it was ice cream, but rather torn as if ripped out entirely, developing the coldest chill up along both of his arms and then, suddenly, coming over towards him. Justin instantly closed his eyes shut and grinded hard on his teeth. In a second the bloody head began to fall slowly out of the solid black eyes of the girl, her pale iced cold hands and the head began to roll, roll down onto the greenery.

Walking confidently down the dim corridor and Eleanora unsurprised of seeing those familiar faces. All grown up, quiet chattering in big groups. Eleanora, the petite flaming red-haired high school student strides down the endless hallway when abruptly, she remembered that it was back at the last twilight. She looks on back that nippy evening when she was at home and it was a full moon night, a good time to heal all the wounds. A perfect time to discover the odd and the peculiar, Eleanora started using for the first time, tarot cards, my mum told me that I should never play with evil but, as she shuffled them around on her table in her bedroom in the dim, she had carefully placed one down and then the next, then the next one after. After a minute of doing this, they started to open a door for her once she began to unfold them. Now that it is the next day and thought back to the ones that she had used the night before, it was laid out in front of her and as predicted, everyone was staring at her.

She was unfazed by their evil stares, gazing at Eleanora like she had done something harmful. I took a deep breath and closed her eyes, for a moment I cracked them back open, then I lifted my head like a powerful Queen when little rays of light are cascading, as though by magic. As if, I am wearing a jewellike crown over my head. However, I only conjured that, in my mind. I mean, Eleanora is indeed the queen and as she kept on strolling through the endless corridors wearing dark velvet, Dolls Kill, high chunky platforms and hanging off them of silver N' cross accents. The echoes of click clanking of heels against the marble flooring and as I am just about to turn the corner, that is when I had, accidently bumped into him. He was around about my age, attends the same high school, too. He was handsomely lanky, his complexion was a ghostly pale, and his hair were jet-black was shoulder-length, which that is unkept, he had those gorgeous lapzil eyes and he was very slim build but not too skinny and instantly I knew at that moment, my heart was skipping a beat, wait! what! My heart fluttering, she did not predict this at all, you will find love when you least not know it, one of the cards stated. I mean, we’ve have been best friends ever since kindergarten, I had just turned seven and he saved me, resecuring her from a group of immature girls, who were hissing and spitting across the sand box and thinking that it was never going to end. Then, someone showed behind the playground swings in high-top red converse came running and jumped into the box deep into the dark yellow sand, and Eleanora saw that it was Jared. I could not think of what ever happened next but, he was my hero.

As the time passed and quickly learned that he too, is a goth exactly like Eleanora! She is indeed a queen after all, since she had found last week that she is to rule a dark reign among the goths. Although needing a king at her side. She finally found her dark angel at last; Eleanora had never given a thought about it, she never had the thought about finding love ever especially with anyone or anybody, she never taken a glance at any smoke hot boys, well, Eleanora did, though they would always turn her down in a minute. It was simply because, she is a red haired or perhaps a ginger and no boys in her school would never go out with a ginger, the other reason was easy, they weren’t interested, and they would probably find Eleanora incredibly boring until now! and as she continued getting ready underneath the big vanity mirror of her red cherry wood dresser. Expecting to see a range of her expensive designer makeup displaying along the red table but surprisingly. A layout of very coloured candles casting long shadows along the walls, in the middle of the table was an old wooden box, of a walnut wood, a rusty golden metal decoration all around it. Inside this crate of abundance of dried herbs, dead flowers in corked glass bottles, crystals such as a bloodstone, lapis lazuli and the essential oils like Lavender. At the bottom of the box was a Raspberry Leaf, then Rosemary directly from my garden. Beside her, a large black makeup bag and as Eleanora began to unzip and withdraw a long onyx eyeshadow brush. As she added an extra layer of smoky eye, smearing across my smooth lips a dark rouge saint Laurent blood-red lipstick, my mouth felt like it is dripping of crimson, so blood licking she thought. As if began burning its beauty consuming from within it against my lips. Over an hour of transformation, she saw back, glancing at my own reflection, Eleanora is astonished, feeling more stunned she could not believe her eyes, on what stared back at her.

Eleanora rose off her soft chair away from full view. Still was in disbelief on how glamorous she was. My light-toned complexion was even lighter, her lips are ruby, the mascara was black and fuller. Eleanora is wearing a sexy long lace, sheer flare sleeves crop top, with a spaghetti black top under it, having a translucent ruffled trim skirt with a skater also placed there. Eleanora’s gloomy glam, of platform punk creepers, with fishnet ankle socks. As she straightens her black leather four-layer collar choker in the mirror. Eleanora admires the long copper hair, in the thick mirror, they pass down her shoulders, curling at the bottom like red rose, when something rather odd happens. A smile came over her face, like the kind you do not ever see from goth girls, some people might say, goths don’t smile well, we do smile. The room completely silent, but all the sudden my cheerful smile is whipped off when a shuddering of a loud, BANG. Made Eleanora jumped out of her skin. When another big, huge, BANG, she started to get a biting chill prickling up along her arms, as she stood there, but then, BANG, she whirled back around to see my wide window, the long curtain blowing slowly.

I feel all my hairs stand up on ends and a cold chill slip up my spine. The crashing was much more aggressive now. Then perceive a cry that was other-worldly, it did not sound human like at all through the thick glass. Finally, Eleanora pulled back the curtain and to her surprise! That it was just a branch hitting against her window and with a cool sigh, and as she went back to the dresser, but she halted. Eleanora heard, another creak but, it was outside her bedroom door, she froze for a second. Then, now, heavy and loud footsteps striding in the darkness. Going boom, boom, boom. A moment of silence fell in the dark room, she tried to remain still and quiet, but her eyes were fixed at her door, rather the doorknob, then she sees the handle turning. Her door then creaked opened. Eleanora's hands began quivering. Eleanora ran fast back to her bed and now, until a big thump, at that moment she could feel her heart exploded, she still froze at beside her bed. Then Eleanora slowly turned back, and the door was open, fully, A small bright light was moving past the open door, and she saw a tall, long black figure. Eleanora squinted her eyes through the darkness, when she was hit with a warmth sense against Eleanora pale skin. When a flame was coming… coming... closer and closer, and then Eleanora’s heart sank.

She looked up quickly and then light formed into a single, white candle a flame and as it lowered below her face, Eleanora feels her cheeks going torrid. Finally! she makes out, who was there and then for an instance, I knew exactly who it is! seeing beyond the draped shadows. That it’s only her older sister, Claire. The candle is luminating her face, glowing up her flawless complexion. She was a princess Arial, long velvet hair, stunning Caribbean blue eyes and a round shape face, Eleanora then noticed that Claire adorned as a Día de Muertos dress, her whole face painted in a sugar skull, she looked spooky-splendid having black fine detail, wearing a perfectly fitted slim KIllstar maxi decelerated dress, Victorian dark lace, the stunning strap detail on the neckline, also matching a modesty lining on the waist, and bust. A pair of shiny pointed toe Stilettos heels and her straight ruby hair was braided and staring at the curls, looking as if like blood-red roses. Eleanora darted to her bedside lamp and switched it on and as the light blared, but not overly bright and the room looked dark, at last Eleanora becomes steady and soon her heart slowly eases.

"What are you doing sitting in the dark?" putting down the candelabra beside the dresser and sat down on the edge of my bed, Eleanora then settled next to her, she crossed her arms and legs. There is a pause between the two sisters and as the silence breaks in.

"I like, sitting in the dark, its more soothing," I said in a low deep tone.

"Oh, okay, that sounds rather pleasant," she said, but Eleanora rolls her eyes.

"Anyways, he should be here soon, I hope he isn't running late," I said with an anxious tone. As I took my eyes off the window, and I stare down to the floor and feeling sombre. Then Eleanora notices her sister puts both of her hands, as they were in a long black glove, she placed them over my shoulder, and I instantly glance up.

"You'll be fine sis, I’m absolutely sure tonight, will be dark and romantic for sure," she said with a reassuring look, and I smiled back at her.

"I think he'll take you over to a creepy cemetery, or maybe, maybe to a forbidden forest and underneath an orange oak tree, you'll have a picnic together. Oh wait. Then make-out in an abandon mansion," she said as we'd both burst out laughing.

"WOW, Okay, this is our very first date, we're not going that fast," I said. But for a long thoughtful moment, I did have a thought about it, it had been playing on my mind all day, what if, he, he does try to kiss me? I then felt a bag of dancing spiders jumping in my stomach. Eleanora picks up her head and starts to feel sombre again.

"Claire," I pause and as Eleanora stared back to her sister. "What if, he tries to kiss me, what should I do, I mean, I’ve never been kissed before I’m just," my throat is feeling croaky.

"Well… If he thinks about moving his move on you, make sure to take a breath afterwards, trust me," she said.

"Although I do not think you should, must worry too much, just enjoy the moment between the two of you, because it will not last, forever. She then added.

Eleanora rose from my bed and walk straight to my dresser. On the table is the gold candle holder, I had noticed that it had with a low flame had not it moved at least, but for over an hour the flame hardly even flinched, it was still against the wind. Then Eleanora goes over the dresser and as she pulled from the bottom draw a small, glass bottle that was labelled and written in very fancy writing on it, inside the bottle is a melted fluent, in a purest gold, Eleanora then removed the cork of the bottle, and then she brings it down towards her lips and took a whole gulp of it, taking every drop of it.

"Is that one of your newest potions, you'd just created?" asked Claire still crossed legged on the bed, but she had unfolded her arms.

"Is that what it called, potions. I mean, isn’t it just, quite strange on how ever since I was just a little girl, I could do all that and even look longing at the moon for hours," I said. Claire did not replay to my unanswered question, instead slips her black laced gloves as they stretched past the elbows.

"I got to admit Eleanora, but I really don't know why, but we would never judge you, Eleanora." she said with a pleasant smile. I took a breath and took a step forward towards the mirror and began staring once again, at the copper gold candle holder, with its tall, wax, candle. Eleanora stare down at it, the huge low flame was even brighter amber, I feel my eyes bore into the small yellow glow, Unexpectedly, the flickering flame began to, move, I nearly jumped out of my skin, and my eyes widen in surprise, when she feels no gust of air in her room.

"What the-," Eleanora stopped mid sentences and placed her hand over her chest. It got even stranger. When my eyes are glued to the red flame like both of my eyes are catching fire, though for some reason, Eleanora lifted her left hand and loomed across from it. Over the wax light I felt a warm heat source off it. Behind it was another white, waxed candle and swiftly as if instructed, they all ignited and sparked on fire! Eleanora jumped back with a loud yelp and quickly pull my hand away.

"What the bloody-hell was that" she exclaimed.

Then abruptly Eleanora and Clair heard somebody running outside the hall and then into her bedroom. She turned to the front door and sees in the doorway is a boy, he was about average height, with carrot top frizzy hair, a round face and light chestnut eyes. He was not wearing a spooky Halloween costume like Claire, which surprised me at first, but instead. In having a plain orange t-shirt, skinny blue jeans and a black beanie. Bill Thornton, he was a skater, going to parks, riding with his skateboard and hanging out with his good friends and always creates a fire blaze along the skating ramp. Eleanora and Claire both looked up at him, then we notice he had a first aid plaster on his nose. "Bill, you’re not wearing your Halloween costume, you’re going to Colby's house tonight for that party,” Claire said. At first, he does not say a word to her, then Eleanora and Claire both exchange glances with Bill, as he slips both of his hands behind the back pockets of his ripped denim jeans and stared down to the floor.

"Don't tell me that they've cancelled on you," she yelled in a trice voice and raised off the bed. She stood up, in front of him.

"Well," he begins with a huge gulp. “David and Scott had grounded for two months, so it seems that I can't go tonight" he admits. Although, me and Claire are after all being sisters, we know that Bill has been up to no good, and are starting to doubt, but I did not know what to expect from my sister and who knows fully-well that they are something odd for this postpone, of the party of Halloween.

"I mean that sounds really odd they're grounded, what is the reasoning for this," Claire's blue eyes creates massive tidal waves. "Is there more to than to this, that I don't know." Her eyes narrow. Bill went flustered. "It's not anything bad, it is just, Max and Colby got into a big fight back at the park today," he said removing his hands from the back pockets.

"What! about?" she asked him. Bill shrugs his shoulders and looks down at the floor once more and as Claire walks up to our troubling brother, with a serious expression and Bill instantly puts down his left hand, Bill's cheeks go quickly icy cold. Eleanora remained herself at her dresser and watching the blazing candle, go dim.

"Alright! Fine! over a packet of cocaine," he said, which caused both of the girls to jaws drop. Was Bill taking drugs? I could not have imagined seeing him take any types of substances, Eleanora has known him all her life and ever since the day she was born into this family and for Bill, doing anything like that. Although, she knows he can get very extremely stressed at school, especially with homework which me and Claire must help him out on sometimes.

"Please, don't tell me, you’ve started taking drugs and those dangerous stuff, if you are, I am telling mum," Claire's eyes get redder. Her face is filled with strong rage. I could see little drops of water pouring down Bill’s worried face.

"No, of course not, but the boys got into a fight as one of David's friends is passing them around to each other, soon Colby felt forced to take one, he turned it down, but they didn't seem to like that," he said sombrely.

"So, everyone got into a big struggle and then Colby punched David's friend, but David was really angary and then hit him across the nose," he continued with, whilst Claire is giving him a look for concern.

"What happened? How where they punished?" Claire then asked.

"I saw that they're grandfather and grandmother walking in the park that afternoon, with the both of them witnessing to it all, eventually confessed about the drugs," Finally. Bill takes a breath and Claire soon relaxed and sighed. Bill was going to binge horror movies all night, eat popcorn, drink gingerroot bear and then go straight to bed. However, mum and dad are going out this evening, but tells them, that dad is staying in. Because he had to catch up on work. Still, mum is heading out with all her friends, all wearing black pointy hats, long witchy black flowering capes, grabbing wooden broom sticks. Flying on over to the witches’ paddle, Eleanora then thought about Claire. Hoping. She was not thinking about going to cancel on her date tonight, there is to be a party too, which I knew and that she had been waiting to go on. Claire had been talking about it, for weeks, Jake Clarkson, her attractive beau. Eleanora certainly hoped that Claire and Jake where still going. Though, in a few minutes hoping and expecting to see, Jared, he was going to pick up Eleanora at any time now, she had been thinking for over than last twenty-four hours thinking nothing but him. It makes my stomach flutter with a million butterflies.

Everything was ghostly-quiet. Claire and Bill departed from her bedroom and Eleanora sitting at the dresser, the chiming of the old grandfather clock, outside in the dim hall. When a voice is calling from the darkness, "EL-ENA-AROA," It was mum, Eleanora then rose quickly. She darted to the door, for a moment. She froze once again; Eleanora felt a swept of fear. Should I be afraid right now, but about what? I mean, this is just a date but, not just any date, it’s her dream date, Jared Donovan, and the night is fast and whatever could happen, but nothing bad was ever going to happen, although. At this moment Eleanora might be thinking this and soon, she will feel the true terror of Halloween. As she is adjusting the silver strap and at last wrapped it around her shoulder.

"Eleanora. He is here," Inna yelled once again.

Eleanora took another deep breath.

"Okay, I’m coming.

I hope you've enjoyed chapter one of my first book. Please comment and like it too, also give me feedback on what was good and excellent about the book or the first chapter and what should I do even better to improve my writing skills which is not totally perfect, not my best as I found it hard to make my spelling and grammar for years now but don't worry I am planning on going back to college to study English spelling and hopefully I'll get ten time better at my creative writing.

#creativity #creative writing #horror #first date

[batsandbeauty]

Why, yes! Both my dress and my mask have the haunted mansion wallpaper pattern!

#blobfest #oops my face

[kyle-dobbs]

Why did people love to eat so much at funerals? It was perverse. Here they were, Tyson six feet under with the dirt they threw on him still fresh, and everybody was tucking in. Bread rolls, roast chicken, Ellen’s three cheese hash brown bake, four different casserole trays including the funeral potatoes. Always with the funeral potatoes. Kyle stared at the congealed mass and wondered if that’s what decomposing flesh looked like. His stomach lurched, never hungry in the best of spirits, but now… now he simply felt like he’d never be hungry again, period.

