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Out of everything that I've written for this story so far, this little tidbit is still my favorite:

"Emma Fultz stood close to Ethel, her usual sack apron exchanged for a black cotton dress and a wool capelet. Ephraim glanced at her, but she only stared past him with empty eyes, her gaze resting on the little white box. It was December. It was too cold for her thin dress, but she barely shivered as she kept her eyes locked onto the grave. Her hat was off-kilter and too large for her head. 

It was then that Ephraim realized, in horror, that the girl was staring her own future in the face. No one wanted her either, and it would only be a matter of time before she too lay in a pauper’s grave. Everything that his sister had ever done, everything that she had hoped and dreamed for, and everything that she could have been had culminated in this, a sad grave in a barren field. Ephraim shuddered. The shivering girl in the cotton dress was damned to the same fate, and he had been the one to seal it."

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Ephraim Bellows

Ephraim Bellows

Ephraim Bellows

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Ephraim ghost-wrote this one, guys

it eats me alive.

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Ephraim Ephraim Ephraim

My Ephraim so fundamentally different from the film's that at this point they aren't even remotely the same character.

you are seventeen and twenty-six and perhaps you have always been this hollow | p.d (via p.d vulpe)

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Hello world! I pinky promise that I'm still working on this story! It's on my mind all the time, but I've been working on my final year of college and it's taken away all of my time :((. But I haven't forgotten my sad little Victorians, and I still have so much that I want to write about them. P.S. I've decided that if I'm able to, I plan to rework this story into something publishable (aka not violating copyright law), because it's been such a passion project for me, and I want to get this story into people's hands. I know it won't make me much money, but that's not what I care about. I want to show people the message in it, and I want it to be out in the world. The Bellows Book is my love letter to gothic horror, Victorian-era romance novels, the 1890s, and the world itself. I know it will just be another drop in the bucket in the literature world, but if I'm able to, I truly do want to have it published someday.

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Basically the entire plot of Pearl Street, aka my coping mechanism for the absolute grief-fest that is The Bellows Book

FOUND family??? you think i just found them like this??? babes this is FORGED family. Me & the bros were scrap metal in a junkyard (very valuable, very sharp, very dangerous, uncared for) and we GOT IN THE FUCKING FIRE TOGETHER. WE did this. we said I AM NOT LEAVING YOU and melted into each other for better or for worse (it’s for better) and we are A FUNCTIONAL UNIT now. DO NOT SEPARATE. BATTERIES FUCKING INCLUDED. FOUND family my ass, we built this non-nuclear family unit from the ground up, don’t devalue this!!! it was is and will be a labour of love!!!

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“The Wedding Dress” by Frederick William Elwell, 1911

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Actual footage from Chapter 5 of The Bellows Book

Ethel has a breakdown and so do we

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Harold and Violet

Feel free to kill me for posting this

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Ephraim pleading with dear old Gertrude to just please not embarrass him when Ethel comes over for dinner on Sunday night

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after mill valley

A little snippet of Ephraim and Ethel post Mill Valley. Ethel works as the head nurse in a small children's ward, and Ephraim has positioned himself as a psychiatrist in the same institution. Slice of life with a reference to Emma Fultz my beloved. Author's note: Yes, I finally figured out how to save Emma from a life of perpetual torture and loneliness in Pennhurst. This plot hole has been bugging me for over a year, so I'm happy to finally begin to wrap it up. Ephraim and Ethel might adopt her, honestly.

- Boston, MA, mid 1899 -

“Ephraim, have you seen my hairbrush?” Ephraim pokes his head out of the bathroom door and peers across the hallway at Ethel. She’s still wearing her dressing gown, and she frantically searches through the clutter on her vanity in search of the hairbrush. He smiles to himself and sets down his comb, placing his hands on her shoulders as he peers down at the vanity. 

Ethel huffs in frustration, having found nothing in the drawers. Ephraim gazes at her in the mirror, smiling as he watches her.

“You know, I could just buy a new one.”

Ethel turns around to look at him, her hair falling into her face. “No,” she says, brushing the stray hair aside. “I’ll find it, eventually. It’s alright.”

She smirks, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. “But I might borrow your comb in the meantime.” “You wouldn’t dare.” Ephraim’s voice is serious, but Ethel knows he’s joking. She smiles, raising an eyebrow as she looks at him. “Oh yes I would, Dr. Bellows. I might even steal your pomade too.” “And what are you going to do with that?” She shrugs. “I’ll hold it hostage, naturally.”

Ephraim rolls his eyes lovingly, turning towards the bed to grab his vest and jacket. “What do you think we’ll have to deal with today?”

Ethel arranges her hair into a bun, pinning it into place as she speaks. “I don’t know. Maybe a stubbed toe or spilled juice?” She smiles, happy to finally be dealing with simple problems, for once. Working in a children’s ward had its challenges, of course, but most days were simple and quiet, due in no small part to the fact that the ward currently held only 3 inhabitants, a fact that she was endlessly grateful for. 

She had seen enough children suffering to last a lifetime. Spilled juice and stubbed toes were a happy respite. 

