#I might get possessed soon I’ve been nothing but disrespectful to this ghost my bad :|

[siriusfelis]

My dorms are haunted and the ghost won’t leave me alone can this ghost quit knocking on my door I can’t answer I’m busy making an infographic about pin-up art

[supposed2bfunny]

At Times it is Sweet

Birthday fic for Russel!!!

Rating: T

Warnings: Mentions of drug and alcohol use, depression, violence, character depth, the usual Russel stuff. Feel free to ask me to tag anything!

Brooklyn, 1980

The sound of ten feet slapping their way over the creaky floors of the Hobbs’s railroad apartment is nearly deafening. Typically he’d be in a lot of trouble for running in the house, but Russel is pleased to find that he and his four friends are off the hook since it’s his birthday.

“Red Power Ranger go!” he shouts, whipping around the corner, hurtling himself down the basement steps into the den, which is family reverently refers to as the ‘Music Room’ due to the keyboard, the several guitars hung up on the wall, and his father’s beloved collection of vinyl, complete with his 1967 Pioneer that still plays as smoothly as it did when his father was a boy.

“Green Power Ranger, go!”

“Blue Power Ranger, go!”

“Black Power Ranger, go!”

“Silver Power Ranger, go!”

His friends traipse down the stairs after him, and Russel sets his juice box down on the coffee table to assess the room for any bad guys, any imminent danger that they’ll have to fight using their powers, just like in the show.

“Russel,” his mother’s voice comes downstairs. “Daddy doesn’t want you down there with your friends. Come upstairs and we can do cake!”

His friends look at him, torn between the desire to stay in the cool basement, to admire the vintage band posters and shiny instruments, and the desire to go upstairs and imbibe more sugar.

Not one to disrespect his mother, Russel nods. “Okay, guys, we can go back upstairs. But later we have to check the backyard to make sure there aren’t any bad guys.”

Again the apartment is filled with the cacophony of tiny feet on wooden stairs, and as he makes his way up, Russel glances over his shoulder at the Hi-C juice box sitting on the table without a coaster.

His lone act of defiance, he thinks, filling a thrill. Five is going to be a good year.

Brooklyn, 1992

“Okay, big boy, I need you to keep those eyes shut tight and take a bite of this and tell me what you taste.” The excitement in Del’s smooth voice is palpable, and it brushes up against the underside of Russel’s nerves in the most delicious way.

He obeys his friend’s orders, keeping his eyes closed as he takes a forkful of whatever Del has placed in front of him. They’re in a diner, so, vast though the menu may be, he’s fairly certain that whatever he’s about to taste is in fact food, and not some sick trick that his prankster of a friend has concocted.

He always gives Del the benefit of the doubt.

Even though they’re currently all the way under the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, somewhere in south Williamsburg where there seem to be more bars than streetlamps and more drunken, stumbling college students than bars. Every few minutes the sound of a taxi can be heard blaring as someone stumbles out into the crosswalk without looking both ways.

It’s bustling and messy and not at all Russel’s scene. But hey, this diner is playing some Curtis Mayfield, so it’s not all bad. The fries were nothing great, sure, but he enjoyed his turkey club and Del shared his fried shrimp basket. And Del has laughed—not chuckled, but full-body, shoulders back, head heavenfacing, knees wobbling apart as he shakes with mirth laughed—three whole times in the course of the meal.

So he’ll do whatever Del wants to keep the night rolling.

He opens his mouth and it’s soft and sweet and creamy.

“Mm.”

“You taste that, Russ?”

“Yeah,” he says around a tongueful of icing.

“You know what that is?”

“Cake?”

“No shit, Sherlock, really taste it.”

“Mm. Oh! This is,” Russel opens his eyes, just a tad surprised to find Del’s eyes immediately locking on his own, intense and somehow feeling closer than a plastic table apart.

“Real buttercream icing!” he practically shouts. Del has a tendency to shout in diners. He has a tendency to shout most of the time. “It’s not that Crisco shit you get at most places, baby! My buddy works at a print shop in Williamsburg, and he comes around here sometimes after hitting up the bars on weekends. He told me the owner’s wife, she makes these cakes herself every day. That’s homemade, only diner left in Brooklyn that can still claim that!”

Russel is having a hard time swallowing while laughing, but he finally manages. “You’re unbelievable. I can’t believe you dragged me all the way out here for this.”

Del raises a brow. “You saying it’s not delicious?”

