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The Dead Children’s Playground -

In Maple Hill Cemetery in Huntsville, Alabama, there is a park affectionately known by locals as the Dead Children’s Playground. The park was founded in 1822 and is well known for being haunted by the spirits of children.  Some people believe that it is where the ghosts of children who were buried in the cemetery come to play at night. While others believe the ghosts are those of several children who were abducted around 1960 and whose bodies were found in the playground. 

There are many stories of strange things happening in the playground. Swings have been seen moving by themselves and sometimes the ghosts of children are seen running around the grounds. The sounds of laughter and children calling out have also been heard echoing around the park. The sightings always happen between 10:00pm and 3:00am, which is too late for living children to be playing in the area. 

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(oh god. some douchebag use the 'so what else can you do with that mouth, babe?' line on Ames when she's sucking on a popsicle or something. I fucking dare you.)

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(Amy usually either has a piece of licorice gum or a cigarette in her mouth. Because, yes. Even candy that isn’t dark in color rubs her the wrong way. She can’t chew any other kind for more than two minutes without it bothering her.

It's most of why her teeth and tongue are often stained a gross blackish-grey color), but a lot of people jump to the assumption that it's just natural.

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iamsomethingbeautifultodestroy

“How is it that you keep shooting up in height and I can’t get fuckin’ taller to save my life. Nice hair and ears by the way, very goth punk.” He chuckles, sitting beside her, “You know I have muggle lighter, and it’ll not singe your fingers.”

He lights one of the cigs and takes a long drag, coughing hard, “Fuckin’ hell, girl, how can you smoke these? I’m dying.”

He’s hacking so hard he falls out of his chair.

“— My dad was kind of tall, Cas. Did you know that?“

“Those function here? Never sure. And I’m pretty sure a few of my organs came pre-decayed.” She can’t remain serious for long, quickly clamping a spidery hand over her mouth to avoid giggling too loudly. “…Think it helps.”

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Random sentence starters

"Did you really just insult Captain America in front of me?"

"So you're a liar and a thief."

"So are you going to kiss me or can I finish this cigarette first?"

"Can I touch your boob?"

"Is it bad that I enjoy infomercials more than I enjoy actual television shows?"

"So your mother is pregnant and it might be my fault."

"You smell like butt."

"Please tell me I'm hearing things and that you're not actually listening to Kidz Bop right now."

"You either owe me a hundred cookies or a really expensive bottle of vodka—your choice."

"What the hell did you just say about my favorite band?"

"Please never call me by my full name ever again."

"Do you prefer to read or watch your porn?"

"I think I need to lose ten pounds."

"Who do you love more, me or your mom?"

"Tell me the dirtiest joke you can think of."

"Were you aware that there is ice cream?"

"That was worth seven thousand dollars and you think 'I'm sorry' is going to make us even?"

"It's not that you're wrong, exactly, you're just extremely not right."

"You shouldn't be trusted with small children, should you?"

"Give me cake or give me death."

"I'm starting an idiot jar. Any time you do or say anything idiotic, you have to put at least a dollar in it—more depending on how stupid the thing that you said or did was."

"Are you actually wearing my underwear right now?"

"I want candy."

"On a scale from, 'I can sometimes make important phone calls without crying' to 'I have a stable job with a steady income, a spouse who loves me, a dog, and two kids who are screwed up minimally at worst' how much of an adult are you?"

"Okay but like, if vampires aren't real, then explain Pluto."

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The door seems to have simply been blown open by the wind, as the vacant-eyed, blonde woman is not only standing several paces too far away to have touched it — but she seems mentally out of commission, staring rather cockeyed at the newcomer with no real reaction to their arrival.

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lucy-the-doll

“I heard his condition was improving. Now that, y’know, it won’t be so hard, seeing him half-dead, and all━ I figured it was about time I should visit...”

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✗✗ “Welcome home.” the young woman quips at the approaching figure, nodding; but not so much turning to acknowledge him as she focuses on muttering something under her breath and lightly tapping the end of her wand to one of the many cigarettes she often smuggled along in a hollowed-out apparent schoolbook. “Noticed anything new, yet?”

For anyone with functioning eyes, it’s impossible not to notice a chance. Namely in that the already post-pubescent woman seems to have sprouted up at least a foot and a half in height over the last couple of months.

 It isn’t the only difference. Her facial structure seems to have grown, her skin and features stretched tighter across her bones, looking more skeletal. Her stringy, black curtain of hair’s been lopped off and sheared around the back of her neck, into a short, spiked cut that suggests a woman capable of shameless murder. Almost every open space on each of her ears is lacerated with some sort of metal stud or spike.

In fact, she’d be fucking unrecognizable, if it weren’t for the grey-eyed, grey-skinned tonal palette no one else on the planet seemed to share.

There’s a sharp curse as her cigarette goes up in flames, singing the tips of her fingers. “Cocksucker. Was getting better at it...”

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Dementors Aesthetic

“You can exist without your soul, you know, as long as your brain and heart are still working. …You’ll just exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever. Lost.”