“What about you?” She asks, standing from the vanity to put on her corset. “How has it been? I haven’t had a chance to ask.” Ephraim adjusts his collar, staring at his reflection in the dresser mirror. “It’s been usual. I sent a letter to Alan three weeks ago, so hopefully he can send the transfer papers soon.” “Oh, I hope so!” Ethel smiles, her eyes gleaming with hope. “After everything she’s been through…..”

Ephraim nods, thinking of the poor girl left to rot in Pennhurst.

This is your fault! You did this to her! You did this-

SHUT UP!

He shakes his head, willing the thoughts away. They’ve lessened considerably since he left Mill Valley, but occasionally they still cling to him, refusing to leave.

“I just hope that she’s alright. Well….as well as she can be, considering.” Ethel nods. “I hope so too. She took it so hard, after Sarah-” She stops herself nearly instantly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.”

Ephraim shakes his head, walking closer to Ethel. “No, it’s alright. You shouldn’t have to censor yourself for my sake.” “I don’t want to upset you.” “Don’t worry, I manage that just fine on my own.” The air hangs thick between the two of them, until Ephraim pats his pockets and continues on with his day, as if he hadn’t just been stricken with images of the horrors he had inflicted, the nightmares that he had only just escaped.

Ethel swallows, watching him closely. She steps forward, taking his hand into her own, mirroring the night Sarah had been found. “I’m always here.” She says gently.

Ephraim nods, his eyes closed, his mind whirring. “I know.” He opens his eyes, smiling stiffly, forcing his demons away. “You’re too kind to me, you know?”

Ethel shakes her head, smiling fondly. “I’m not kind enough.” She counters, breathing deeply.

“You aren’t a bad man, Ephraim. You have a good heart. Don’t forget that.” Ephraim would beg to differ, considering everything that he had done, but she seemed so sincere, so certain, that he didn’t dare defy her.

After a moment of silence, he settles for a simple “If you say so.”

She squeezes his hand before releasing it. “I do.”

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”What if nobody likes my story?” Well do you like it? Your story will always have at least one fan. Write for yourself and the right audience will come along.

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Dressmaking in Paris, 1907.

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sarah's funeral

The family attends the funeral for the sake of their image. Ephraim stands closest to the grave, his hat in his hands. He’s playing the part of the grieving brother so perfectly.

He crumples the brim of his hat in his hands. It will be ruined by the time he gets home, but his family will just order a new one.

That’s what all of this has been for, hasn’t it?

A little money.

Sarah’s dead, and all for a little money.

The little voice creeps in just like it always does, and it makes Ephraim wonder if Sarah ever heard her own version of that little voice. Maybe that’s why she did what she–

YOU KILLED HER!

SHUT UP! SHUT UP!

SHE’S DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU!

I know.

He stares down at the grave, at the little white casket in the newly disturbed dirt. The casket has a viewing window, but his mother had it packed full of flowers to obscure Sarah’s face.

“We don’t need more of them seeing her,” she had said. She ordered the cheapest flowers, and most of them were half wilted by the time they had been laid into the casket.

Ephraim would know. He watched as they were placed inside, and he stood by as the lid was closed and fastened, and he watched as it was carried out to the ground. The grave itself was on hospital property. For all his family’s riches, they were laying their only daughter to rest in a pauper’s grave in an empty field. Her only company were the graves of the other patients who had remained unclaimed or unwanted.

What a fitting place.

This is your fault.

Sarah had been wanted, but not by her family. Emma Fultz stood close to Ethel, her usual sack apron exchanged for a black cotton dress and a wool capelet. Ephraim glanced at her, but she only stared past him with empty eyes, her gaze resting on the little white box. It was December. It was too cold for her thin dress, but she barely shivered as she kept her eyes locked onto the grave. Her hat was off-kilter and too large for her head. 

It was then that Ephraim realized, in horror, that the girl was staring her own future in the face. No one wanted her either, and it would only be a matter of time before she too lay in a pauper’s grave. Everything that his sister had ever done, everything that she had hoped and dreamed for, and everything that she could have been had culminated in this, a sad grave in a barren field. Ephraim shuddered. The shivering girl in the cotton dress was damned to the same fate, and he had been the one to seal it.

He hated himself for it, but it was too late now and there was no one to save her.

No one had saved Sarah, and no one would save him either.

As if you deserve to be saved.

He wanted to scream.

His father coughed behind him, and his mother nudged him slightly as if to say “hurry up.” Ephraim loved his parents, but in this moment he wanted nothing more than to scream at them, to ask them why they would do this, to ask why they made him do this.

They didn’t make you do anything.

You chose this.

You chose to hurt her.

SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!

Ephraim scans the small crowd for Ethel’s face. She wraps her arm closer around the young girl at her side, and not once does she acknowledge Ephraim.

She’s shunned him, just like he knew she would.

You deserve this.

He turns his back to the grave and walks to the carriage. He never once meets his parent’s eyes, not as they settle into the carriage, not as they ride in silence, and not as they walk into the once busy mansion they called home.

Home.

It’s a sick and twisted version of one. Ephraim had realized that a long time ago, but he had always been too blinded to fully see it. This was not a home. It had never been a home.

And it certainly wasn’t one for Sarah.

His parents shed their mourning clothes and settle into their usual routines in the parlor, as if this was any other day and not the day of their daughter’s funeral. For one of the first times in his life, Ephraim truly feels disgusted by them. It’s a strange dichotomy, to love someone and yet hate what they do.

He isn’t sure what to do about this feeling.

Ephraim slips into the basement, and there he finds Sarah’s notebook. It’s full of stories, and he sinks to the floor as he begins to read them. It’s full of stories about ghosts and monsters and fairies, but also of her life. The farther he reads, the more personal the stories become. He feels awful, as if he’s violating Sarah’s life more in this way than he ever had by anything he did while she was alive, but he has to know.

He has to know if she knew that he did care for her.

And then he finds it. A single page, written when she was no more than 6 or 7. It contains nothing more than two words, and a childish drawing.

“Ephraim and Sarah”

Two figures, one a girl and one a boy. They’re in the sun, and they’re smiling.

The next page, another drawing. This one is much more developed and obviously done by a much older Sarah. Yet again, it’s two young children. They sit on the floor, and the girl is covered by a jacket nearly as large as her. The pair shares a piece of taffy, and the same inscription as before accompanies this drawing.

Ephraim has his answer.

She did know, if only for a time.

He wishes that he had given her more taffy.

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SSTTITD is currently on TV, so that's cool :)

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a quiet truth

Synoposis: 19 year old Cáit fills out paperwork for her new apartment. She's stumped when she reaches the emergency contact section, until suddenly she realizes a simple truth....

A fanfiction for the movie "The Quiet Girl" because I've fallen throughly in love with it. Don't worry, I'll still be posting Scary Stories content!!! This is just a temporary break from the usual as I gush about this incredible story.

It’s 11 o’clock on a Saturday, and Cáit stares down at the paper in front of her. The clock ticks quietly on the wall, and the sunlight shines across the green linoleum at her feet. The kitchen is old, musty, outdated…..but it’s hers. She clicks her pen, thinking. The paper stares back at her, it’s font dark and angry. “Name”

“Date of Birth”

“Insurance Number”

And at the bottom of the page, seemingly small and insignificant:

“Emergency Contact,” followed by a blank space.

Another contact, another space.

“Relation to Renter”

Cáit bites her lip, her pen hovering in midair. 

Eibhlín, Seán….

They’re the obvious choice, of course. They’re more her parents than her own flesh and blood.

She thinks of what people will say when they notice the different surnames. 

Kinsella and O’Donnell

‘I was adopted,’ she’ll say. ‘When I was ten.’

It isn’t entirely true, but it isn’t false either.

Eibhlín and Seán had shown her more love than her parents ever had. That much was true.

Cait swallowed. It was decided, then. 

She was sure that the Kinsellas wouldn’t mind. In fact, if either one were there, she was certain that they would insist on being listed as her contacts.

She fills out the sheet, her hands shaking with excitement.

Name: Cáit O’Donnell

Date of Birth: August 7th, 1972

Emergency Contact: Seán Kinsella

Relation to Renter: 

Her hand falters. 

This is it. Now or never….

Relation to Renter: Father

Cáit sighs. It was easier than she thought, and nicer, too.

It was a gentle lie, but also an honest truth.

The next line came easier.

Emergency Contact: Eibhlín Kinsella

Relation to Renter: Mother

Cáit smiles to herself in the musty old kitchen. Eibhlín would be proud. If Seán were here, he would have patted her on the shoulder and produced one of his famous little biscuits, the ones with the cream in the middle.

She thinks back to that summer, to the day she ran after their car. It almost felt as if Seán had been training her for this moment, as if all of those races to the mailbox had been meant to culminate in the moment when she ran into his arms, nearly too late as their car passed the O’Donnell’s gate. Cáit had leapt into his arms and embraced him.

“Daddy, Daddy….” she had whispered, as if it were some secret she had to hold close to her heart. 

Eibhlín had once told her that their house held no secrets, that a house with a secret inside of it was a house filled with shame.

But Seán had also told her that sometimes it was better to say nothing than to say something, and that many men had lost much because of their unwillingness to stay quiet.

Cáit had decided then that some things were best kept as quiet secrets, even if your heart told you to scream them at the top of your lungs.

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And honestly I can’t even blame her....

hey so yall remember this right?

uh, so i’ve had it on the brain as of late for some reason and uh, thought about what it would look like if verna had ended up in that mill valley with those bellows as opposed to the ones from the movie.

and the answer is: it’s incredibly short.

verna is weirded out by literally everything about the place, like she steps foot over the town line and is immediately like “i’m going to crawl out of my s k i n”

she meets the bellows, hates it, hates them, hates their vibe, but lets dolores and arnold talk her into coming into the house, probably out of morbid curiosity and definitely out of politeness, and it’s even worse. something about this house and this family is so extremely wrong she can’t even look dolores in the face and she’s sure as hell not making eye contact with the three sons who look like they’re ready, willing, and able to break her into pieces.

dolores offers her something to drink. coffee? tea? verna declines and leaves the house.

the entire thing happens in less than an hour.