Something about the way he tilts his head to look at Russel through his eyelashes, at the way he brushes his dreads back off his broad shoulders as he speaks, something about the way Del’s personality radiates from their cramped booth into every crevice of the sleepy diner makes Russel’s chest constrict slightly in that moment.

“It’s the best cake I’ve ever had,” he says earnestly.

And Del is smiling again, drumming his fists on the table in glee. “Should I order some milk, birthday boy?”

Essex, 1997

When Murdoc passes him the blunt, he takes a hit without hesitation, only to find his eyes watering and his lungs burning as though he just inhaled a mouthful of acetone.

“The fuck is that?” he coughs and his head swims, oh, does his head swim.

Murdoc cackles. “Mate, I don’t ask questions, I just tell my guy to give me whatever the kids are smoking these days. Y’know, when I was a lad, weed was weed. They didn’t mix any synthetic shit in there, and it mellowed you out good.”

“When you were a lad?” Paula scoffs, plopping down into 2D’s lap, a beer in each hand, “when was that, the 1920s?”

“You should talk, Cracker,” he snaps, leering at her. “Your tits are sagging like you’ve already nursed a few tykes.”

“Hey, hey,” 2D wraps a protective arm around Paula’s waist, taking the beer she offers him and knocking back half the bottle in a gulp. “Eyes off my girlfriend, Murdoc. Paula, don’t pick on Muds, okay?”

She snorts and Murdoc grunts, putting his boots up on the coffee table, legs crossed daintily at the ankle.

“So you’re not going to get high with me, Russ. Well, what can we do then to make it a good day for you?”

Despite Murdoc’s less than enthusiastic tone, Russel is secretly touched that all three of his bandmates have made such a fuss about him today. He’s never been good at running the show though, and he doesn’t really have any wild expectations. England still doesn’t feel like home to him, and compared to the proximity of Brooklyn and Manhattan, getting to the bustle of London from Essex feels like a voyage that his friends’ attention spans simply couldn’t hold up to.

Clubbing! Del’s voice suggests somewhere in the back of his mind. See what kind of dance music these tea-drinking limeys like so we can toss it into the album!

“Honestly, just having drinks with you all is enough for me,” he answers demurely, and he can feel Del deflate in his brain. It’s fine; as soon as the conversation shifts, his ghostly friend’s voice will be there again. Del can never stay silent for long. “Okay, actually, here’s my birthday wish: I think we should play ‘It’s Coming On’” at the gig we have this Friday.”

“Absolutely not,” Murdoc snaps. “Can’t you just ask to go to a club or something instead?”

“Why not?” Paula challenges the bassist instantly, and 2D’s brows furrow together and he reaches over his girlfriend’s lap for the painkillers he always keeps nearby. “It’s a good song, it’s not too hard to play. We’ve got most of the lyrics ironed out.”

“Because a major component of the song is Russel’s haunted head! We don’t know how to control when he pops out: what if we go to play and he doesn’t show up? That’s two minutes faceache’ll have to improvise, and the kid can’t even tie his shoe laces.”

“Your fault,” the singer mumbles around a few pills, though he doesn’t look Murdoc in the eye when he says it.

“Del will come out,” Russel says firmly. He can feel rather than hear the excitement bubbling in the corners of his mind. Del is pleased. “He pops out at random sometimes, sure, but he’s never not come up during rehearsal when we need him. We go out on a stage, I guarantee he’ll be there to drop bars so hot your ears’ll burn.”

“Not sure that sounds the least bit pleasant,” Murdoc replies. “Gotta work on your pitch, big boy.”

“Here’s a thought though,” Paula cuts in, “what if Ghost Man pops out and we can’t get him to er, go back in? We’ll have no drummer for the rest of the show.”

“We could end with the song.”

“That’s still banking on him coming out when we need him to,” Murdoc insists. “If he doesn’t show, our grand finally looks rubbish. Russel, you’re great, and your spiritual possession makes you a bloody amazing musician, mate. Plus, I love the aesthetic of having a haunted bloke in my band, really. But it’s my band. I’m not jeopardizing our first gig that isn’t pure shit to satisfy your ego trip.”

“What if we can learn to control Del before the gig?” 2D asks.

“Who?”

“Del,” Russel repeats. “It’s his name. I’ve told you this, Murdoc. And 2D’s got a point. What if we can figure out to how control his comings and goings before the gig, would you give it a shot then? I really think ‘Coming On’ is one of the strongest songs we��ve got right now.”