There were so many people at this funeral, and yet he knew that above all the others, the entire affair was hitting two people the hardest. Dom, his best friend, had been a no-show. And Marlon, Mikey and Joe, from all he knew of them looked pretty fucked up too. But it wasn’t them he was thinking about. His eyes scanned past Cliff talking to the pastor in hushed tones, past his mother talking to some woman dressed in all black.

His eyes settled on the back of a head. The girl’s. He was willing to wager money that of all the people here, the ones having the worst time of it all were his mom and this girl. Angela put on a brave front after the crying at the funeral, now she was here, talking to people to distract herself, talking, moving, doing. The Angie method of healing. She’d been much more distraught at his dad’s funeral or what Kyle remembered of it anyway. Fate picked off one Dobbs man after another, and ironically, perversely, here he still was. Kyle himself was his usual emotionless front, more emotionless than usual because he really had nothing to offer up to anyone. He was witnessing firsthand just how awkward it could be to be the identical twin of the deceased — a twin some people hadn’t even known existed. People dodged his gaze, whispered behind his back. Everywhere he went he could feel eyes poking in the back of his head like Haunted Mansion paintings, so he stopped wandering around the rooms, settled down to sit on the couch instead and hopefully merge with the wallpaper.

And the girl? She seemed to be only half here. Half in the corporal world, half in the other one, probably trying to follow his brother to wherever he had gone. She was very much not okay and what made it more fact for him than speculation as he moved past a gaggle of crying girls (jesus, this motherfucker had fans), was the fact she was like him. Showing no emotion, mostly still. Barely there at all. And funnily enough it was that void that moved him to act.

He got up from the armchair and walked up behind her. He licked his dry lips and leaned in. Then he spoke. He didn’t smile, but everything on his face indicated he just might’ve been about to.

Cut to: several minutes later.

“You wanna step outside for a cigarette?” You’ll start decomposing too if you stay like that, was the unspoken. She seemed to agree, or not disagree at any rate, and they went outside the house. He though back to the church, a church that brought flashbacks of four years ago when he and Tyson were sneaking out of one together, in Illinois right after his overdose.

- - DON’T think about it - -

It was hard not to. So hard.

- - DON’T - -

He knew if he went there he was bound to unravel. To the early memories. To Mr. T. Rex, their beloved and shared, stuffed good boy. To… to… no, he couldn’t do this. Not in front of her. “Wait here,” he warned. He had just about that many words in him before he darted off and disappeared. 

An unexpected shed provided shelter and behind here he dipped. Doubled over on his hands and knees and dry heaved, puking up spittle because there was no food in his guts. Shit, was he really gone? Nothing was ever gonna bring him back one last time? If he thought he felt misery at any point in his life, even while standing atop that crest outside of base… boy that had been nothing. That had been joyous. All his problems had been ones of his own creation. But this… he wasn’t sure if he could handle this. This hadn’t been a mess of his own making, and for once it was something he wanted to undo. It hadn’t hit him when they’d arrived at the cemetery, didn’t hit him when he helped Cliff, Joe, Marlon and uncle Bernie carry his coffin. The weight of it so heavy and yet light. No weight at all. Maybe he’d been dissociating the entire time and only now came back into himself. 

They’d spent half their lives wrestling each other to the ground, like baby cubs. And now nothing, silence, radio gone dead… there was nothing. They’d never do that again. They’d never do anything again. God, he hated feeling. His lungs and heart and chest were ripped clean out of him. He was on an artificial ventilator. He was stranded atop a rooftop in a hurricane, alone. No one there. He was all alone. Now he wanted to die too. He had ALWAYS wanted to die. How was this even fair? He laughed and looked up at the ceiling of the shack, at a cobweb. “You bastard,” he spoke to the heavens, shaking his head, sniffling, smiling, shaking his head some more, laughing and heaving sobs. Laughing and crying and not being normal. Of course he had to take the one thing Kyle had wanted from him. Now he’d have to — gross — live. He had no choice because he was the Only Son now, well one of two, but still, he was the only one borne of the Angela Brown and Johnny Dobbs union, and if he didn’t want to break his mother’s heart he’d have to — yuck — live.

He came out of the shed striding toward her a surprising burst of energy. He loosened his oppressive shirt, the first three buttons on it anyway. “Sorry, aunt Karen pulled me aside for some shit.” He didn’t have an aunt Karen. Maybe by the time all this was said and done though, she wouldn’t notice.

Finally cigarettes were produced and he lit hers, back to not feeling things. Feeling better for his breakdown of earlier, as the story usually went. There were no signs of it on him except for his obscenely red eyes, which had not been a thing moments prior. Maybe she’d notice, maybe she wouldn’t. Who knows.

“So you’re Sasha,” he said, less a question and more of a statement. “I’m Kyle.” He held out his hand in a strange little ritual of hand shake. Humans, they were all so funny from an extraterrestrial point of view. Funny little things. When he shook her hand it really was like shaking the hand of a ghost. Or a vampire. A sad, cold, Victorian child ghost. Has anybody told you babe, that you look like the starving child on the poster for Les Mis? Things probably better left unsaid.

He didn’t have much to offer her. Hell, he probably had the opposite of something to offer her. He was a net negative, a walking reminder of what she lost. Or maybe she was one of those rare people who could actually tell them apart, and knew, looking at Kyle, that he was nothing like Tyson. I’m really not, I swear, he wanted to say in self defense. Only our noses and eyes are alike. The rest was a mixed bag of variables.

“You know how they say you tried one twin, you tried ‘em all? Well that’s actually a lie, so y’know, you ever feel lonely—“ he mimicked a phone with his hand, pinky and pointer fingers stuck out as he flicked his wrist to his ear. Great, your brother isn’t two hours into the ground and you’re hitting on his girlfriend-widow. Good job. Great going, Kyle. Brother of the year. A humanitarian award for you. “Or don’t. It’s your life.” 

You could excuse saying anything in the midst of grieving insanity, right? The tall, sort of fat one he remembered to be Mikey ventured out of the house and asked them for a cigarette, and any awkwardness that lingered in the air dissipated. 

“Not gonna lie, it’s trippy seeing you, man,” Mikey said after a moment. 

“That’s what I say to myself every morning when I look in the mirror.” Mikey acknowledged with a sort of half-laugh, and he didn’t dare look sideways to the short, sad girl next to him. The emptiness radiated from her in a way that made him just want to hug her, but maybe that would be weird. He didn’t even dare touch her. 

#self para #au: dta #ft. sasha #idk what this is #except i wrote it a month and a half ago and now here it is

[2ndstart0ther1ght]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Haunted Mansion Dress.

[tallestsilver]

The Mansion is open and Jack redecorated! What could be better?

#the nightmare before christmas #Haunted Mansion #My Art #disney #tallest silver #Sally #churro #Haunted Mansion Wallpaper Dress #Mickey Ears #my concept art for D23 ensemble #Disneyland #crossover #Haunted Mansion Holiday #Tim Burton #Henry Selick #Halloween #spooky #macabre #gothic #Frankenstein #spoopy #autumn #fall #ragdoll #bone daddy #art

[secretsofblackthornhall]

Emma To Bruce

Dear Bruce,

Oh, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce. You don’t even know (because you are a diary and you never leave the house). I have spent the day among the mundanes. Not just mundanes. Tourists. All things considered, I’ll take the haunted cursed mansion, thanks.

When last I wrote we found out Ghost!Rupert thinks there’s a cursed object in this Herondale house on Curzon Street here in London. After that we have no idea, which is going to be a big problem because ley lines are, you know, lines, so objects could be anywhere along them. But one thing at a time.

It turns out the National Trust operates tours of the Curzon Street house—and I assume some Herondale in the past was smart enough to get rid of, or at least glamour the heck out of, anything too Shadowhuntery there. It’s advertised as being a recreation of a “typical Edwardian home,” which is close enough to the right time period for our purposes. So we got dressed up in mundane costumes—Jules found an excellent vintage Sex Pistols t-shirt in Arthur and Andrew Blackthorn’s Groovy Chambers of Love —and bought tickets for the 2:00 tour the next day.

What we learned from the house tour is that Edwardian décor mostly would look pretty okay in a modern house! It’s light and airy, lots of soft colors, cool patterned fabric, and so on. Oh, and we also learned the Edwardian movement missed Tatiana Blackthorn entirely, since everything about Blackthorn Hall is the very opposite of light and airy. Julian pointed out that she probably left it the way it was when her father died. Whereas I liked the feel of Curzon Street a lot, it was homey. I actually took a photo of some wallpaper and want to ask Tessa if she remembers who made it and, uh, whether they’re still in business I guess. What’s happened to us? We’re renovating a house. I feel so old.

The tour was fine, I guess, lots of detail about eras and maker’s marks and furniture. People asked ridiculous questions—one of the American couples demanded to know where the piano was and when the guide said sorry, no piano, they got angry and told her that all Edwardian homes had a piano so there must be one, and she had to kind of apologize and move on. It was awkward and I did not feel great about the people of my land.

But mostly I was tuned out of all that. The house was interesting enough. Persian carpets everywhere! An ivory chess set! A pewter-clad bathtub! Oh, there was a framed playbill from the time period that was obviously from some Downworlder nightclub, that was kind of cool. But most importantly, none of these were things enchanted by Tatiana.

I spent most of the time looking for anything that made it clear Shadowhunters lived here. The only thing I really saw was that there were a bunch of weapons used for decoration, which the tour guide noted was not appropriate to the period. Of course you and I know, Bruce, that weapons are always appropriate décor. But it’s like Julian always says, sometimes you don’t even need glamours, because mundanes don’t see what they don’t want to see. Like, the tour guide went on and on about a beautiful jadeite sculpture atop one of the mantels and said nobody knew what the shape was meant to represent. And it was obviously meant to be displaying a sword that is long gone.

Anyway we

Oh, wait.

It’s not long gone. I know where it went. It’s on the dressing table on the other side of the room. I can see it from where I’m writing this.

A real chill just went up my spine, thinking of that. At the house today I was thinking about the people who lived there, James Herondale and Cordelia Carstairs, but to be honest I didn’t really feel an emotional connection to them while I was there. Maybe it’s just that all the really personal stuff would have been taken out of the house before it became a museum. But also, just…I didn’t know them. Tessa and Jem did, of course, and Magnus, and heck, maybe some of the other warlocks, I don’t know. But I didn’t, and I never will.

But you know who else knew them? Cortana knew them. I wish I’d brought it with me to the house today. (But nooooo, Julian said only weapons that could be completely concealed. And what if the tour guide had turned out to be an Eidolon demon lying in wait for us? I would have faced it with a bootknife smaller than I’d use to peel an apple with. Though it would have been an Eidolon demon that knew a lot about turn of the century furniture. ANYWAY, we were there to find an object, so let me finish that story.)

We were in one of the spare bedrooms, looking at the scrollwork on the bed or whatever. The tour guide was showing off some of the objects on the bedside tables, and the Sensor went off like crazy.

The tour guide gave us an evil look. “Turn off that phone,” she said to me, and the whole tour group flounced off to another room while I pretended to be trying to find my phone in my extremely ugly waist pack. Jules grabbed the Sensor, and it led us to —  a music-box on the windowsill. A very ugly music box. Well, maybe not ugly. Very overdecorated, just covered in bits and bobs and, like, way too much for a music box. There was a monkey figurine involved. It was a lot. Anyway, it was an excellent example of the mid-Victorian etc etc but also it was an object Tatiana cursed and, I guess, someone liked it enough to find it and bring it back here???

After that it was just a matter of waiting till the tour moved on, glamouring up, grabbing the music box, sneaking back out of there, and hoping nobody who worked there had the Sight. Which they didn’t. So now we have a music box to show Rupert in the morning and ask Tessa about. I hope it wasn’t hers or anything like that. I think of her as having better taste.

Okay, that’s it for now, Bruce. I’m going to go get Cortana so I can reach out and touch it from the bed. Julian always teases me when I do that but tonight it feels right. Catch you later.

Emma

#sobh #secrets of blackthorn hall #cortana #mundanes #emma carstairs #julian blackthorn #shadowhunters #bruce #cassandra clare

[kilesplaysthings]

i made a part 2~ :3

How the Comte Fell in Love with Death

Part 2: The House in the Woods

The rumors were not that far off the mark, apparently. Comte thought as he stared in mild awe at the manor house that loomed before him amidst the shadows of the surrounding forest. It was just as everyone had said: the manor was dark and decrepit with ivy creeping up its walls. The shutters were drawn, the garden and lawn were overgrown with weeds and other dry brush. The front porch steps were broken, paint was chipped everywhere and pillars were rotting through. A feeling of decay emanated from the whole estate.

“Looks abandoned. We sure anybody’s living here?” The coachman asked, shooting his employer a skeptical look.

“That is to be decided,” The Comte said. He gingerly walked through the overgrown lawn and approached the front porch of the house. The place certainly looked like it could be haunted – a far cry from the elegance and opulence of his own mansion.

There was still a door knocker – a rusted thing that peeled at the slightest touch. He used it to knock on the door. Even from outside, he could hear the sound echo through the house inside.

A minute passed. Then another. Comte waited. Others may have chalked the rumors up to being just rumors, that this house was simply an abandoned ruin, but his heightened senses told him no. Someone was here.

Finally he could hear someone shuffling through the house and towards the door. It then opened slightly with quite the audible creaking of old wood and rusted hinges. He could barely glimpse a brown eye peeking warily out at him through the crack.

“Who is it?” A voice whispered.

Comte met the nervous gaze and smiled.

“Is the lady at home?”

He could see the eye narrowing. The door did not open further.

“Who wants to know? Why are you here?”

“I am the Comte de Saint-Germain, and I am here to introduce myself to the lady of the house.”

At that, the door suddenly opened more to the point that he could see the person who had answered him. Standing before him was the bent figure of an older woman. She was dressed in the black dress and cap that signified she was a housekeeper. Her face was pale and wrinkled, lines of care etched on her forehead and around her mouth and eyes. She glowered at him, but the Comte’s sixth sense could tell she was not a cruel person.

“How did you know that a lady lives here? Are you here to nose around like all the other busybodies that have come ghost hunting?” She asked sharply.

“Believe me, I am not here to snoop or pry. I only wish to meet her.”

The housekeeper stared at him warily. Then she tilted her head.

“Hm. You don’t seem to be like the others. That’s all you want to do? Meet her?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“You’re not some investigator or reporter trying to catch a story for a paper or anything?”

“No,” he said firmly. “I have no sinister intentions.”

She took a deep breath. “Come in. I’ll see if she will agree to meet you.”

He thanked her. The door opened wider for him and he stepped inside to the foyer. The house was a little tidier on the inside than on the outside, but everything was dark; quite dark. The widows were shuttered and the curtains drawn. The only light was from a small fire in the nearby fireplace. In the dim light, he could perceive a few pieces of furniture covered over by sheets. They cast shadows on the walls and he could glimpse peeling wallpaper as he looked around.

“Forgive the lack of proper light or furniture, but I’m only one housekeeper. And as you can see, we aren’t accustomed to entertaining guests.”

Comte shook his head graciously. “Do not worry. I’m happy to be standing after a long carriage ride.”

“Is that right? Well, you can warm yourself by the fire while you wait. I’m sure you must be chilled if it’s as cold out there as it is in this drafty house.” She remarked. “I won’t be long.”

And with that, she lit a candle that she took from a candle holder on the mantlepiece and made her way up the shadowy staircase. It wasn’t long before her black dress faded into the darkness and out of his sight.

The house was so quiet to the point that he could hear the rustling of her skirts and her footsteps upon the wooden floor from above. As he warmed his hands, he listened to her walking to the far left until she suddenly stopped. He then heard her quietly knocking on a door before opening it.

He took a deep breath and stared into the small fire. He wondered if the housekeeper had only just lit it now for him. Looking around, he could tell that everything was dark and dank and dusty. He couldn’t imagine any lady living like this. Not only that, he could also sense something hovering in the air. It was something oppressive and foreboding. No doubt it had to do with the lady that he had come to see. He had to do something about her.

Soon, he could once again hear the housekeeper upon the stairs. Glancing her way, he spotted her on the stair, five steps above him. She peered down at him in the light of the flickering fire, still holding the lit candle.

“She’ll see you,” she said quietly.

“Thank you. After you,” he replied.