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vincenzovinnievalentino

It’s not a squeal she gets, but a yelp and a jerk away from her, his knife clattering to the countertop, as he trembles, eyes locked on his feet, hugging himself tightly, “Huh? Huh? Not-nothing.”

She’s growing less and less trusting; evidenced enough by the rush of steam that abruptly rises from the slowly freezing pot she’s holding.

It’s let go before anything’s ruined, but her expression’s growing darker.

“Seems like something’s wrong. You were fine a few minutes ago. Was it━ something I said, dear?”

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juniicr

❛     The law? Surely you know my      father is in charge of upholding      the law. Therefore, do you really      think that I’ll be ENDED so easily?     ❜

“Would you prefer an answer you’ll actually like, or the truth?” the woman replies, coldly, without a beat; not even facing him as her attention’s held by the cracked, overgrown fingernail of hers she’s picking at.

“Maybe I just instinctively don’t like you.”

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Oh honey, that’s just how old houses are. They settle. They sometimes creak or groan, or quietly weep, or demand blood sacrifice in voices that sounds like the fluttering wings of a thousand moths. It’s just the house settling. For whatever it can get. Go back to sleep.

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softhearteddrugdealer

✟✟ She’d been what you might call funny.

All day.

Maybe he really ought to have taken her to the open house before officially becoming owner to the- alarmingly cheap little country property. Had she slipped into that dissociated state and spent over an hour pacing aimlessly through the dead grass out back prior to his decision, they’d know something

was

                                          strange.

Wrong as how the sanity seemed to evaporate her the minute she stepped onto the property. How she couldn’t be willed to spend a second of time with him that first evening they’d intended to be special. Just went on drudging in the yard. Searching for something. Lighting up a smoke every half hour on impulse, but that seemed to be the only original part of her remaining.

That cold little body was late arriving to bed. But she finally did stumble robotically inside.

Maybe that wasn’t the best word. A bit more like a graverobber coming off a speed high.

Her hands are dirtied heavily with mud she hasn’t bothered to wash off, all of her typically clawed fingernails worn down to painful-looking, blistered nubs. Something faintly, eerily glowing dangles from beneath her oversized sleeve, that she weakly slams down on the dresser.

“Nnnh. But they said it’s okay.“

Those are her only, nonsensical words that night, before she collapses face-forward down onto the mattress. Fully clothed. Filthy hands and all. Deeper asleep than she’s been in years.

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mangymangle?

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hp aesthetic edits: houses: slytherin

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Some names will always taste bitter.

(via losershawty)

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The cold slices through his mind before she steps through the door, in that final one-sided moment of their eyes meeting, cloying at his ears and his insides like frostbite.

(̠̖̳͍̟̝i̦͕̪̘̳̙ ̤̭̫̫̰̬̩w͔͉̠̯̤il̬̱̻̠̻̠l̗̲̟̱̝̥ ̯f̜ͅṳ̹c̺̫k͍ ̼͉͇͍̠̣͕y̗̭̱̗͈̠o̺̜̙̗̳̠̬u̠̩͇ ̟͇̘͉̪͈u͉p̤͓ ̣d͔o͍͉̝̯w̗͖n̟͖͙ͅ ̥̻͉̼͖l̬̰̹̘̪̭e̩f̩̰̯̞̼t̗͈̪̲ ͕͚̯͈̬̘̦r̮̯͓͎̲i͇gḫ̖̞̲͖͓t̼̝͔ ̭͓̞̥͍͇a̳̩͉̭̟n͈͚̼d̤͍̮̬ ̤̗̲o̙͇͍v̭e̫͕̤̜r̫̬̟̳̗ ̹y̞̙o̮̬͇u̟͖͈̭r̖̺ ̹̭̮̠͓͇fr̻̱e̠͇̠e͓̗̗̼̝͈do̮̱̪͓̤͈ͅṃ ̠̳̺͈͔l͕̭̲̠͖̦̣i̳͉̦͙͙e̯̜̥̳̠̻̗s̻̺̰ ͈͉ͅi̼̪͎n͍̟̗̬ ̯m͍̦͖̭̦͖y̦̖̯̣̱ͅ ̱f̦͔̘u̳͇c̹k̹̺i̝͇͍̫n̜̹̞͍̩͖̰g ̝̭͚h̦͔̝͖̙̮̯a̝n̩̣̖̙d͇͍̩̬̮̦ṣ͖ ̜̬͈̟͇̥̳l̮e̦t's ̮̟̺s̗ͅe̜̹̥̙e̘̳ ̖͓̪w̟̟̟̰̤̥h̹̜̗͖̰̳̼a̮̟͉̣̱͉t̥̳̩̥̝̟̝ ̠͈̗͈̩͖i̬͇̪̬̼ c͔ho̰͓͎͓̹̝o̠͍͇͖̮̗̝s͍͕̘̺ͅe̱̞ ̣ṱ̫̙o̭̺̫͓̖ ͉͕̙̝͚͔do)̬̫̥

The woman’s own eyes lower into slits as she stands, passing by him as slowly as possible, in order to reach out for the folder and yank it back out of his hand.

“Thank you.”

Her smug voice is like poisoned candy through a veil of rough static.