Murdoc takes another hit, and, having tasted and felt what he’s smoking, it distresses Russel just slightly how his eyes don’t water the least bit, how completely unaffected he seems by the powerful stuff. “Might be worth a shot…”

“Then I can play the melodica!” 2D pipes up happily, jostling Paula slightly.

She slides off his lap to sit beside him. “One week for the four of us to tame a ghost. Brill.”

Beaming, Russel reaches for another beer. Trying to hack his own mysterious possession can wait until he’s a little more tipsy.

“Oi, a toast to the birthday boy!” 2D says, leaning forward and holding up his bottle.

“To Russel!” Paula agrees cheerfully.

“To the bloody best drummer in all of Essex!” Murdoc croaks, holding up his half-drunk bottle of whiskey.

“And hey, to the band,” Russel says, clinking his bottle against three more. “The future is coming on!”

“Ha! Good one Russ,” 2D beams.

Murdoc finds the joke so hilarious that he collapses back into his chair in a fit of giggles. Maybe he’s feeling the effects of all that weed after all.

Pacific Ocean, 2010

He doesn’t think much anymore. It’s not a sharp pain like when his hand split open on glass after Del was shot to death in his car. It’s more of a prickly presence, like sunburn.

Burning. His skin is probably burning in the sun. He could go underwater to hide from the sun; the water is cool and inviting as he floats along on his back. Then he won’t burn.

But it’s so dark below the surface, and if he can’t see, and if sound is muffled by water in his ears, and if every inch of his skin is covered in the same film of saltwater carrying him somewhere south of Argentina, somewhere light pollution ceases to be a concern, somewhere land ceases to be, then what will he feel?

And if he can’t feel, he might have to think.

No, today he will not die. Because a seagull found him where he was hiding in the United States, rotting himself from the inside out on sleepers, and the bird told him that Noodle was alive, that he just had to jump into the ocean, and he could save her.

No sign of Noodle, but that doesn’t mean he won’t run into her. Perhaps she’ll be floating along, sunburned and sleepy too.

He doesn’t think much, so he tries to focus on feeling. In the past day or so, he has begun to go numb save for the sensation of heat on his skin and water on his back. Instead of swallowing saltwater until he sinks to the bottom, he decides to focus on how he feels inside rather than outside, and comes up blank.

He is not sad. Noodle is alive, the seagull told him so, so the grief he’d felt in his body for months and months is pointless. He is not happy. That’s nothing new. He can’t remember what that feels like and it is far too much effort to search for that memory. He is not angry.

Well.

Anger could be a word to describe what he feels about Murdoc disappearing, only to pop up on Twitter talking about making a new album without him. That’s a sting, sure, something blackish red behind his eyes when he closes them, but since anger, and none of these feelings, have any outlets, so he tries to let them go. So much for passing the time.

Something rumbles, and his white eyes scan the sky for clouds, finding none.

Ah. He is hungry. That’s his stomach.

It’s been a lot of days since he’s eaten. It was just before Memorial Day when he jumped into the water, and back in the good old US of A, millions of families have no doubt already had their barbeques. He tries to remember the smell of charcoal, of boiled corn and hamburgers.

It makes his stomach hurt.

His birthday has probably passed, he realizes. Not that it matters. It just would have been nice to have had some company to acknowledge it to. He used to enjoy this time of year, the beginning of summer, the greenification of the earth as bushes and trees and flowers all turned verdant. It had once made him feel hopeful, alive.

But that’s right: he’s already estimated that he’s way down the southern hemisphere. It’s winter here, not summer. He smiles bitterly, and something akin to a laugh shoots out of this throat. It’s an ugly, horrible sound, and with only the slosh of the waves, it reverberates in his head for hours.

Detroit, 2019

“Sit down here, Russel,” Noodle instructs, pointing to the plush recliner in the Spirit House. She’s practically skipping with excitement, one of those ridiculous pointed birthday hats on her head. “We’re going to do presents soon!”

Cigar in mouth, Russel obeys, chuckling as she almost slams into Ace as he makes his way out of the kitchen, sporting a matching hat and a pair of pink oven mitts. “What happened to the candles I bought?” he asks, looking panicked. “We gotta do cake before we do presents, and I can’t find the candles anywhere! I left them right on the counter in the kitchen next to Dee’s Buddha statue and now they’re gone—”

“Don’t get you knickers in a twist,” Murdoc cuts him off, striding into the room in his hole-filled striped sweater and grey skinny jeans. He places a small packet in one of Ace’s mitted hands. “Here you go. Found them by the stovetop; someone must’ve moved them.”

“Thanks boss,” the taller man responds, sounding relieved.

Russel puts his feet up on the ottoman, catches Noodle giving Murdoc a suspicious look before snatching the packet from Ace. “These are prank candles, Murdoc. The kind that won’t go out.”

“Actually they’re essentially sparklers,” the bassist replies with a guilty shrug. “Thought it’d be funny.”

Noodle smacks Murdoc’s arm and storms off with her confiscated candles, muttering to herself in Japanese. Russel puffs at his cigar and tries to hide his smile: with the addition of Ace, their home has become even more chaotic, but it’s highly entertaining. Before he can catch whether or not Murdoc is going to reveal what he did with the candles Ace bought, 2D enters the living room with a large purple bag and plops down on the couch nearest to the recliner.

“Proper Cuban, that?” he asks, pointing to the smoke.

“You know it, Dee. Nothing but the finest. Want a puff?”

“No thanks. Trying to stick to the vape as often as possible. It’s easier on the lungs than cigarettes and such.”

“Well technically you’re not supposed to hold the cigar smoke in your lungs, Dee.”

“I understand that,” he replies, fiddling with the ribbons on the gift bag, “but I don’t trust myself not to do that. So Russ, really, is there anything else that we can do to make this birthday perfect for you? I feel like this is so…simple.”

The drummer smiles, crosses his legs at the ankles. “I’ve seen the way rockstars party. It isn’t for me. I’m being completely sincere when I tell you that all I want, truly, all I want, is to spend time with my family. Some drinks, some good food, that’s it.”

He doesn’t bother telling 2D that this is the first birthday in years that he didn’t wake up in bed feeling paralyzed with anxiety. Or that he has dreamt of windmills falling out of skies and green ocean waves and tasted saltwater so many times that the sound of Murdoc and Ace arguing is welcome relief. It seems pointless to tell 2D that he’s had a Bob Marley song stuck in his head all morning. Or that he plugged in his old iPod today, the one he hasn’t touched since 2005, to remember some of the jams he used to work out to in the mornings when Kong was still his home.

“Russ, as long as that’s what you want, we’re all happy to celebrate like this with you,” the singer promises with a smile, placing a hand on Russel’s shoulder and squeezing lightly.

“Thanks. Forty-four, man, big year. I got big plans ahead.”

“Oh really? You thinking music-wise, or something else?”

Russel’s smile widens and he leans in a little closer. 2D will be the first person to hear him confide his newest and most ambitious goal yet. “I’m thinking a foundation,” he admits. “Starting one myself. A non-profit to bring music to disadvantaged youth. I’ve got some friends who’ve worked for non-profits before who said they can help me get if off the ground.”

“Russ that’s huge!” 2D gasps, slapping the arm of the couch in excitement. “We’ll help too! With funding, with travel, Muds can probably help connect us to some producers who might know others who can help out!”

“I was planning on asking you all for help today. That’s my big birthday request, my next goal in life.”

The singer smiled and pointed to the bag on his lap. “You’ll still want the dress I got you too though, right? Very pretty, my mum helped me pick it out.”

He eyes the bag eagerly, suddenly wanting very much to start presents soon even though he had told himself earlier that day that he didn’t need anything more material in this world. “I’ll…I’ll still take the dress, yeah. Thanks buddy.”

“Cake time!” Ace crows, making his way out, carrying a very large, impressive cake on a try, candles alight on top. True to Ace’s perfectionist nature, the cake is one of the most beautiful things Russel has ever seen that wasn’t commissioned by a professional baker. Blue and purple icing create cloudlike flowers, and the top of the cake looks like a bass drum with Russel’s name etched across it in script. “Hey boss, get your ass inside, you can smoke later! Time for happy birthday!”

“Wait till you try this,” Noodle says, leaning in to hug Russel tight as Ace sets the cake down on the coffee table and Murdoc rushes in from his smoke break in the backyard. “Ace is a great baker. Real buttercream icing. Like nothing you’ve ever tasted!”

She goes to pull back, but he pulls her into one last hug, hearing 2D “awww” beside him.

“Thanks for gathering the troops,” he tells her.

“Russel, we’re family,” she replies. “It’s our pleasure to be here with you today. To celebrate.”

“Well then,” the drummer sets his cigar down in an ashtray and leans in to blow out the candles. “Let’s celebrate.”

[sherrybaby14]

She’s Not There Part 2

THIS IS A SMALL UPDATE!  PLEASE READ MY NOTE.

Part One (I’m on mobile so here is the ugly link: https://sherrybaby14.tumblr.com/post/163765465257/shes-not-there. )

Summary:  After returning to the States you struggle to understand Arthur’s book as much as he struggles to let you go.

A/N: I got more requests for small updates than a large one.  Goal is to have this done by Friday! Also, this was for a challenge I signed up for and then the host left tumblr because of hate.  I miss her, and please be nice to each other. This is based on The Zombie’s She’s Not There

Warnings:  Swearing? Bad thoughts?  (No smut!) I did make some fan fiction jokes, but they’re meant to be poking fun.

Characters:  Reader and Ketch

Words: 2800

Tags: (I’m tagging all who requested a part 2, please ignore if you’re not interested) @kellyn1604 @kellyn1604 @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @negan-is-god @celestiial-angel @sea040561 @knightxdetective @aquivercactus @granger49677 @justafangirlinaspnworld-blog @rubberducky999 @mick-deserved-better (forever tags) @thecynicalnerd @marauderice

@mac5323 @idonthavehusbandsihavelovers @i-am-negan-trash @roschelesworld @taintedgenre @screeching-pterodactyl-fangirl

To say the book was weird would be an understatement.  You never read Chuck Shurley before, but you thought his work had more…plot.  The thing read like a user manual or a report.  That didn’t mean it was bad though, in fact once you were done with the first read you started again.  

It had to have been a companion, for the super fans.  But you didn’t think those novels were popular enough, or had super fans.  There was no way the suave Brit was running around in his free time going to fan conventions, he was way too uptight for that sort of thing.  

When you landed your car was at the airport, all your possessions still in your trunk.  You drove straight to a cheap motel and got a room for the week. The way back meant flying against the time change and it was actually earlier in the day than it had been when you left, but sun-up or not you were exhausted.

Once you were in your room you plopped down on the bed.  You reached into the bag on the floor and pulled out Arthur’s book. Right now you were regretting not getting a way to contact the man.  You wanted to tease him about his super fan status and a smile came to your face imagining his response.

“A man needs a hobby darling.” You tried your best British accent. “Or: I said I worked with monsters.”

The smile fell off your face and you opened the book again.  No.  He couldn’t have been literal, besides, monsters didn’t exist.  You rolled your eyes, certain now that you were much to tired to think clearly.  You wondered what the British man was doing at the moment, your heart hurting at the thought of ditching him the way you had.

Of course it was for the best. He was getting too attached, and who knows? Maybe you would have caved and made a mistake by staying in England with a complete stranger?  America was where you belonged and you were far to level headed to change your entire life for a man.  

The memory of his tongue on yours, his hands running up your sides brought the smile back to your face as you drifted off to a sleep, clutching the only memento of the man who gave you one of the best week’s of your life.

~~~  

It was almost ten o’clock on a Sunday, long quitting time, but Ketch had no plans on leaving as he continued to flip through the photos of every single American hunter.  There had to be some connection to his Amy. Some would call him an obsessive man, but he saw it more as drive.  

“What are you doing here?” Mick walked into the library with a book in hand.

“Research.” Ketch did not look up from the computer.

“I’ve said it before, but don’t bother trying to find her.” Mick put away his book and went to the table Ketch was at. “The girl is a ghost.” “Except for she isn’t.”  Another female who looked nothing like Amy was on the screen. He was long passed the point of searching for her.  Now he was looking for parents, or a siblings, or even a cousin.  Anyone that shared a feature was being added to a list.  

“It’s been three months.” Mick looked concerned. “We’ve tried every angle.  She’s not there.”

Arthur glared at Mick. Right now he wanted to hate his colleague, but the man had  assisted in the search.   “With out a town or a state it’s impossible.”  Mick shook his head. “There’s no mention of her on any research involving hunters. Until Dr. Hess wants to invade America our hands are tied.”  

“She has let them run rampant over there.  It will happen soon.” Ketch knew Mick agreed.

“The country has over thirty million people. Even when that happens how likely are you to find your Amy?” Mick raised his eyes brows. “There are plenty of birds over here.  We could go that pub you like near your place, maybe one will wander in.”

Ketch clenched his fist. