Pinned Post
The gate is the first to greet visitors here. Its hinges scream as it opens, a long, piercing shriek like something caught in its death throes. It screeches, it grinds, it begs: Don’t come inside.
taz-clark asked: I wonder if ghosts mourn the flesh they left behind
You know, I’ve hardly known a living thing that doesn’t curse the incessant beat of its own heart from time to time. For a ghost, I imagine it may be less about the flesh itself, more about the utility.
Picture it: the impotent spirit. A drift of consciousness in a familiar room. Their spectral hand, a mere memory imprinted in the air, reaches. It remembers the cool curve of a cup, the simple act of lifting. But their phantom fingers slip through, not enough to lift, never enough to hold. Only enough to, perhaps, with great concentration, with a great surge of frustration, topple it clumsily.
So the cup slides off a countertop, falls and shatters on the floor. Is it malice, that spray of shards? Or just the nearest thing to a scream that the universe will allow this being? A prisoner shaking the bars. All those inexplicable thumps, slammed doors and heavy footsteps from the floor above… tantrums, I reckon. The best communication they can muster. Now that’s tragic… it’s a wonder any of them stick around at all, forced into the miserable role of spectator, unable to intervene, soothe, warn, protect. If they are stuck, or stubborn, I wouldn’t blame them at all for going raving mad in such a condition. The perverse logic being, of course, that very raving madness probably grants them greater potency.
Fellows. There are now ten of you who’ve checked in for the night. I feel as though I should be offering some manner of prize for how long you can bear “life” here, a la "House on Haunted Hill". Unfortunately I have no fortune to share. Only bodies a tad warmer than the others.
Imagine: ten sets of eyes peering from the shadowed corners of the lab! Perhaps I could be persuaded to poke at a specific nerve ending for your amusement. A morsel tailored to your morbid curiosity, hm? Present a theme, a name, a desired manner of decay… I might just put it under the knife. Quickly, though, before the inspiration decomposes entirely.
[ Drop a request in the confessional, you might receive a drabble. ]
A man foiled and twisted by the bloody labyrinth of woman
Sir, what does this mean. Vague. Evocative. A reference to the twisting channels of intimacy itself, perhaps? Many doors open. Personally, I think of ducks. The ornithologists know.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
He thrust in, expecting yielding flesh. One of many conquests, sick thrill of invasion he yearned for. He who knew women as welcoming sheaths couldn’t have predicted what awaited: the open vent that violated in return.
I regret to report that Dr. Oba has not yet slid into the DMs. My crypt door remains tragically un-knocked-upon by practitioners of the heart’s dark arts. One begins to suspect he’s ghosting me. How droll.
I dug into him a bit. Seems to specialize in love magic. I wouldn’t have use for such services, myself. But one longs to compare laboratory notes, you understand… the principles of reanimation, whether of necrotic tissue or emotional tenderness, must surely share some gruesome common ground.
So, the good Doctor remains elusive. No matter. Perhaps there are other ways to procure insights into the arcane mechanics of affection. One just needs the stomach to listen, and perhaps, the willingness to pay the inevitable price for such intimate knowledge.
Fellows. There are now ten of you who’ve checked in for the night. I feel as though I should be offering some manner of prize for how long you can bear “life” here, a la “House on Haunted Hill”. Unfortunately I have no fortune to share. Only bodies a tad warmer than the others.
Imagine: ten sets of eyes peering from the shadowed corners of the lab! Perhaps I could be persuaded to poke at a specific nerve ending for your amusement. A morsel tailored to your morbid curiosity, hm? Present a theme, a name, a desired manner of decay… I might just put it under the knife. Quickly, though, before the inspiration decomposes entirely.
[ Drop a request in the confessional, you might receive a drabble. ]
Let’s take a stroll through the plots, graverobbers. I’ll tell you some secrets about my favorite ways to die.
Poem's a psychic hemorrhage
pouring gory and still warm
I give you chunks and fluid
It's all that is left.
🧪Need: A Reflexive Plea
[ Prompt #35 & #55 “Weak” & “Touched starved”, from 100 Drabble Challenge: Lab Whump Edition ]
Snibby strained, neck muscles quivering with intense effort as he tried merely to lift his head. He managed to do so briefly, then fell limp, confused despair in his hazy eyes. Atma noted the mitigated strength. He reached to adjust an electrode embedded in Snibby’s temple, gloved fingers brushing against cool skin. Snibby’s reaction to the contact defied his weakness: he flinched, sudden and clumsy, toward the touch, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his airways. His eyes suddenly fixed on Atma with unnerving, touch-starved focus. Atma paused, intrigued.
“Surprising hypersensitivity,” Atma hummed. “Shall we proceed with… calibrations, Director?”
You think you’re flying home,
But you’re being swallowed whole