With a sniff, the lady turned and led him upstairs. The corridor on the second floor was even darker than the foyer, for there was no fire to guide their way. Even someone like him had to keep his eyes on the candle held by the lady in front of him to see. As he walked down the hall with the housekeeper, he felt an overwhelming sense of sympathy for this lady who lived here. To be so ostracized from the world, with only one companion, dwelling in the dark; how lonely she must be! The more he thought about her situation, the more eager he was to meet her.

The two of them stopped at a door near the end of the hall. The housekeeper opened the door and signaled him to follow her inside. They were in what seemed to be a bedroom suite. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was dimly lit. The shutters were open for the windows to let in a little bit of sunlight that shone through faded curtains. There were still sheets covering all of the furniture, but the area had definite signs of cleanliness unlike the rest of the house.

“Give me a minute,” the older lady said as she set the candle down on a nearby mantlepiece.

She then tugged the sheets off of a table and two chairs and invited him to be seated. As he sat down, he watched her go over to a door at the far end of the room and quietly knock on it. Comte assumed it led to the lady’s bedroom. A soft voice spoke and the housekeeper quickly entered the inner room. As he sat there, he could hear two women’s voices speaking softly to one another. Suddenly the door opened again.

A lady dressed all in black stepped out of the room. Her pale face was barely visible behind a veil of black lace and even her hands were covered by black gloves. She slowly approached him, walking with a natural grace that almost looked like she glided across the floor. Comte watched her, standing up politely to greet her. They made quite the pair: a figure all dressed in golds facing a figure all dressed in black.

“Rebecca says you wished to meet me,” she spoke in a soft voice.

“Yes, and it’s a pleasure. I am known as the Comte de Saint-Germain.”

She stretched out a gloved hand to invite him to sit back down. He could feel her watching him even though he couldn’t see her eyes very well.

“A Comte, is it? May I ask the reason for this visit, Sir? I don’t get many visitors, as you can guess. At least, none of the good kind."

"I have no particular reason. I just wished to meet you.”

The lady in black sighed. “You’ve heard all of the rumors, haven’t you?”

“I will not lie to you. I have heard one or two.”

“No doubt people claim I’m some evil spirit who haunts this place that curses anyone who tries to get a glimpse of me,” was her snide remark.

“I have heard something of the like, but it wasn’t because they said you were a ghost that I came here. I knew for a fact that you weren’t a ghost.”

There was a pause.

“You knew, did you? How?”

“May I ask this first? Are the other rumors true that you kill any living thing you touch?”

Another pause. The housekeeper, who was bringing in some tea, gave the lady a nervous glance.

“Did you come for a show? Is that why you’re here?” She asked in a low voice.

“Not exactly.”

“Because there’s nothing here I can show you. I’m not some trained monkey from a circus who will do a trick for a reward.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Comte answered quietly.

“I could do it, you know. One touch from me, and you’d be dead.”

She was threatening him, no doubt to scare him away. He merely smiled at her serenely.

“That’s what I came to talk to you about, actually. How long have you had this, shall we say, ability?”

“How long?” She repeated, confused.

“Yes. You weren’t born with this ability, I’m sure.”

“No…” She spoke in a hushed voice. “I was not…” Shaking hands took hold of her teacup. Comte watched her as she lifted her veil slightly to bring the cup to her pale lips.

“I’m curious about another thing. Pardon my rudeness, but how old are you?”

She hesitated. “One and twenty.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And how long have you been one and twenty?”

“Look here, just what are you getting at?” Rebecca, the housekeeper, interjected defensively.

“I assure you, I mean your lady no harm.” He continued to speak calmly and softly. “I’m here because I suspected foul play on your lady’s behalf and now that I’ve met her, I can definitely sense something dark hovering around her.” He glanced at the veiled lady across from him.

“And I want to help you.”

“Help me? How could you help me?” She wondered despairingly.

“You want to know how I got like this? Fine, I’ll tell you! It was a witch! She cursed me and tormented me and my family! We were all alone, cut off from the rest of society, and she preyed on us like a beast. I don’t know why she hated me, but she put this curse on me and made my life a living hell!

‘Your family will abandon you and the world will hate you. You shall no longer be able to enjoy the caresses from loved ones, for you will take their life!’ And ever since then, from that cursed autumn in 1612, I’ve been like this.”

She gripped her teacup and bowed her head. Comte could see her shoulders quivering.

“I was fine with it at first, completely focused on staying away from people so I wouldn’t kill anyone or be attacked by anyone. But that witch also cursed me with a long life and eventually, cutting myself off from everyone and everything became… so lonely. If not for Rebecca, I feel I would have gone mad.”

“My lady…” The housekeeper uttered softly, tears in her eyes.

“I have been through many hardships. I have lost almost everything. How exactly do you think you can help me?” She continued, gazing at her guest, now more bewildered than angry.

“So it was a witch?” Comte muttered to himself. He took a deep breath and spoke to her in a firm voice.

“I will help you find the one who cursed you.”

The ladies gasped.

“How? It was so long ago, and she’s a witch! Even if she’s still alive, how do you think you’ll be able to find her? And even if you do, what would you be able to do about her?”

“Do not fret. I have my ways.” He suddenly smiled. “You are a human than has been cursed severely. But I am not a mere human.”

The Comte stood tall and strong. He gazed at the lady with gleaming eyes.

“I knew there was something odd about you..” Rebecca whispered. “I said as much to her before you came up here..”

“I will reiterate, I mean no harm,” Comte said to the nervous Rebecca. The lady, on the other hand, sat in her chair unmoving. Whether she was scared or not, he wasn’t quite sure.

“Perhaps it is not my business, but I am very fond of humans and I do not like to see their lives toyed with like this. I have heard your plight and I want to help you. Will you come with me?”

“Come with you?” She quietly repeated. “To where?”

“I have a mansion. It is located not too far from here. It is well furnished and well kept, unlike this run-down house. I am inviting you to stay there. If you agree, I promise you, you will be well-cared for. You will want for nothing, and I will protect you.”

“You..!” Rebecca wanted to speak, but she found that she couldn’t think of the right words to say.

“Why should I come with you?” The lady demanded. She had set her teacup down and her gloved hands clutched the skirts of her dress.

“Are you trying to play the Good Samaritan? I don’t care who or what you are. I don’t need your pity!”

“It is true. My heart does pity you. It aches for you. To be so alone, all these years…”

Comte spoke in a low voice, and as he spoke, he approached her slowly.

“W-what are you..? Sir! You must take care!” Rebecca exclaimed as he walked towards the seated woman. She was about to dart over and grab his arm, but with one sharp glance from him, she froze.

He walked around the table to the lady’s chair and the lady in question stayed rooted to her seat. She knew if she made any quick movements, she could accidentally touch either one of them and they would die. Suddenly, with a dart of his arm, he gripped the back of her chair and leaned down until his face was leveled with hers.

The lady gasped in shock. “You’re too close!” She hissed.

“Tell me,” Comte murmured. “What is your name?”

His other hand held a teaspoon and he lifted it to her veil. It slipped in between the lacy fabric and he used the spoon to lift it up until her face was revealed. He was now gazing upon a pale, heart-shaped face that was petite and fair, with prominent cheekbones and a celestial nose. Long lashes framed a pair of wide eyes of a most unusual color: crimson.

She was beautiful.

“What..?” She muttered. He had asked her a question, but it hadn’t registered.

“Your name, Cherie. What is your name?” His voice was low and smooth; soft and beckoning. It was easy to be entranced by him.

“It is…Sabrina.”

“Sabrina.” He tested her name on his tongue. He liked the way it sounded.

“Quite beautiful. Like your eyes. Such beautiful eyes – the color of blood.”

A surprising faint blush appeared on her pale cheeks as he spoke. He was so close to her, but she still could not move or take her gaze off of his own golden eyes.

“Sir, please!” Rebecca finally exclaimed, frightened for her mistress. “Please be mindful of my lady’s boundaries! For your sake and hers!”

He finally broke his piercing gaze and straightened back up to look at the housekeeper.

“My apologies if I frightened you both. What I said, I said in earnest. I do wish to help you. You need not fear me.” He stepped away from the table and chairs and both ladies let out shaky breaths.

“I will show myself out. If I may be so bold, please consider my invitation Miss Sabrina. I won’t force you to make up your mind right away, but I will be back to visit. I look forward to seeing you again.”

And with a smile, he opened the door and left, making his way downstairs in the dark and back outside.

Rebecca heaved a sigh and leaned against the empty chair. “What an odd fellow. He doesn’t seem vicious, but he said he wasn’t exactly human… I can’t help but worry. Wouldn’t you agree, my lady?” She asked as her mistress slowly got up and stared out of one of the windows. It faced the back of the house, overlooking nothing but weeds and the forest beyond. She couldn’t see the man leave, but she heard the carriage ride away.

She placed a shaking hand against the window pane and stared bleakly out to the trees beyond. His invitation was sincere, she could tell. The thought of leaving this old house filled her with hope, but at the same time, she had no idea who this Comte really was. Could she truly trust him?

#ikevam #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevam comte #ikevam fanfic

[thegrimgrinningorganist-archives]

((ooc: Okay ya'll it's time to put your thinking mickey ears on and your listening mouse ears on too because it's time for a guessing game: Did anyone notice that no fucking complained about Hosty being in the Streching room before the inside of the manor got updated?

I'm asking this because I notice after the update of the inside of the manor out of the clear blue someone bitched about Hosty appearing hanging there if you put all puzzles in places ya'll I think I saw lots of Karens/Kents a mile a fucking away that didn't like the new inside of the wallpaper of the manor and we're upset that we're the original was gone.

So probably what happened was a bunch of Karens/Kents threaten Disney to get Ghost Host remove due to over the new look/new wallpaper of the Haunted Mansion which is pretty fucking stupid. Who agrees with me on this? Remember the post I made about Hosty getting removed by Disney?Yeah that propably what happened.

I mean let's just say for an example a Karen or a Kent decide to threaten Disney to remove Hatbox Ghost because they we're disturbed his head in the hatbox when his head appeared in there?Lots of people would ON THE INTERNET would have a pissy fit of who said that basically these Karens/Kents get mad over the dumbest things that shouldn't get mad over.They enjoy getting a target on their backs don't they?But for Halloween of 2021 I'm gonna dress up as him and have a custom skeleton of him hanging outside to trigger the Karens/Kents because we're born with 0 brain cells!

But I really didn't notice this until after the update of the new inside of the manor. So this makes lots of scence now to me because if you look at the original wallpaper.... This post here on instagram:

And the new wallpaper of of the manor and update...... BINGO!Karens/Kents got into a childish fit because the original wallpaper of the manor was removed!So they go upset and went into a fury of blood massacre looking for the manger but couldn't find them so the species of Karens/Kents so they threaten Disney to remove Hosty in the Streching Room!

WHO AGREES ME WITH ME ON THIS?!I certainly do!))

#haunted mansion #disney #the haunted mansion #disneyland #disney haunted mansion #ooc post #mun spooky post #mun spooks post #mun spooks #mun spooky #ghost host #the ghost host #Instagram

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Yet the Light Refused To Die

Whispers from the intersection between worlds are a strange thing. They are soft and enticing, yet alien, and quick to breed fear.

The fear of death.

The sun that mankind praises casts a long shadow. Most look to the bright light and the vibrant colors that it illuminates. And they turn their backs on the shadow, fearful of that which they cannot see. Like the air of a graveyard, and the dust that collects in abandoned places, such whispers are not death itself, but its quiet heralds.

Shouting and even thinking loudly works well enough to drown them out. To deny that creeping reminder of the inexorable cycle of life and death, the final destination of every mortal's road. The madness of life is filled with distractions, of fleeting moments that occupy human thought. As such, only rare individuals can hear whispers from beyond the grave. Among them, even fewer pause… and listen.

When most do hear the whispers, they question their sanity or close off their minds. Not so, a young girl aged merely fifteen winters. Magdalene heard those whispers and has always listened. Understood.

And sometimes, she even answered.

Connected to the essence of dust and shadow itself, death spoke only in those sibilant sighs.

Magdalene feared not death. Many she had known now gone, taken by age, disease, war, famine, and murder. From a young age on, the specters of death always haunted her.

So much so, that she never really questioned the strange or inexplicable. She never struggled to accept things that others would deny, even when only the implausible remained the alternative.

Where one might think they had displaced a trinket in an empty room that no other living soul had entered since, the girl already knew at a delicate age that something else had moved the trinket.

One year prior to the dire straits she now found herself in, a young man had threatened her life. With little understanding of such ephemeral forces as sorcery, she called upon the power of disembodied spirits that refused to move on. To help kill that man before he could kill her.

Not because she feared for her life. No, she had summoned those ghosts because she had feared that he would escape justice; the just desserts he should have faced for slaying so many before her. More importantly, because she felt guilty; she felt like his killings were her responsibility, as his obsession with her had led him to commit such atrocities.

As a wee girl, she had always found it confusing when others could not see those figures at which cats hissed, or hear their whispers where wind swept through cold and forgotten places. Sometimes, she would awaken, with blood lining her fingernails, and a shadow standing in the corner of her room, watching and looming.

Not all of them were evil. Not in the way most people meant it when they used that loaded word.

More than once, driven by a desire to punish the wicked and deserving, she had called upon the spirits of the lost. They always answered. As if they recognized and served anyone who could sense their presence—and pay them the proper amount of attention.

Undeterred by those chilling gasps that lingered like memories of lives lost, she would sometimes speak with them when not in the company of the living; when removed from the company of those who would question her sanity, if only they saw her speaking to empty corners and cold spots where common eyes could only perceive that dust and shadow.

She would ask them what they remembered.

Not all of them retained their memory. For some of them, the shreds of who they once were just made no sense; perhaps as misremembered identities bled into one another, leading to eternal confusion and endless, aimless wandering between the worlds.

Some of them got angry and blew out candles or slammed doors shut. One even cracked every mirror and window of a room after becoming enraged. Others bore dark obsession in their whispers, attempting to sway her with deception, hoping to merge with her and do unbelievable things if only they had a body once again.

Beyond death, they all shared one thing in common. All of them feared what lies beyond the thin veil between worlds. Though none of them ever answered:

Why?

Yes. Why, asked the necromancers of yore, were they so afraid of moving on?

A mystery that never concerned Magdalene. When it was finally her time to go there, she would find out herself. Exposure to death had inured her to the fears that it brought. She welcomed it, just like she did her best to warmly embrace the cold presence of the disembodied dead.

What curdled her blood now was something else entirely. A debilitating helplessness, spawned by her current predicament, and a crippling fear of failure.

More than that, though, Magdalene feared the absence of the whispers.

For the first time since she had noticed their presence, they were gone. Leaving only a deafening silence in their wake.

Rope chafed against her tied wrists, resting on the clothed tabletop in front of her. Her captors had made a mockery of setting the dinner table, haphazardly tossing cutlery and empty plates in front of them before going off to ransack Bennet mansion.

Her captors must have worked some sort of sorcery that she could no longer sense any phantoms. And likely, she feared, the things that dwelt in the intersection between worlds no longer heard her, either. Where her role model wielded sword and pistol to hunt and combat the evils of this world, Magdalene's communion with the spirits were her blade and bullet.

And as her frail body was weak, that absence rendered her more helpless and meeker than ever before.

Jenny Fisher's nostrils flared with a shuddering sigh. Her fellow captive—a thief and swindler, a grown woman she had met only this very day—sat to her left. Bound as she, mouth also crudely gagged with silk napkins from Lord Bennet's belongings.

Their eyes met.

Jenny's eyes glistened, wet and red, yet she had not succumbed to tears. Fear gripped her, perhaps, fears of fates worse than death, perhaps. A quiet despair, maybe. But no tears.

Their captors had left them alone. Not like there was much of anything they could do to get away with bound wrists and ankles and gagged thus.

The question of the absence occupied Magdalene most. A mystery that she wanted to solve. And its solution may yet prove key to their escape from this awful predicament. She would not leave Jenny Fisher alone or to any dread fate that may await her in the clutches of these scoundrels.

The whispers had told her that Jenny was important. The phantoms sometimes knew things that humans did not. Saw futures that had yet to unfold. Understanding why was never that interesting to Magdalene. Much more tantalizing was the lacking explanations as to why Jenny had a significant role to play in their conjoined fates. The spirits often would not—or could not—provide any conclusive answers.

Jenny's eyes now darted to and fro, the swindler's mind likely hatching one fruitless escape plan after another. Magdalene, on the other hand, harbored no hopes of escape. Not until she solved this mystery.

Boots thumped upstairs. The rogues searched, conversed, sometimes argued; always muffled through layers of carpet and floors and wallpaper and walls. Claws scraped against hardwood in Bennet's halls. Inhuman growls resounded from where those claws scratched and tore fabric, eerily twisting handles and opening doors with an intelligence that exceeded that of mere beasts.

Just like Magdalene conversed with spirits, the leader of these robbers consorted with unclean creatures. Fentin McLachlan, he had named himself. A name that sent chills running down Magdalene's spine, even just thinking about it.

Could he be her missing uncle? The one her mother had shied from ever speaking about after father's demise?

Did calling otherworldly powers simply run in their family's blood? More than anything, the prospect of damnation frightened Magdalene. She suspected dark things to be awaiting her at the end of her road, a balance for her meddling with these forces. And what might await one as this Fentin McLachlan, who summoned these awful creatures that manifested in flesh and blood, with bat wings and claws, and too many eyes, and slavering maws?

She had read of them in the book in Nora's cabin. Eerie sketches inked upon yellowed pages and documented in the occult writings of the Bestiarium Nox. As far as the long-dead authors were concerned, these things all shared a simple name.

Demons.

Jenny's breath shortened and she trained her eyes on the entrance to the opulent dining hall, past the chaos and disarray that the robbers had left in their hasty search.

Maggie followed her gaze. The thundering and thumping of boots neared. The men dragged something. Something that thudded against another something, cascading into something else—something ceramic, perhaps—shattering upon impact.

The three men entered. Two of them dragged the body of Lord Bennet. Blood stained the late lord's face, having flown from now emptied eye sockets. His corpse flopped against the end of the dinner table where they tossed him, breaking a wine glass under a lifeless arm smashing down.

Magdalene winced. The shrill sound of shattering rang almost as painfully as their blatant disregard for the dead.

Fentin grinned triumphantly, displaying a set of eerily white and perfect teeth. His eyes glinted with a fierce and cold air. Like staring into a shark's eyes.

He sauntered past the bound women, carrying a bottle of wine in one hand, and a large wheel of cheese in the other. The buckled boots on his feet, baggy pants, and dirty shirts underneath his wet long coat, altogether lent him the air of a pirate. A strange sight, so far inland, and so close to King Michael III's castle.

The other two men dressed in similar attires. A cutlass clattered on the table as one of them took a seat across from Magdalene, leering at her and Jenny until he cocked his head back, and chugged several greedy gulps from a bottle of hard liquor.

The third man slammed down a stack of old tomes, causing some of the nearby plates to bounce under the impact. The top books slid from the stack, fanning out. They all looked old and the leatherbound cover on one of them featured strange symbols.

Magick symbols.

Blood from Bennet's gouged eye sockets and other lacerations upon his person slowly seeped into the tablecloth. A deep crimson blot grew at a snail's pace, creeping down the length of the table as the dead lord's lifeblood drenched it.

When Magdalene met gazes with Jenny again, she read a mixture of despair and defiance in the woman's eyes. Her nostrils flared again, with a snort of frustration. And fury.

The pirate captain poured himself a glass of wine. Then he carved some cheese from the wheel, using a vicious-looking knife from his belt. Boots thumped again, glass clinked—he swung his feet up onto the table as he slouched into what was likely once Lord Bennet's chair, holding the wine glass in one hand, and a hunk of cheese in the other.

He sampled the creamy treat and shot Magdalene a smirk as he chewed, studying the faces of their two living captives, sloshing the wine around in his glass before taking a thirsty swig.

One of the other men guffawed, grabbing their attention.

"We keepin' them alive for some pleasure before the business?" the guffawing man asked. He sounded different from the leader. Like he had grown up in the city of Crimsonport.

"Keep it in yer pants," replied the captain in his thick northern accent. "These ladies are a little bit too interestin' to give them the usual rough treatment. Besides, Mister Witts. I don't like to damage the product, especially not when they can earn us some good coin overseas. Ya don't think very far do ya? S'that why they used ta call ya Witless Witts?"

Magdalene almost expected a retort. Even an angry glare. But "Witless" Mister Witts' face contorted to reflect the mien of a beaten dog.

The chair creaked underneath the pirate captain's weight as he shifted. He pointed the cheese in his hand at Maggie and said, "This one especially. You're a very interesting little lady, aren't ya?"

Magdalene offered no response. She just met his gaze. Studied his features. Every gesture carried an air of constant calculation. Everything he said aimed to provoke reactions, allowing him to probe the depths of the people in front of him.

And not a single trace of mercy or goodness lurked behind the mask of his eerily familiar visage. This she sensed.

He washed down the cheese with another sip of wine, then growled, "Remove their gags, Mister Hoskins. It's time for the ladies to talk."

The third pirate, Hoskins, had never sat down. He had been hovering behind Jenny and Magdalene, leaning against a cupboard in wait. First, he removed the cloth from Maggie's mouth, then from Jenny. Maggie made no sound, nor did she put up any fight. She simply welcomed the cool air upon her gums.

Jenny also displayed no resistance, but she rolled her jaw to stave off the ache of having the napkin stuffed in there for so long.

"Please, sir," Jenny immediately rattled away. "I'm sure we can work something out. I'm sure we—"

She stopped. The shark-eyed captain shushed her, tapping his lips with a finger.

"I'll admit," he said. "I didn't deem you very interesting at first, but you are a bit of an enigma, Miss—"

"Lady Amelia Hanbury," Jenny Fisher lied, correcting him. She spoke with such confidence and authority that Magdalene intuited how long she had been using this identity as a mask in front of Lord Bennet.

He asked her, "You don't really know what Bennet was up to, eh?"

This must have caught her off-guard. The fast-talking thief remained silent.

In lieu of any answer, the pirate captain's mouth twitched. His lips curled into a devious smile, and he pointed to the stack of books that Hoskins had dumped onto the table.

"Member of a little occult society that calls 'emselves the 'God's Hand'. Bunch o' mystics and mountebanks that dabble in the secret arts, practicing in the shadow of the aristocracy wherever the inquisition can't cast their prying gaze."

Nobody interrupted him when he paused, savoring his ruminations as much as the expensive import wine lingering on his tongue.

"Mighty close to the king's castle, don't ya think?"

He chuckled and sniffed his wine.

Witless Witts leaned over the table, closer to Magdalene. His lips smacked as he chewed on jerky, which took longer than usual, partly owed to some of his missing teeth. He radiated utter contempt.

Magdalene spoke, "So you sought Lord Bennet's library, for secrets it holds. Secrets common folk do not comprehend." She meant to ask, but it rolled out in her monotone. She, too, studied Fentin's face for a reaction.

He smirked again. Pointed two fingers at her. Kept his eyes locked onto hers. There was something magnetic about his gaze. Something unnatural. It slowly peeled away layers of the world around her and froze her into place. Some form of wicked sorcery.

"See, Miss Hanbury. That lass sittin' next to ya—she's a bright one. Quick on the uptake."

"Please, Mister McLachlan, I am begging you," Jenny-not-Hanbury said. "If you tell us what you want, I promise I will help you as long as you don't harm the girl—"

"Name," he said.

"What?"

He had never taken his eyes off Magdalene.

"Your name. Names hold power. And power is what I take. Give me your name."

Ignoring her bondage, Jenny leaned over and hissed at her, "You don't have to answer hi—"

"Magdalene," Magdalene said. "Magdalene McLachlan."

His lips parted and the air about him shifted. He masked a stronger reaction from surfacing.

"Little Maggie," the syllables playfully rolled out. He clicked his tongue. "You prolly don't remember me, but I remember seein' you as a wee lass."

He held out a hand flat by his side, low. Never breaking eye contact. Never blinking.

Shark eyes.

"About yea tall, you were. I knew I remembered your big brown doe eyes. Color me surprised that my useless fuck of a brother's loins produced such a clever girl. But you're not looking too healthy. All skin and bones. What is that prick been feedin' ya?"

He licked his lips, took his feet off the table, and downed the remaining contents of his wine glass in one shot.

"Father is dead," she said. The sentiment flashed in her eyes, finally eliciting a more tangible reaction from him: his eyes widened, even if only subtly so.

"Mister McLachlan, sir," Jenny interrupted them. "I do not mean to interrupt this, uh, touching family reunion of yours, but I would like to stress that there is no need to keep us helpless women tied up like this. It's barbaric, and I swear—upon all that is holy—that—"

"I don't give a rat's ass about anything holy. I commune with powers from beyond this world," Fentin "Shark-Eyes" McLachlan dismissed her, casting a sidelong glance at Jenny.

Witless Witts stifled an awkward giggle. It died in his throat, but he could barely contain his excitement. Hoskins also audibly shifted his weight again.

The rest of the mansion had fallen deathly silent. But the demons—the creatures they had seen earlier—they still lurked, somewhere out there, just out of sight. But far from being out of Magdalene's mind.

"I will not beat around the bush," Jenny said.

Hoskins repeated the last word and chortled behind them.

"We are at your mercy, and I don't care whom I have to swear any oaths to, I only vow to do as you tell me, as long as that guarantees that Maggie and I are not harmed."

She sighed deeply. Her words carved through the air with expertise, timed just before anybody could respond again.

"I will be absolutely honest with you," she said. The lies came so naturally from her mouth and felt like silk brushing softly over skin. The way she spoke transformed a bit more by the end of every sentence.

A different accent emerged. It sounded more like it stemmed from the fog-strangled streets of Crimsonport's lower city wards, blended with foreigners and sporting a hint of the northern accent to match Fentin McLachlan's own. For a split second, Maggie wondered if this was Jenny's real manner of speaking.

"My real name is Marie Cook. I am nobody of grand standing, I am merely someone who was lookin' to make some quick coin off o' Lord Bennet."

She shot a nervous glance in the round, met by arched brows and befuddlement all around, then she flashed an uncannily confident smile before she continued to keep the ball rolling.

"You gents seem to be working somethin'. Somethin' lucrative. I can smell good game seven miles 'gainst the wind, and I know that Lord Bennet's riches can't be the end-all be-all of it, yeah? It's gotta be a bigger score awaitin' you lot here in the Hold, innit?"

Witless Witts guffawed again and slapped the table.

"She's a smart one too, eh cap'n? Yeah, woman. We are gettin' mighty close to the king's—"

"Shut your stupid fuckin' hole," Shark-Eyes growled at Witts. He then sneered at Jenny. "And you must think I am balmy on the crumpet, ya thievin' strumpet. Fuck off."

Witts shrugged and shuddered, growing nervous, then he chugged more liquor.

"I am not stupid, woman. I know you're anglin' for somethin'. Your kind always does. No, we have no use for you and yer yappin'."

"I am also adept at forgin' papers and paintin's, and—oh, even blowin' glass," Jenny quipped, rounded off with a smirk and a playful wink that projected a growing air confidence, which stood in stark contrast with how they had bound her to a chair like Maggie.

The dread captain's lips were wet with wine and oozed a deviousness as they curled into a smirk of his own.

"Where we are headed, what we are doin'—you'd need a much stronger stomach than I fathom you've got, Miss Cook. If that's even your real name. You'd need to be willin' to pact with powers beyond ken. And I don't particularly sense a familiarity with the preternatural on you. How long have ya been here in Bennet's home, oblivious to the treasures he and his ilk are sittin' on?"

"I don't know, but I know enough to know that you are far more clever than you let on. You are far more educated than a man of your station ought to normally be. You are a man who defies conventions, and I am a woman who maneuvers outside of 'em."

The pirate captain awaited more.

He replied, "Unless you're willin' to sell your soul to strange powers, to commune with things from other worlds, Miss Cook, then I have no fuckin' use for ya."

Maggie's attention bounced back and forth between them, like watching a duel of wits. Jenny narrowed her eyes at Fentin.

"Aren't ya afraid of the wrath of God, toyin' with forces o' the devil like that?"

Another smirk from Shark-Eyes. Never blinking.

"In truth, there are no gods nor devils in this world. Those are words that small-minded men have used to make sense of things that resist definition."

A sweeping gesture between Witts and Hoskins segued to his next speech, "These fearless men here are willin' to do what it takes to grasp and embrace such power. They are not blinded by crusty old traditions."

"Hear hear," Witts said, raising his bottle in a crude toast.

"Which takes me to the most interestin' person sittin' at this very here table," Shark-Eyes concluded. Locking eyes with Maggie again. "My dear wee niece, hell forbid I would have expected to ever meet ya again, but here we are. And I want to know what you know. Where ya learned your sorcery from. You summoned a fuckin' psychopomp. I know some necromancy, but that shite is unheard of. Ripped ten sturdy men to pieces without so much as a fuckin' warnin'. If I hadn't had some sigil to deal with our fanged friends gettin' unruly, we would have had an even more serious problem on our hands."

Maggie took a deep breath and swallowed the lump in her throat. Stayed calm. Nora had taught her to stay calm in the face of monsters. They always fed upon fear. No need to feed them. No need to lend them power.

"No need to share," she said. "You will kill me anyway—just sooner, if I tell you."

Fentin glowered at her. Struggled to conceal another sneer.

"I had a look at your bags, lass. Found some interestin' reagents in there. Satchels of dust, I'm guessin' from gravestone and bones and pig iron? No writin'. How long have you been practicing? You're so bloody young."

Maggie clenched her lips shut. They formed a thin white line upon her already pale face. Jenny's gaze burnt upon her, but she maintained eye contact with her evil uncle.

"Can't be too long that you're at it. I suspect you're a little bit more intuitive, aren't ya? Wouldn't be a surprise, it's gotta run in the family," he said.

Feeding the sinking feeling in Maggie's stomach, he might deduce more as time went on, even if she stayed silent.

"You and I are not that different, lass. People like us are like doorways. We are vessels for the darkness, as it slowly makes its way into this world. Takes root and grows. Now is the age of darkness, Maggie. The age for it to engulf the world—and transfigure it."

His gaze.

His gaze was truly paralyzing. Rooted in magick. Some power he worked; some demonic power, it suffused his gaze. Could he read surface thoughts? Could he corrupt minds and control weak minds? She dreaded all the possibilities.

"Things like vampyria, wolf-men, fiendish abominations—all real, as you well know if you're workin' necromancy. You should embrace it if you do have that preternatural awareness that so many people lack. Not resist."

Jenny scoffed. She interrupted him, earning a fiery glare from Shark-Eyes. "I know what I saw. Those—things. They were quite real, and if you had told me about 'em just a few days prior, I woulda laughed at ya and said you were out o' your bloody mind. But how much of this is superstition, how much is real?"

Everybody stared at the swindling thief. The confidence in her countenance crumbled.

"What?"

Shark-Eyes bared his teeth again in a hideous, wicked grin.

"All of it, woman. All of it. You're in the presence of experts, folk who have sliced through the shite of obliviousness with blades of knowin'."

Ignoring her again, he said to Maggie, "You and I could accomplish great things. You must hear whispers."

A shiver shook her spine and blood ran cold in her veins. Colder than Bennet's blood, still soaking the tablecloth beside them.

"I, too, hear whispers. They are probably different from the ones you heed. The ones you hear, they come from a place where our kind goes to rot and sleep forever."

Shark-Eyes lost his cool in that moment. The fervor gripped him; droplets of spittle sprayed from his mouth as he whipped himself up into a fevered frenzy with his own speech. He pointed to the ceiling, but all people present knew that he pointed to the stars.

"They are the opposite. The ones I hear, they come from a place between the celestial bodies in the heavens. They are not remembered by the livin', they are the forgotten ones. They have slept long enough, and they stir in their slumber. They ready to awaken. And we can be the heralds of the new age. God-kings that erect our own, new empires on top o' the ruins of an already forsaken world. Have you not felt how the nights grow longer each year? The winters colder? The fog thicker?"

The hairs upon Maggie's nape bristled. She knew what he said was true. Or at the very least, it was one of the few things he genuinely believed in.

"Yes," Maggie said. Nodding slowly. "I admit, our connection to such forces is not that different. But you and I are very different people. We may share blood, and perhaps even madness. Yet I would never join you in your pursuit. I have friends who hunt your kind—"

"My kind? What is that supposed to mean?"

"Monster."

Uncle and niece glared at each other. Murder in both their eyes.

His voice quaked with cold, seething anger, "And what fuckin' friends? Where are they now?"

She kept silent.

The glass in his hand cracked under the growing pressure of his fist clenching around it. Jenny gasped, and even as much as she pretended to stay calm, Maggie shuddered when the glass exploded into a rain of brilliant shards and wine. Fentin slammed his palm onto the tabletop, leaving a red handprint, where blood and wine admixed.

He spat, "It's those fuckin' hunters from the city, isn't it? It's that Merry fuckin' bandit ponce, Johnn Von Brandt. Isn't it?"

Then, with another, more violent slap that caused all cutlery and plates and glasses to rattle, he yelled at the top of his lungs, "I will kill 'em all!"

Jenny's nostrils flared again as she forced herself to display calm, and Maggie shared the same inner struggle.

"Mister McLachlan, sir," Jenny spoke up. Her voice trembled, likely more than she preferred to project. "I have a sudden and dire need to make use o' the restrooms. If you would be so kind to untie me now?"

He thrust out an index finger, pointing it at her face. Blood dripped from his hand.

"Aggressive mimicry, Miss Cook. I have sailed many seas and heard many tales of creatures strange and distant, from all around the world. I have heard of predators that pose as prey, of true wolves that don the sheep's wool and wait until the bigger wolf turns inattentive—then strikes."

"What?"

"I'm sayin' that you can soil your undergarments for all I care. Reckon I already told ya. I am not fuckin' stupid."

"Please, sir. I sense you are not that barbaric. Have one of your fuckin' men escort me, or both for all I care. Hell, I'll piss right in front of 'em, I swear. No funny business."

He began picking glass shards from his hand, not flinching even once. Displaying the same detached coldness that guised the fiery hot rage he had just displayed at his own mention of Johnn Von Brandt.

"Fine. You are right. I am no savage."

He smirked. Nodded at Hoskins.

The pirate standing behind Jenny stepped away from the wall and began working the knots to release her. He knelt to free her legs, then moved to release her hands from the simple bindings made of coarse rope.

"Thank you. Despite what you may be thinkin' right now, I believe we'll find a great way to cooperate in the future," Jenny said, rubbing her wrists as she rose.

She stifled a gasp as Hoskins forcefully grabbed her by the arm.

"Fuck off," Fentin said without looking up.

While Hoskins dragged Jenny out of the room, the captain continued plucking out piece by piece and dropping the bloodied little shards of glass onto the plate before him with soft little clinks.

Clink. Clink.

Several heartbeats after Jenny and Hoskins had left the dining room, and the muffled voices of them reached the chamber from a distance, Shark-Eyes said without looking up, "I have dabbled in necromancy myself, lass. I could learn a thing or two from ya. And you could learn a lot from me. We are not limited to crusty old traditions. We can walk as many roads as we please. How did you call upon a psychopomp, I wonder?"

Maggie squinted and refrained from admitting anything. Nor did she want to revisit the moments of desperation when she first called upon the messengers of death.

"The first necromancers spoke the language of the dead. And contrary to common misconception, they never commanded the dead directly. They bargained with 'em. Where man defies fear of death by embracing the illusion of life, the necromancers defy the illusion. They embrace their fears, and in doing so, understand."

Clink. Clink.

Maggie finally spoke up with a question of her own, "What have you done? Why can I not hear the whispers?"

Another cruel grin marked his face and rested there. He needed not even look up to instill dread upon Maggie in doing so, focused still on removing the last shards from his hand.

"Thorathoth. Zhaal," he hissed, maintaining that grin all the while.

Click. Scrape. Scratch. Click.

Things approached unseen, lurking in the corridors just outside the dining room. Witless Witts' face turned white as a sheet. Claws heralded the creatures nearing.

A set of sharp black talons slid around the corner of the doorway. A hideous head poked inside. Dozens of eyes, like those of an insect or a spider, stared empty into the chamber. The blood drained from Maggie's face as she saw herself reflected in those eyes—too many eyes—and not a shred of humanity, not an ounce of mercy in them.

As it prowled into the room, four bat-like wings furled closely around its lithe body, it made only few sounds. Even Witless Witts inhaled sharply, masking a gasp. Even the pirates in Shark-Eyes' company must have felt fear in the presence of these abominations.

Following the first, another crept inside, ducking through the doorway. Its two heads looked almost like pyramids, with no eyes to see but slavering maws. Its four equine legs stepped silently, and its claws rhythmically opened and closed, as if ready to slash necks and rend human flesh at the drop of a hat.

"I'm sure your moment of glory was born of desperation. My path was the same. I was willin' to sell my soul to survive in this dark world of man, this forsaken world. It is doomed, ya know? Whether we do anythin' about it or not. We can only choose to be the angels of its destruction and rebirth, or to perish alongside the rest of the apes. I chose to stand a cut above the rest of regular men. And they responded."

Clink. The last glass shard landed on the plate. Shark-Eyes folded his hands before him. His voice had fully calmed again.

"I believe not in God nor devil. The things here, the things I speak with—their whispers—I know they are not 'demons', but somethin' else entirely."

The creatures remained conspicuously silent.

Thumping. Footsteps neared. Witts arched a brow as they closed in on the dining room.

Hoskins shoved Jenny through the doorway. She stumbled, tripped, fell to the floor but caught herself. Looked up at the two creatures flanking the entrance as they studied her. One with too many eyes, the other somehow sensing her with no eyes whatsoever. Dark mucus dripped from its fangs and the lustful way it inhaled caused Maggie to shudder.

"The bitch was tryin' somethin' funny," Hoskins said.

"Funny what?" Shark-Eyes snarled.

Hoskins crouched down next to Jenny, grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back, eliciting a sharp cry of pain.

"Talked me into closin' the door but a crack, then tried climbin' out the window. You are not as clever as ya think," he sneered into her ear. And with a wicked smile, looking up at Maggie to lock eyes with her. "And leavin' the girl to us, no less. What was it you were sayin', again?"

The creature with too many eyes hissed. Even though nothing about it looked even remotely serpentine, it emitted sounds like a rattlesnake. From where exactly on its horrendous form, Maggie could not discern.

"She might be cleverer yet than you think, ya dumb shit," Shark-Eyes said, tilting his head. The constant grins and smirks faded from his face, and he glowered at Hoskins with displeasure. "Zhaal here tells me that she set fire up there. And you are goin' to go right back up there and put it out now, aren't ya? Too many books in this fuckin' house that Bennet probably did not keep hidden in plain sight."

Everybody paused, frozen.

Eyes closed; Jenny smiled to herself. Maggie almost cracked a smile of her own.

"Go," Fentin growled at Hoskins.

His underling scrambled off.

The pirate captain sighed and nodded his head at the door, shooting Witts a glance.

"You too, help him. Prove to me you aren't as witless as the name, Witts. Earn your keep and earn that power ye've been promised."

Witts nodded slowly, then with more zest. He quickly got up and stormed out of the room. Leaving Jenny and Maggie alone with Shark-Eyes and the two demons.

Bound as her hands were in front of her, they allowed Maggie still to fold her hands. Like the legs of a spider, her thin fingers interlocked and clasped.

Like praying hands before her.

She focused and released the powers she had gathered in weeks past. Spells she had studied and meditated over for countless, sleepless hours, to the point of exhaustion. Unleashing forces that would fan the flames and feed them with pure essence.

Her own essence.

Maggie spoke, "Tell me, uncle dearest. You know as well as I that our kind can make fire—or make it grow. But do you know of any way for magick to put it out?"

She narrowed her eyes and could not help but smile at him like a cat. Like a cat playing with its food.

His face fell through various stages of frowning until it turned into a hideous grimace, contorting with boiling rage.

Maggie said, "Even if I cannot hear the whispers, I can still wield other forms of thaumaturgy."

"We truly are of the same blood," he snapped. "Are we not?"

The smile already gone, embracing the darkness she harbored in her heart, Maggie said, "Touched by shadow, and touching it." And in a whisper, "Always."

Shouts echoed from elsewhere in the mansion. Hoskins and Witts struggled to quench the growing fire. Jenny had started it, but Maggie's spell had rendered it unstoppable.

She almost jumped up in her chair—Fentin slammed the table with his bloodied fist, leaving another vermillion print. He thrust out another finger at her. Swallowed a remark.

The chair behind him went flying away as he flew into a rage, storming out of the dining room. His footsteps thudded, heavy with fury. He growled at the two demons.

"Watch them. If they run—kill 'em."

Maggie's chin crinkled. She refused to let him get away with this.

Undeterred by the looming threat, Jenny made her way to Maggie and started untying her.

The creatures did not leap. They started inching, creeping closer.

"I will distract them, and you make a run for it," Jenny whispered, so faint that a mouse would have sounded louder, so close that Maggie felt her breath upon her skin more than she heard her.

Her dainty and dexterous fingers trembled as they swiftly untied the knots binding Maggie's hands together—and froze in place.

"We hear you," said Zhaal. Its mouth did not move, but its voice sliced through the air, calm and menacing.

"We understand you," said Thorathoth. It had no eyes to watch, but Maggie felt watched by it.

Jenny started slipping the ropes out of the knots even faster. Clearly not her first time working with rope, but Maggie perished the thought.

The creatures crept closer, four clawed feet each that touched the ground and emitted only subtle little clicks and scraping sounds, drowned out by the rising cacophony outside, caused by three men struggling to put out a raging fire that now threatened to devour Bennet's mansion—and all his precious occult books.

"He is right, you know," said Zhaal. Its many eyes never blinked, like Fentin's. Cold, dark red. Evil.

"We are not so different," said Thorathoth. Its claws cut through the tablecloth as it took the long way round.

Maggie had no time to register the sensation of finally being released from her bonds. Jenny rose to her side and hugged the girl close to herself. More to comfort herself than protect her, probably, but a hint of selflessness hid beneath that cloak of self-preservation. The woman's head whipped back and forth, trying to keep eyes on both the creatures as they encircled them.

"The one you call God does not love you," said Zhaal.

Said Thorathoth, "He has abandoned you. Forsaken your world. But we—"

"We love you," whispered Zhaal.

"We love your world," breathed Thorathoth.

Maggie began whispering.

Incantations.

The occult words spilled out of her mouth. Jenny looked at her with growing dread.

Maggie knew the risks. If this went wrong, she would draw something far worse than these creatures into her world. Something ancient. Something beyond good and evil, something that could swallow thousands of souls in an instant and with little hesitation to annihilate another world in its wake.

But the monsters crept closer. And the whispers—they had told her that this Jenny was important. Even in their absence, she deigned to heed their warnings. Follow their prophetic call.

"We are but shadows of our true selves, stirring in our slumber," said Zhaal, having crept so close that the monster could pounce.

Its claws dug into the floor, like daggers piercing thick oriental carpets with ease and boring into the wooden boards underneath.

"We love your world so much, we wish to fully awaken in it," said Thorathoth, sounding raspier.

Hungrier.

The closer it got, the taller it looked. The greater the shadows it cast. As if it grew with each step, now towering over Jenny and Maggie.

"A valiant effort to banish us," said Zhaal.

"But we are not your enemy," said Thorathoth.

Their claws spread, poised to strike. Ready to slaughter.

"We are your salvation," said Zhaal.

The maws of its two heads opened wide, with spittle dripping from long, sharp fangs.

"We are the future," whispered Thorathoth.

"Inevitable," hissed both.

Inhuman, deafening shrieks left a ringing in Maggie's ears as both monstrosities lunged at them, then retreated several steps, hissing and snarling like feral beasts. The creatures reeled, as if having struck an invisible barrier.

All pretenses of playing nicely had dropped. The slavering beasts now growled and roared, staying just close enough that they could kill as soon as Maggie's spell even so much as waned.

She glowed. With an otherworldly light. Some would have called it a halo, but all definitions are cheap in the realm of the incomprehensible. Maggie could see her bright emanations in the reflections upon Zhaal's many horrid eyes.

"Stay close to me," she murmured, voice trembling.

She felt weak. It ate at away her very being. It taxed her so much. But it worked.

For now.

Jenny gripped the girl with great force, bracing her and keeping her from stumbling even as Maggie's knees buckled.

"Move," Maggie said. Then she shrieked at Zhaal, "Move!"

Jenny took the cue, stepping forward with Maggie, clutching the girl close to her bosom as they advanced. The creature retreated by the same measure. Defiant of abandoning its master's orders, but incapable of piercing that barrier, no matter how sharp its claws, no matter how deep it could cut into human flesh.

Jenny shuddered as Maggie uttered more words of power. They spilled forth from the girl's mouth—like pure instinct given sound. She did not even understand them, serving only as a conduit for something else.

The alien words stopped flowing from her mouth, followed by another shout, "Move!"

Jenny advanced with her, craning her neck to look behind them as Thorathoth followed, the two demonic predators staying as close as they could in defiance of whatever force kept them at bay.

The woman holding Maggie gritted her teeth and drew upon her final reserves of courage. Maggie felt it shining brightly, like a bonfire suddenly set ablaze. The light about her matched its incandescence.

They advanced more steps, and Zhaal shrieked again. Furiously.

Pained. It retreated more than an equal number of steps, suffering terrible agony. Its gnarled and blackened skin sizzled like drops of vitriolic acid landing on wood. The creature's form cringed, rearing back more and more and eventually—reluctantly—allowing them to pass.

The two backed out of the dining room, facing the two demons. The creatures followed every step. Both burned with malice.

"Whether or not you join us, we shall awaken," Zhaal snarled.

"Whether or not you live or perish, we shall outlast," Thorathoth growled.

"We shall rise," they hissed in unison.

Though fear still wracked her visage, Jenny barked at the creatures, "Fuck off!"

She backed away further with Maggie, cautious step by incredulous step, shoving the girl behind her but still holding her close, wary that the demons might tear them to shreds at any given moment. She understood not how any of this magick worked, acting purely on instinct.

Maggie clasped her hands together. Like praying hands. She had long stopped praying to the one the church called God, but now, more than ever, at the end of her wit, and possibly the end of their luck, they needed a miracle.

She needed the strength to work one last spell.

To break whatever kept the whispers at bay. The whispers—their only hope of egress from these monsters. And from the raging fire. The biting sting of smoke began to creep through the corridors, as Bennet mansion turned into a living hell, populated with monsters to match.

To escape from Shark-Eyes and his smoldering wrath.

"Every door your kind opens," said Zhaal, prowling after them like a wildcat.

"Every path your people pave," said Thorathoth, spreading its arms as if welcoming them for a deadly embrace.

"We come closer to our awakening," they said in unison.

And with that, the miracle happened. Coming from the most unlikely place. The creatures lent her the insight she needed.

Maggie imagined a corridor. A narrow, meandering hole. A place of fog and living darkness. Where the whispers reigned. Where the spirits swirled like mists. A place where the veil was weakest. A bridge between all worlds that ever were, and all worlds that ever would be.

Like these demons somehow entered the human world, so did the spirits somehow. And now, she needed to use that same road to escape.

"There," Maggie gasped.

She unclasped her hands and tugged at Jenny's arm. Pointed to a nearby door.

Jenny must have recognized it, confused over how such a useless room may grant them escape. But she trusted Maggie's directions, left with no other options in the face of such deadly horrors.

The woman ripped the door to the kitchen open but froze upon seeing what lay beyond it.

Went slack jawed.

There was no kitchen there, but a yawning darkness. A narrow corridor, roughly hewn into stone. Mists roiled in a deep and infinite, coiling passageway. Inhuman shrieks of spirits reached them from deep within.

And whispers.

The hair on Maggie's nape bristled once more. Not with fear, but an excited solace.

This—this was their salvation. A dark embrace that would grant them escape. Yet a pit of great peril itself.

She swallowed the growing lump in her throat, worried more about Jenny than herself.

"We must enter," she told the woman.

"What? No. What is that?"

"We must enter," Maggie sighed, growing weak, slumping against Jenny's grip.

Darkness encroached from all sides upon the field of her vision. A deep sleep threatened to overwhelm her. And she dreaded the thought of losing consciousness, of this spell of hers ending, and exposing them to the mercy of the claws and fangs of Zhaal and Thorathoth, the demons that still followed, only two steps away at bay. Or worse: to the mercy of Fentin "Shark-Eyes" McLachlan.

The swindler propped her up and groaned, "No! Alright. Fuck!"

Jenny clamped her eyes shut and plunged the two of them into the depths of that corridor.

Light engulfed them.

The demons refused to follow. Consciousness slipped further and further away from Maggie. The deeper Jenny carried her—eventually truly carrying the anemic girl in her surprisingly strong arms—the mists of this impossible corridor swallowed all sounds. Jenny's shoes created no echoes, as if she walked upon thin air.

And perhaps she did.

Even as the whispers gave Maggie comfort, the spirits here were anything but benevolent. The terror in Jenny's face justified, for if the spell ended prematurely, the entities here would claim them. Swallow them whole. Sever their ghosts from their bodies, making them disappear from their world in an instant, never to be seen again.

Only the light that shone from Maggie, mysterious, and bright, and warm, guided the way. Allowed Jenny to carry her deeper and deeper down the corridor.

A speck of light appeared at the end of this infinite and reality-defying hallway. Bennet's mansion had long disappeared behind them, molten into the pool of darkness, taking with it the dread pirate and his demons—Maggie glimpsed as much as she fought to keep her eyelids open.

Spirits all around them yearned to feast on their life force.

To drink their memories and fool themselves into thinking these were the lives they had lost, distorted through the confusion that grew with each passing moment in the intersection between worlds. More afraid than living mortals of the afterlife, whatever it truly was.

A place that bled outwards, seeping, and soaking the fabric of what humanity considered to be… reality. A growing wound.

Only the faerie light that shone from Maggie kept all these hungry, angry, confused spirits at bay.

Eventually, the girl fully slipped from consciousness, long before Jenny even reached the end of the corridor.

Yet the light refused to die.

—Submitted by Wratts

#spoospasu #spookyspaghettisundae #horror #short story #writing #my writing #literature #spooky #fiction #submission #Gothic #Gothic horror #gaslight romance #dark fantasy #Crimsonport #Red Coast #Magdalene McLachlan #Jenny Rivers #Shark-Eyes #Nora Morrissey #Johnn Von Brandt #whisper #ghost #spirit #phantom #specter #haunting #haunted #necromancy #thaumaturgy

[matteryder]

I posted 91 times in 2021

20 posts created (22%)

71 posts reblogged (78%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 3.5 posts.

I added 23 tags in 2021

#writing - 4 posts

#aesthetic - 3 posts

#cute animals - 2 posts

#nature - 2 posts

#funny - 2 posts

#writrblr - 2 posts

#my poem - 2 posts

#poemsbyme - 2 posts

#poems on tumblr - 2 posts

#storiesbyme - 2 posts

Longest Tag: 85 characters

#sunset sky beautiful pretty sky nature nature aesthetic colours. pretty colours

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

The Phone Call

📷

( This is my first time writing something so dark and suspenseful, so please be nice!)

I knew I was making a mistake when I picked up the phone. My hands started shaking when I saw my dead best-friend's name flashing on the screen. How was it even possible? I thought that her family had buried it along with her, and yet here i was getting a call from her at one thirty in the morning. At first my mind went to the group of school bullys and their insensitive pranks, but even they weren't heartless enough to do something like this. I put the phone to my ear," He-Hello?" I said in a quivering voice very unlike my own. I heard erratic breathing on the other side of the line," HELP! HELP! THIS ISN'T FUNNY ANYMORE!" As soon as i heard this my mouth ran dry and my hair stood on end. It was my late best-friend, Cara's voice, and she sounded exactly like she did on that night. It was followed by a high pitched scream and then the call disconnected.

I got out of bed and got dressed as soon as i could. I had a million questions in my mind, and i could think of only one place where i could possibly find some answers. I sneaked out of the house and drove to the famous Marianne Mansion at the edge of a cliff. it was old, torn down and supposedly haunted. I went inside and called out Cara's name but obviously to no avail. I went deeper into the mansion. All this while my heart was hammering in my chest and i could hear every step i took.

When i didn't find anyone or anything in the mansion, I let out a sigh of relief. I went outside and was about to get inside the car when I heard my name being called out. I turned around but didn't see anyone. it was almost as if the wind itself called me. i don't know what came over me in that moment but I went to the absolute edge of the cliff and what I saw was something that I will never forget.

There she was, in the same outfit as that night. looking more lively than ever. " Why, Sam? Why?" was all she said. " It wasn't my fault! It was supposed to be a silly prank. It was never supposed to go this far. It was just a challenge by the bullys, Cara. Please, Forgive me" My voice was muffled by my sobs and my vision became blurry. I knelt to the ground. " It was never them, Sam. It was you. All you." she said with a smile and everything went black. I woke up the next morning in the same place, surrounded by my parents and the cops.

Now, I am stuck in this mental asylum. ' Cara's death has taken a toll on her' they said. ' It is for your own good' they said. I tried explaining to them what actually happened that night , but no one believed me . No one except Cara.

-Matte Ryder

7 notes • Posted 2021-06-14 06:44:11 GMT

#4

Forever the girl that gets excited when the sky is in pretty colours. 😍😍

8 notes • Posted 2021-06-27 13:57:11 GMT

#3

I'm officially single again!!🥳🥳I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders n i'm happy!!!😁😁

9 notes • Posted 2021-09-21 19:05:25 GMT

#2

Dark academia, space n raven claw aesthetic

(Not mine, found it on Pinterest n now it’s my wallpaper)

17 notes • Posted 2021-10-18 04:43:09 GMT

#1

Starcrossed Lovers

Since one hundred births and finally we meet

what a shame it is through a screen

Nevertheless we met, this is something i'll never forget

Something that has made me extraordinary....to have met my soul the part that parted when the gods were jealous of my happiness

After eons of misery and pain we finally reunite it's gods' play indeed cuz it's a happy ending

Well stories that are happy have indeed not ended

But there's still hope cuz all's well that ends well

The gods will rise to part us again we shall find peace in these moments we've been blessed with.....the ones where we are like a body with eight limbs united for this bleak period of time

We strive everyday, for a happy ending

but what can mere mortals do when divine powers are at play.....

This is a piece my lovely friend @bleehhhhgirl and I co-wrote. Hope u enjoy:)))))

33 notes • Posted 2021-09-15 16:57:00 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

[postmodern-ghost]

I once dreamed that some friends and I found an abandoned mansion. We crept in and looked around, before finding a small porcelain doll only the size of my palm.

She had black hair and small red lips still perfectly painted, but the lace of her dress was dingy and tattered.

“I’ll give you a tour,” she offered, “but you must carry me since I cannot walk far.”

We wandered dimly lit hallways filled with paintings covered in sheets, peeking into rooms of ornate furniture gone to rot. Play rooms with torn wallpaper and bird nests in the toy chests. Ballrooms that sparkled from floors filled with broken glass. Libraries dusty and smelling of mold. Vines crept into each room.

The doll told us of the old inhabitants and their lives. I don’t remember their stories. There were so many. The doll had lived in the house for a long time.

Finally, the night was done and we had reached the grand front door again. “Put me in your pocket and take me with you. Let me live in your house and see your lives. It is so lonely here,” she said. It seemed such a sad place to live, so I agreed.

A friend sighed and warned that you shouldn’t listen to haunted objects, but you never listen to good advice in dreams.

#weird dreams #abandoned #crumbling mansions #beauty in decay #haunted #creepy dolls #dolls #ruins #moodboard #spooky

[mma3youf]

FA222 ,principles of graphic design:

Instructor: mr.munwar mukhtar

@uob-funoon @mnwrzmn

Project 1 : design

Covering up the Cracks: The Return of Wallpaper

How artists from Édouard Vuillard to Dorothea Tanning and Kehinde Wiley used wallpaper in their work

Forget fragrant roses and honeysuckle. Forget soft-throated songbirds and sunflowers. I always see spiders in wallpaper. My eyes trace the patterns, searching them out, those crooked arachnids. The mere hint of one turns my stomach. Look: there’s one! Tarantula-black, wriggling through that ivy-blossom, crouching behind those camellias. See its distended abdomen, those unwieldy legs?

What this says about me, I don’t want to know, but spiders also spring to mind whenever I think of a certain painting by Édouard Vuillard. Interior, Mother and Sister of the Artist (1893) is a most peculiar work, wrought with invisible tensions. The manner in which Vuillard configures his mother and sister hints at a curious dynamic, one more commonly imagined between a spider and a fly. Here is Madame Vuillard, a throbbing black presence, legs set wide apart, hands placed defiantly on her knees in as dominant and sinister a pose as she can muster. To the left, Vuillard’s sister, Marie (or Mimi as she was known within the family), looks as if she is being engulfed by the wallpaper. Or is she already trapped? Can you hear the frantic buzzing as she struggles to escape? It’s almost unbearable. Marie is ensnared; it’s as if Madame Vuillard has forced her into a web. The awkward angle at which Vuillard composes his picture fosters this tension. Somehow, the artist seems to suggest, maman is driving her daughter into dangerous territory.

Or is she? Is Vuillard really attempting to convey that his mother is pushing his sister not only to the limits of physical space, but also of sanity? Although the narrative is not explicit, Vuillard painted several similar portraits of his mother and sister that imply domestic disharmony. In The Door Ajar (1891), for example, Marie appears alone, this time peering into a room as if she wants simultaneously to enter and retreat. Marie’s dress and the wallpaper are barely distinguishable from one another: the maggoty yellow pattern of the latter insidiously overlaps with the strange crescent moons of the former to suggest … what exactly? Is Marie, once again, being pushed in to the web of the wallpaper? Or is something else at play? Could Vuillard be trying to capture some deep-seated predisposition in his sister? Perhaps, psychologically speaking, Marie wants to entwine herself with the background of life. As in Interior, Mother and Sister of the Artist, rather than being pushed out of the room by maman, Marie is perhaps choosing to contort her body so as to escape? Whatever the case, for Vuillard, wallpaper is never simply decorative. Loaded with narratives, in the artist’s hands it becomes a metaphor for the divide between physical and psychological space, between inner and outer realities.

A little less than 100 years after Vuillard completed Interior, Mother and Sister of the Artist, a young woman on the east coast of America took a series of photographs, ‘Space2, Providence, Rhode Island’ (1976–77), one of which could stand as a companion piece to his painting. An eerie connection exists between the two works, a conversation of sorts across the decades. Here is the image of another young woman who appears to want to escape and who uses wallpaper as the means by which to do so. Unlike Marie, however, who is the subject of her brother’s narrative, the woman in this photograph is most definitely the author of her own disappearance. Using strips of paper to cover her face, breasts and legs, Francesca Woodman attempts to take herself out of the photographs she so carefully constructs. Like wallpaper itself, with its repeating patterns and shapes, the desire to remove herself from the picture occurs throughout Woodman’s work.

In other self-portraits, Woodman crouches beneath a tilted door, disappears through a wall, merges with mirrors, windows and fireplaces. She is a ghost light, a will-’o-the-wisp, a haze and a blur; present only in her absence, a non sequitur made physical. Indeed, looking every bit like Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland (1865), with her long blonde hair, floor-length skirts and black pumps, Woodman seems desperate to slip beyond the here and now, to use every available surface in order to vanish – not into Wonderland, but towards some other dimension. Ironically, much like the Cheshire Cat whose smile lingers long after the rest of his body has disappeared, by highlighting herself in the act of vanishing, Woodman’s spectral presence grows ever more compelling. Who is this beguiling figure dedicated to both evading and haunting? The answer is never clear. In fact, the nearest we come to it might be the manner of the photographer’s death. In 1981, at the age of 22, Woodman took her own life by jumping out of a window.

Appearance and disappearance. Repeating patterns and shapes. Integration and disintegration. A year before Vuillard completed Interior, Mother and Sister of the Artist, a novel was published in America that foreshadowed it. The Yellow Wallpaper (1892) by Charlotte Perkins Gilman takes as its subject the agonizing mental decline of an unnamed narrator who has just given birth. Confined by her husband to an upstairs nursery with bars at the window, the woman is advised to empty her mind and do nothing but rest. Instead, she begins to tell us about her predicament. Having been deprived of any mental stimulation, she begins to believe she has seen glimpses of a woman trapped behind the room’s sickly yellow wallpaper. As a metaphor for the morbidly restrictive society into which 19th-century, middle-class women were born, The Yellow Wallpaper is highly effective; on a psychological level, it is unsurpassed. As with the walls in Vuillard’s painting, the paper crawls with meaning; the narrator projects her fears onto its ‘bloated curves and flourishes’, its ‘sprawling flamboyant patterns’ and ‘wallowing seaweeds’ until, finally, they take on a life of their own and begin to seep through the paper in the shape of a deranged ‘other’. The wallpaper, in other words, has become a reproduction of what is playing out in the narrator’s misshapen psyche.

It is hard to think of Gilman’s work without being reminded of that doyen of the 19th-century British arts and crafts movement, William Morris. The intricate wallpapers and textile designs he created for Victorian homes could easily have graced the room in which Gilman’s narrator was incarcerated. This made American artist Kehinde Wiley’s first UK museum solo show, ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’, at William Morris Gallery in London earlier this year more than a little intriguing. ‘The Yellow Wallpaper is something that has haunted me for years,’ Wiley says of the novella in a short film about the making of this work. ‘The idea of being in a room and not being taken seriously.’ This is not something that can be said of the six black women and two children Wiley met on the streets of east London, whose strikingly beautiful portraits filled the exhibition. Whether sitting or standing, whether their faces turn away or directly look out, each sitter is centre stage. More than that, each is engaged in a serious dialogue with the background patterns from which they emerge. These patterns are based on Morris’s own wallpaper designs that would have papered the walls of mansions inhabited by, among others, former slave-traders and plantation owners. In doing so, Wiley’s work plays on the conflict between the sinister history embedded in the prettiest detailing and the self-possessed women who emerge from the patterns, who seem to defy anyone to repeat it.

Lindsey Mendick, ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’, 2020, installation detail, Eastside Projects,Birmingham. Courtesy: the artist and Eastside Projects; photograph: Stuart Whipps

Coincidentally, artist and sculptor Lindsey Mendick’s exhibition at Eastside Projects in Birmingham earlier this year was also titled ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’. Featuring untitled videos, ceramics and miniatures, the show pivots on a disturbing episode in the artist’s life when, during a nervous breakdown in 2006, Mendick glanced from her bedroom window to see six men dressed in black, walking up and down the street speaking into walkie-talkies. Mendick related the incident to her mother who, given her daughter’s vulnerable state of mind, found the story difficult to believe. A few days later, however, news broke that the former Russian spy, Alexander Litvinenko, had been poisoned; he was Mendick’s neighbour.

Unlike Gilman’s narrator, what Mendick had seen was real; however, in her exhibition she, too, played with the idea of wallpaper as a borderland between sanity and insanity. The show also included other domestic items as receptacles into or onto which all that was unendurable could be projected. A large teapot (with a hole in one side through which you could view the vessel’s interior) contained two small ceramic figures taking tea from a large teapot containing two ceramic figures taking tea from a teapot, in what felt like a claustrophobic dance to the death. Nor did the claustrophobia end there, for all the pieces in the small, over-lit gallery spoke of other confined and confining spaces – from the hollowed-out, ceramic head of Russian President Vladimir Putin, inside which the figure of a distraught woman (Mendick herself?) sits on a toilet within a cramped bathroom, to a 1960s-style bedside cabinet inside which reside Mendick’s family members, configured weirdly as Russian dolls. But, of all the dialogues taking place inside this room, the loudest is also the most hallucinatory: the one inside my own head between Gilman and Mendick. What is it they are saying? That yellow is an unfortunate colour with which to decorate a room? That the divide between sanity and insanity is paper-thin? Or that even the most innocuous of objects can pulsate with the unconscious?

This is a sentiment with which the surrealist artist, sculptor and writer Dorothea Tanning would surely have agreed. Writing in the catalogue for her 1979 exhibition at New York’s Gimpel-Wietzenhoffer Gallery, she declared of her hometown of Galesburg, in rural Illinois, that ‘nothing happened but the wallpaper’. Tanning’s Chambre 202, Hôtel du Pavot (1970–73) is a three-dimensional, life-sized room in which two grubby pink torsos, shaped as if carved from ham, poke through the dingy wallpaper while the chimney breast gives birth to three further mutations – although whether these are animal, vegetable or some other tumorous mash-up, it is impossible to say. The work was partly inspired by a song Tanning recalled from her childhood: ‘In Room 202’ (1919) composed by Dave Harris with lyrics by Edgar Leslie and Bert Kalmar, tells the story of Kitty Kane, a gangster’s moll who poisoned herself while staying at a hotel in Chicago.

In room two hundred and two The walls keep talkin’ to you I’ll never tell you what they said So turn out the light and come to bed.

But if the song suggests talking walls, Tanning pushes this idea to its very edge, wishing to create a space in which the wallpaper, as she once explained, would ‘tear with screams’ while maintaining ‘an odd banality’. The latter is captured by the dreary ordinariness of the installation’s wallpaper while the former is contained in the hotel’s name: pavot is French for poppy, the flower from which opium is derived. By conflating these disparate ideas, Tanning succeeds in heightening the room’s creepiness; this in turn precipitates a sense of impending doom. What springs to mind is a back-street abortionist’s or the lair of a serial killer such as John Christie who, over several months in the early 1950s, murdered (among others) Kathleen Maloney, Rita Nelson and Hectorina MacLennan, hiding their bodies in a kitchen alcove, which he subsequently wallpapered over as if it were a solid wall. The women’s bodies were only discovered after Christie moved out of the house and his landlord, wanting to redecorate, tapped on what he thought was the rear wall to the kitchen only to discover it was hollow. As Ludovic Kennedy wrote in Ten Rillington Place (1961), the landlord then ‘pulled away a small piece of paper and shone his torch inside. Whatever he expected to see, it could hardly have been what he did see: the naked seated body of Hectorina MacLennan.’ You can almost envisage the landlord stumbling backwards in horror, just as the chambermaid might have done when she pushed open the door to Chambre 202. This is a room that distils much of what the work of Mendick, Vuillard, Wiley and Woodman makes clear: that wallpaper does not so much cover the cracks, as serve to reveal them.

Main image: Lindsey Mendick, ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’, 2020, installation view, Eastside Projects, Birmingham. Courtesy: the artist and Eastside Projects; photograph: Stuart Whipps

[litwitlady]

whatever walked there, walked alone - part one

My Halloween fic which I love writing too much to abandon. Content warnings: mentions of child abuse, Alex is dead and not coming back to life, blood, emo poetry.

Michael Guerin exits the city limits and heads west. The sun is beginning to set, framing the mountains in flames of orange and red, painting the sky in purples and pinks. His phone GPS says the house is 13.3 miles from Roswell city center. A scant ten-minute drive.

A few miles later, the ironwork of the property’s fence comes into view. The house is hidden behind several large hawthorn and plum trees, creating a dense canopy that protects the mansion from the blazing desert sun.

Michael parks outside the gate and pulls a bolt cutter from the bed of his truck. The ornate ironwork is buried in English ivy. He clears the vines away and breaks through the chains locking the gate doors, swinging them open. They creak and moan as the rusty hinges strain after years of disuse.

It’s like walking into a dream. Or a nightmare. Another planet, maybe. The desert disappears and suddenly there’s thick grass beneath his boots. Flowers bloom despite the heavy tree coverage and everything green is overgrown. But the house is finally visible – the cornices crumbling, the menacing marble lions shrouded in yellowing moss.

A breeze rustles through the leaves, sending a shiver up Michael’s spine. He feels eyes on the back of his head and spins on his heels. A cat hops out of a maple tree, sending several birds flying from their perches. Michael laughs to himself and turns back towards the house.

Dead, drying leaves are scattered across the stone steps. The giant wood doors are also locked with chains. Michael makes quick work of them and pushes against the splinted oak. But the doors won’t budge. The moisture and heat have warped the wood. So, no matter how hard he pushes, there’s no give. With a sigh he climbs back down the stairs. Vows to come back the next day with the necessary tools.

And maybe not alone.

But as his boots sink back into the grass, he hears the doors open. A thick, musty scent settles in around him. When he glances over his shoulder, the doors are gaping at him like a hungry mouth ready to swallow him whole. The cat dashes past him, through the doors, and he swears he hears his name whispered from somewhere deep inside.

He swallows hard and pulls out his cell phone. But there’s no reception. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t want to go inside. Definitely not by himself. Wants, instead, to head back to Isobel’s and crawl inside his warm bed. Wants to forget this dilapidated old house even exists.

Michael takes several deep breaths, reclimbs the stairs. And then he forces himself to cross the threshold into the darkness.

The foyer floors are filthy. Covered in muck and grime, the black and white checkered marble barely visible. Spiderwebs crisscross from surface to surface, collecting dust and other debris he’d rather not think too much about. The windows are all curtained with heavy, velvet drapes – allowing no light to pass.

Michael runs his fingers along a gilded mirror, eyes catching on a group of picture frames still hanging from the garish floral wallpaper. He leans forward, blowing the dust from the glass. Sneezes several times. The photos show a family. Father, mother, and four boys – the youngest just a baby. In most of the pictures, the father is dressed in full military regalia. His wife pretty and unsmiling. The children with hands in pockets, devoid of that devilish charm so common to young boys.

He begins to notice a pattern as he follows the frames down the hallway. Three of the boys start to grow up – getting taller, shoulders broadening. But the youngest never grows past eight, maybe nine years old. Michael feels a sadness clutch at his heart. Wonders what happened to the little boy. Suspects it’s nothing good. And likely the reason the house has been left to rot for so long.

The cat reappears out of a hall closet. Michael startles and watches him dash towards the curving staircase, bounding up the stairs. He looks back at the front doors, making sure they are still open. The sunlight is entirely gone now. He pulls out his phone and clicks on the flashlight app. Continues further into the belly of the house.

In the kitchen, he finds the cabinet doors all removed – probably stolen by some house foraging flipper – but the bowls and plates left behind. An eight-burner stove takes up a third of the room. The gigantic commercial refrigerator another third. There are two center islands and clearly the kitchen was for catering lavish parties. Michael is unimpressed by the cold austerity of the space and is already mentally remodeling.

He putters through the cabinets and stumbles upon a collection of toddler-sized sippy cups. There are four – each with a boy’s name painted across the top. Clay, Gregory, Flint, and Alex. He reaches up and pulls the one labeled ‘Alex’ from the shelf. The cup is cracked and chipped around the rim. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck shiver, sending another chill down Michael’s spine. He drops the cup onto the floor, the crash echoing down the hallway.

Upstairs the cat screeches.

Michael hears his name whispered again.

And then the doors slam shut.

***

‘The house is haunted, Iz.’ They are at the grocery store, restocking for the week ahead.

She rolls her eyes at him while grabbing more cereal. ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts, Michael. It was just the wind.’

He stares back at her like she’s stupid. ‘There’s no such thing as aliens either. And there was no fucking wind.’

Isobel, hands on hips, stops mid-aisle. ‘The place is a gothic nightmare. It got in your head and freaked you out. The sooner you sell that place the better.’

Intellectually, Michael knows she must be right. But he can’t ignore doors closing on their own and floating voices calling his name.

‘Do you know what happened to the original family? I think their name was Manes?’ He’d pulled the old deed. There wasn’t much to go on other than the name Jesse Manes. ‘I don’t remember them from when we were kids.’

She grabs a bag of rice. ‘Jesse Manes was a General in the Air Force. Served as Chief of Staff to the entire USAF when we were in high school. Really big deal. His kids all went to some military academy on the east coast.’

‘Was? Is he dead?’ He sneaks two boxes of pop-tarts into the cart.

‘Not that I know of. He was dishonorably discharged. Not too long after his youngest son died. Something about an extortion scandal.’ Isobel shrugs her shoulders and turns onto the next aisle.

‘His youngest son? The little boy – Alex.’

She narrows her eyes at him. ‘Alex Manes. Yes. But he was 28 when he died. Killed overseas. Maybe he’s your ghost.’

‘Wait – that doesn’t make sense. That house looks like it’s been abandoned for at least a decade.’ He tries to do the math in his head. Three years might lead to some broken windows and cobwebs, but not the level of decay he’d discovered. The grime on the floors alone would have taken at least twice as long. And the bannister was literally rotting.

‘Don’t know what to tell you. Happened three years ago. I was working with the General on a military fundraising event. And then, poof! He was just gone. Nothing left behind but newspaper gossip. And that house.’ She looks down at her shopping list. ‘I’m going to grab some milk – meet you at checkout.’ She gives a little wave and rolls off.

Michael leans against the row of shelves. Thinks about what Isobel’s told him. He doesn’t know why Edna May Rollings bequeathed the property to him in her will. Or all that money. Sure, he’d mowed her grass a few times – changed her oil. But the Manes property was worth well over a million dollars.

Nothing was making any sense.

*

Later that afternoon, Michael decides to do his own research at the town library. He pulls up article after article from the Roswell Gazette highlighting the many philanthropic endeavors of the Manes family. Jesse Manes often lauded as a hero. His sons all highly decorated military officers themselves.

In all the articles, he only finds mention of an Alex Manes once. In his obituary dated October 14, 2018. The paper mentions he’d been killed by IED while serving in Iraq. There’s a grainy, black and white photo above the obit. Captain Alexander Manes in his uniform, blank expression on his face. And it’s a good face – cheekbones for days, expressive eyes, and a full bottom lip. Michael stops for a minute to admire the handsome soldier and to lament his early demise.

He pulls out his notebook and writes down the names mentioned in the obituary. All of the survivors – mother, father, brothers, distant relatives. Surely, one of them lives within driving distance. If not, there’s always the phone or email. He intends to find some answers.

Michael leaves the library and drives to the Roswell cemetery. The plots are arranged alphabetically, for the most part. And he finds the Manes family relatively easily. Alex’s tombstone is the white marble of fallen soldiers. But there’s no inscription beyond his name or the relevant dates of birth and death. It’s odd not to see a ‘beloved son’ or ‘cherished brother’. He’s beginning to suspect the Manes family buried more than just their son three years ago.

*

The next day Michael heads back to the house. But this time he’s not alone. He’s accompanied by an entire cleaning crew and Isobel. Who merely intends to rifle through the family’s forgotten belongings and steal whatever trinkets catch her eye. And to tease him mercilessly about his ghost.

Michael does his best to avoid everyone. He has his own mission in mind and doesn’t want to be disturbed. The upstairs hallway leads to all the main bedrooms – master on the left and the four smaller rooms on the right. Each of the secondary bedrooms is nearly identical in shape and size. Except for last room – tiny and dark. A single bed compared to the doubles next door. He knows deep in his bones that this was Alex’s room.

A terrific sadness envelops him when he steps inside. He tries to flip the light switch, but nothing happens – the only light whatever sun fights its way through the dirty window.

Michael starts there – wiping the glass clean. He sweeps and mops the floor, dusts the baseboards, and removes the cobwebs. Opening the closet door, he finds a torn cardboard box tucked inside. Pulling back the battered flaps, he discovers several yellowing journals. Pages and pages of scribbled notes and poems and the various ramblings of a teenage boy. He takes the journals to his truck immediately, stashing them beneath his seat.

As the day stretches into night, there’s no sign of any ghosts. No weird noises. No strange whispers. Isobel has taken every mirror in the house among several crystal dishes. Most of the rooms are as spotless as they’re going to get, the smell of bleach giving him a headache. But the place is starting to feel less creepy.

After everyone else leaves, Michael takes one more trip up to Alex’s bedroom. Sits in the middle of the room and waits. For what, he’s not sure. A presence maybe. Which he knows is insane, but something or someone called his name the day before.

The sun is nearly gone. The room is dark and still. That sadness from earlier still pushes at him, but he doesn’t feel afraid. Oddly enough, he feels safe and warm. And then the floor creaks. Not just once. Over and over again. Like someone’s pacing from the window to the bed and back again.

‘Hello?’ His voice sounds scratchy, dry and nervous.

The footsteps stop. Michael’s breath catches as he strains to listen. ‘Alex? Alexander Manes?’ Something blows across the back of his neck. He swallows but stays still.

‘I’m going to bring your journals back. I promise.’ Making a ghost angry is probably a bad idea. ‘I just wanted to get to know you better.’

Nothing happens. And he feels a sinking sense of loss.

*

At Isobel’s later that night, Michael is curled up in his bed staring at Alex’s journals. He’s anxious about reading them. Worries that what he’ll discover is worse than anything he could have ever imagined. Worries that he’ll meet someone in these journals that he’ll come to love. Someone that he’s already lost.

The first journal is marked 2003. It’s plain black with a Further Seems Forever sticker peeling along the spine. Opening to the first page, Michael is struck by how neat the handwriting is. His own is nothing but chicken scratch. But this kid wrote in neat, tidy letters – not a smudge in sight.

July 2003

Today I am a teenager. And I missed mom for the first time in forever. I came home and dad was drinking. Started yelling at me to put his ladder back where I’d found it. But I never, ever touched his stupid ladder. That was Flint. He didn’t care. And now my ribs hurt. Happy Birthday, Alex.

I’ve only been home for two weeks, but I already want to go back to school.

Michael’s fists clench but he continues.

August 2003

Flint got his learner’s permit today. Dad is teaching him how to drive stick. Will probably even buy him a car to take back to school. I fucking hate Flint.

I wrote a poem or maybe a song that I actually like. Here it is:

‘The hallways are empty

And I am blind

Locked in this castle

Where no one is kind’

I know that’s not much. But it’s a start. Been saving up for my guitar. Greg is going to buy it for me once I have enough money.

September 2003

It’s because I’m gay. Why he beats me and no one else. I will try so hard not to be gay anymore.

Tears burn Michael’s eyes. He picks up another journal. This one gray with lots of cartoon doodles marring the cloth cover.

September 2007

Senior year has begun. The Academy finally feels bearable. No upperclassmen to avoid. My fucking dad has me flying out this weekend to interview at the Air Force Academy in Colorado. Fourth son, fourth branch of the military. None of us got a choice, but of course he saved the Air Force for me. Of fucking course.

I snuck out with Maria last week to sing at an open mic night at her mom’s bar. I’ve never felt like that before – enjoying all those eyes on me. Most times I just want to disappear. Forget I exist. There was a guy – curly hair, big hazel eyes. He was beautiful and I worked up enough to courage to talk to him, but he wouldn’t stop staring at Maria. So.

I guess someone at the Pony must have known my dad. Because he was waiting up for me when I crawled back through my bedroom window. I didn’t beg this time. Just let him do what he was going to do. Honestly, I felt like I deserved it. For thinking that guy might actually want to talk to me.

Michael stops breathing. He tries to recall a night at the Pony from fourteen years ago. But he can’t remember ever meeting Alex. He had dated Maria, briefly. Maybe it wasn’t him – maybe he wasn’t the curly-haired, hazel-eyed boy. But the possibility lingers thick in his chest.

December 2007

I’m not going home for Christmas. Even though mom has agreed to show up for appearance’s sake. A perfect fake fucking family. I won’t be missed. Dad laughed when I called and told him. Called me a coward and hung up. He won’t have his favorite punching bag and I hope that means he won’t turn his fists to someone else. Like mom.

Things with Danny haven’t progressed at all. I thought he was flirting with me at the football game, but he hasn’t talked to me since. He’s shy though – kind of like me – so I think I may still have a chance. He’s not going home either – his parents are overseas on some mission trip. Maybe I will be brave enough to kiss him. I’ve never kissed anyone and I’m already 17. Pathetic.

January 2008

Sometimes I look up at the stars

And your eyes look back at me

Filled with the fire of an exploding sun

Sometimes I look up at the stars

And there’s nothing there at all

Just empty space, hollow and undone

So, Danny is dating a townie girl. I’m always so, so stupid. But I’m not giving up on myself no matter how hard this world tries to beat me down. And it’s trying pretty damn hard.

March 2008

Dear Alex,

you are blue and black and yellow

bent and bowed like the dying myrtle tree outside that window

your pliant plentiful petals putrefying in the blades of summer grass

you are unseen and forgotten, disgraced by the midday sun

blown apart like the dandelion waste of suburban landscapes

wilted and wallowed and left without a trace of your own dignity

June 2008

My father’s hands have spent so much time taking. Splitting me open and unthreading the blood, the sweat, the tears of me. Spilling my insides and then stuffing the gore back deep in the darkest recesses of my heart.

I want hands that will take but give something back, leave something behind. Hands that will heal and stitch the splintered parts back together. Hands that will shape the dark edges of me into something bright like hope. I want hands with wings to fly me out of this nightmare.

But instead I’m going to war.

After Alex graduates the military academy, there are no more journals until 2017. Michael spends the next several hours poring over the earlier ones – meticulously kept records of a broken childhood. One abuse after another. Cracked ribs, a shattered wrist, and a never-ending deluge of bruises.

But also, so many dreams. Alex was a hopeful kid, despite the sad poetry, with music in his future. There are pages and pages of songs – the scratching down of harmonies and verses. Intricate details of chord progressions and key changes. Michael grabs his own guitar, strums through some of Alex’s notes. The songs are simple but refined. He wishes he could hear them sung with Alex’s voice.

The 2017 journal stares at Michael from his nightstand. It’s dirty and pocket-sized, bent and beaten at the edges. Caked in blood. He opens to the first page. Alex is in Iraq – the place where he dies – and Michael’s not sure he wants to read further. But he also can’t stop himself.

November 2017

The desert here is different. Hotter, I think. I am always sweating and never clean.  

February 2018

There was a boy. In the carnage. Riddled with bullets. Bullets that may have been my own. I tried to feel something. I did, really. I tried.

March 2018

Only two more months. And then one war exchanged for another. Clay is getting married. I think I’d rather stay here.

The next several pages are stuck together with the dull, brown ink of dried blood. Michael can’t make out more than a word or two through the thick stains, but the entries seem longer and more rambling. The back half of the journal is empty – filled with nothing but blood splatter.

Michael pulls out his laptop. Something about the timeline feels off. Alex’s obit and his tombstone both marked his date of death as October 14, 2018. That’s months after this journal stopped. Months after whatever nightmare caused all this bleeding. He thinks briefly about calling Liz and asking her to ID whoever all this blood belonged to.

He googles ‘Alexander Manes Iraq death’ and nothing obvious pops up in the searches. But on the next page he sees a newspaper article from a Virginia paper, clicks it open. It’s from summer 2018 and includes a list of purple heart recipients. A Captain Alexander Manes among the names.

So, he made it home. Hurt but alive. Michael’s best guess is that he returned to Iraq before his death in October.

He runs several searches for Alex’s brothers. He gets a hit on a Gregory Manes. Local newspaper photo of him with several kids from a science fair. The school is near a reservation in the northwest corner of the state. He jots the information down but decides to start a little closer to home.

People in Roswell must know the Manes family. And so that’s where he’ll begin. Starting with local business owners. First thing in the morning.

#malex #malex fic #halloween fic #whatever walked there walked alone #i am reposting after my hissy fit #i like writing this #i really do #letting autumn come early this year

[cosplayinamerica]

Madame Leota from Haunted Mansion / cosplayer : @alia_vera

Dressing as Madame Leota was inspired by many years of visiting Disneyland with my favorite ride being the Haunted Mansion.  My family wanted to do a group costume for Halloween to participate in a local costume parade, so we chose this theme with various family members dressing as characters from the ride.  My family has always loved Halloween and that’s how I got into costuming in the first place. 

For those who aren’t familiar, the Madame Leota character calls forth the spirits in the seance room of the ride and is essentially a floating glowing head in a crystal ball above a card reading table.  She was the obvious character for me because not only do I love her, but I also knew I could use my powerchair to my advantage with being at a lower table height and by having my chair support the table structure.

I could not hear a thing in my Madame Leota costume with my head in that globe with all the fans running, no one could hear me, and I couldn’t gesture from under the table.  So, I had my husband and I connected through Bluetooth earpieces and he was the only one I could talk to or hear.  All day people kept trying to talk to me, but it was like they had to go through my bodyguard! 

We also spent some time waiting in line for the parade to start and I would just hold perfectly still letting people believe I was a table and prop- they even tried to lean on me- then I would slowly and eerily turn my head and make direct eye contact.  I really startled some people with that!  I maintained that eerie head turn during the parade as I rolled down the route and people couldn’t figure out if I was a real person or not until I looked them straight in the eyes!

In the current Disneyland ride, Madame Leota is basically a crystal ball with a disembodied head inside floating above a table, but in older versions, the crystal ball sat directly upon the table.  I opted to pass on decapitation and emulate the older version, so I constructed a table surface to rest on my wheelchair frame and placed a large hole for the crystal ball to be placed.

 I used tablecloths to cover the table, my body, and the wheelchair, including a table cloth with the wallpaper pattern from the ride.  The crystal ball I used was a large acrylic globe meant to cover an outdoor light.  It had poor ventilation, so I used small fans to blow air in and out of the globe from the table underneath and I cut ventilation holes into the table.  I also installed battery operated lights around the globe hole shining upwards for added ambiance at night.  I found the most amazing blue and white wig that was huge enough to fill nearly the whole globe and I added blue LED lights in the wig scalp to make it glow at night. 

Of course, I had a couple of battery operated candles to set the mood, too.  For make-up, I used white foundation and contoured with blue and green to emulate the glowing effect from the ride.  And then I just scowled and sucked in my cheeks the whole time since Leota has cheekbones to die for!

Alas, I have yet to attend a convention in costume.  It’s certainly a goal of mine as I would love to see all those amazing costumes in person.  I am working on building up my ability to be in large crowded spaces which can sometimes be a bit overwhelming and take a lot of energy for me to navigate.  I’m very thankful for Instagram and social media which have helped me to connect with the costuming and cosplay community online.

I always loved dressing up for Halloween and even as a child, I had a singular vision of how I wanted my costumes to look.  That singular vision meant that I had to custom make accessories and clothing.  So, out of a love of costuming, I learned to sew and became an avid crafter.  As my health has become more challenging with time, those skills stay with me and for the most part, these craft hobbies are still accessible to me, though sewing has been on the back burner for a while.  

My latest projects have been around personalizing my newest power chair, like making custom cushion covers and accessories for myself.  I love looking at mobility aids not just as tools, but as an extension of the body which are to be celebrated and adorned.  I love the growing community online that gets so creative with connecting costume and fashion with mobility aids.

.

#Madame Leota #Madame Leota cosplay #Haunted Mansion #Haunted Mansion cosplay #cosplay #cosplay interview

[softforcal]

I have assigned au’s to every Harry and made descriptions of them... for science

Victorian Harry:

-He’s in an eternal state of depression, think gothic fiction where women are stuck in bad marriages or are secretly lesbians: ‘the yellow wallpaper’ by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, and ‘The Awakening’ by Kate Chopin.

-All he wants to do is trapes around with a bottle of wine and do his nails.

-people say his house is haunted.

-no one knows where he gets his money or if he even eats.

-sometimes he sits outside his mansion in a lawn chair and stares at the sun.

-has a large collection of robes

-smokes 

-has never used a comb in his life

-mirrors everywhere in his house

-burns every meal he attempts to cook because he forgets about it

Ballerina Harry:

-Is he at his level of stature because his raw natural talent or because he’s beautiful and every dance teacher ever has taken him under his wing? who knows, not him, that’s for sure.

-a bit of a ditz but with a face like that, who needs a brain

-Never knows that other ballerinas are in love with him

-#has never kissed a woman in his life

-falls in love with every pretty boy ever

-never drinks ever

Philosophy Major Harry

-what is the meaning of life?

-quotes Freud and Aristotle

-super depressed

-likes to just lay on the floor and mope

-writes oddly insightful essays 

-Can be found in your local cafe drinking black coffee and reading

Diva harry

-one of the most famous men in the world

-doesn't care about gender norms

-super diva

-a huge list of things to eat backstage at every show that he doesn’t even end up eating

-collects love letters from his fans and has a room in his mansion dedicated to things people have given him (even keeps the dead roses and likes to pick up the petals and crumble them out the window)

-wants all attention on him 100% of the time

-the muse for many designers

Vampire Harry

-doesn’t say much, just stares at things

-old as balls probably

-wishes he was a pirate or a poet, settled for both

-knows he’s the shit

Hard-dom Harry

-’everyone loves me but i’m alone’

-hasn’t had a relationship in ages

-there’s a rumour that the first love of his life broke his heart

-oddly fashionable but his attitude shows he’s not to be messed with

-the last guy who said he dresses ‘sort of gay’ turned up dead three states over

Boxer Harry

-pretends to be calm but just wants to fight

-hates social events

-10/10 will fight people when he’s drunk

-hardcore feminist

-lil man bun makes him happy

-a ray of sunshine

mom-friend Harry

-wants to make sure everyone has a good time

-will judge your fashion sense

-arms crossed shows he does not approve

-if anyone fights his friends he will stomp them to death in his lil heeled gucci boots

-a good cook (but wont tell you his secret family recipes)

-talks a little too much, but he just doesn’t want the convo to die

-wants to protect everyone (especially ‘the gays’)

-10/10 will pretend to be your boyfriend if a stranger is giving you unwanted attention at a club

-designated driver

-enjoys his book club and a warm cup of tea on a rainy day

******

coming soon: i will write about all of them in this room.

Mom friend Harry does not approve of any of the shenanigans.

Diva Harry thinks Vampire Harry is cooler than him and wants to enlist the help of Boxer Harry to murder him (although he should be going to Hard-dom harry but everyone avoids him because he’s scary)

Boxer Harry just wants to be left alone.

Victorian Harry and Philosophy Major Harry are both having break downs, Ballerina Harry just wants to fit in. 

(side note: tag yourself i’m Victorian Harry)

inspired by convos with @harryforvogue and @floral-suits)

#harry styles #harry styles hc #harry styles blurb #harry styles fic #1d #1d blurb #1d hc #vampire harry styles #vampire!harry styles #ballerina harry styles #ballerina!harry styles #boxer harry styles #boxer!harry styles #philosophy major harry styles #hc #dom harry styles

[msmovingforward]

Hypno-SHEDIDNOT

We open with Jen and the Shah squad in the Nomad Hotel and Casino. Jen informs her team that she's going to the "strip club!!!" I'm thinking, "SHAHMAZING!! We're finally gonna get to see these women do something in Las Vegas that you might actually do in Las Vegas." As it turns out... the promise of this show filming anywhere except inside Luigi's Mansion, er I mean... the fabulous Nomad Hotel Las Vegas or at Heather's Mormon laser conversion therapy "health spa" was an empty one.

Whitney and Heather then have a pow wow following Heather's exclusive in-hotel shopping experience with Jen and Gollum and Whitney, Meredith, and Lisa's riveting experience driving luxury cars. (Side note: many places have "driving experiences" where you can drive a luxury car five laps around a track. You can buy this experience yourself on Groupon for like $49, and you don't have to fly coach to Vegas to do it. When my Housewives take me to Vegas, I want to see Lisa Vanderpump pretending she's ok with the Chippendales touching her. I want to see someone who owns a casino treating their frenemies to a weekend of debauchery. Hell! I at least want to see Camille Grammer dancing like a white girl in the VIP section of Tao!) Whitney reveals to Heather that she's just so glad that they can finally have a drama-free dinner all together, now that Jen has forgiven and forgotten how it was ALL WHITNEY'S FAULT that she threw that glass at Sharrieff's birthday party. (Or so she thought...) This is juxtaposed with a scene of Jen, Meredith, and Lisa sitting down to a dinner I can only describe as if Disney World decided to open a Rainforest Cafe inside the Haunted Mansion and served Lunchables and Stacy's Pita Chips. As we have come to predict, Lisa is loving the elegant vibe this dinner, complete with an oversized margarita topped with a Blue Mccaw, is throwing off. Lisa knows taste. Lisa WANTS to touch this dinner, and she does. She scoops what looks like some sort of spinach dip right onto her plate, as she and Meredith fill Jen in on Whitney's apology at the racetrack.

This is when things turn, and I'm not just talking about Whitney's flawless day-to-night turtleneck tank top and high wasted jean look. According to Jen, it would be nice if Whitney could just be accountable. This is when I realized that we are living in a different world entirely from Jen Shah. In Jen Shah's world, it's appropriate to throw a glass without looking, and when you do that, you're not overreacting. In Jen Shah's world, you can dress like you tore the rainforest-scene wallpaper right off your pediatrician's wall. What ensues is one of the worst examples of a housewife trying to force a story line I've ever seen. It's like when Michael Scott keeps insisting every improv scene has a gun. Stop trying to make this fight happen, Jen! No one cares! Andy Cohen, please tell me she isn't coming back next season. More Jen yelling that Whitney needs to watch her back and more Meredith disengaging follow. We learn from a testimonial that Meredith grew up in a broken home, so the yelling triggers her, so she learned how to disengage. This is FAR TOO HEALTHY of behavior from a housewife for me. I mean, have you SEEN a Housewives show before, Meredith? This is cage fighting for women. Get back in there with your slicked back jet black hair! FaceTime Brooks! HE would have some choice words to say to Jen.

Whitney and Heather show up just as all this is happening. Jen has gone into full-on crazy mode now, and she's doing that thing where you get so upset that you basically just start crying. In this sense I can feel bad for Jen. It really must be challenging to live by yourself with your husband gone three quarters of the year, but this woman needs a hobby more fulfilling than buying friends and saying "shah-mazing..." like maybe buy one of those adult coloring books, Jen. This storyline is getting nowhere quickly. I need Jen to cool it, and I need Meredith to step it up. Jen pushes Heather, and Lisa follows her out into the hotel lobby to try to talk her off the ledge, but she's unsuccessful... probably because her outfit makes her look like a bellhop, so patrons keep trying to get her to carry their bags to their rooms.

  Jen returns to her room to call her husband and further establish herself as the victim in this situation.

We head back to Whitney's room, which looks like it's in a library, to break down what just happened. We learn that Meredith and Seth had previously been separated several times and had both seen other people, but they are currently happier than they have ever been. This puts to rest the cheating rumors that Jen had been trying to drop in everyone's ears, but cuts Lisa to the core because she doesn't feel like she even knows her best friend.

When we return from commercial, more establishing interior shots of this baffling hotel inform us it's the next day; there's a large dog statue, another lost soul from American Horror Story bringing Lisa breakfast ("Thank you. I love that!"), a bathtub right next to Heather's bed, and a creepy clock on Whitney's bedside table. Brooks tells Meredith that the family dog shit all over his blue Moncler coat, and he nearly cried, but he couldn't because he just got Botox at Heather's health spa from a pregnant 16 year old Mormon. Whitney pushes her legs over her head and yawns while her testimonial informs us this is worse than the time she got her period on a waterslide during a trip to the Bahamas. Hot. Lisa FaceTimes Mary and tells her she wishes she were here to tell Jen she smelled like hospital at last night's Velveeta and scorpion bowls dinner. Mary blinks several times and tells us Jen is crazy, and she's been trying to tell us all along! Takes one to know one I guess!

Jen is gone! Then! Jen is not gone because the Shah squad told her to stay. Thank God for the Shah squad!

We head outside where Meredith is dressed in her most elegant oscillot print coat. Heather informs the rest of the gals that she's gonna be late, and we head to... a hypnotist's mansion in the Las Vegas desert? I'm SO confused as to why we went to Vegas to visit these otherwise standard Housewives tropes. The hypnotist tells us to hold balls in our hands because this is how hypnosis works, but not before Jen and Heather show up late, disrupting the whole ritual, causing us all to have to start over. After NO ONE gets hypnotized, we head to the hypnotist's living room, where the hypnotist, who I think is vying for a snowflake, and who I have a sneaking suspicion is not a hypnotist AT ALL, asks everyone whom they do and do not trust. Shocker! Everyone trusts everyone else, except no one trusts Jen, and Jen doesn't trust Heather.

  The episode basically just wraps up there, with more to come next week with the hypnotist. Here are my final thoughts. A) Jen is a terrible friend to Heather and an even worse housewife. When this series premiered, I appreciated her coming in guns-a-blazing, but this victim complex, rage issue thing is not playing out well. I need her off my screen. B) Heather is enabling this whole situation, both with the show being terrible due to Jen's not understanding what her job entails and with remaining in this toxic friendship. C) The other women ARE afraid of Jen, and I would be too. I wouldn't want to be around her. D) I would love if Alison Dubois from Beverly Hills' dinner party from hell would hold a seance in the Nomad Hotel. It could be quite possible the woman we saw this episode wasn't Jen at all but just the spirits in a disturbed Vegas burial ground in a state of unrest, convincing her that all work and no play make her a dull boy.

#RealHousewives #Housewives #RealHousewivesOfSaltLakeCity #RHOSLC #SaltLakeCity #JenShah #WhitneyRose #MeredithMarks #LIsaBarlow #HeatherGay #MaryCosby #Vegas #LasVegas #NomadHotel #NomadHotelCasino #NomadLasVegas #Reality #RealityTV #reality television #Bravo #AndyCohen #RealityTelevision #Television #TV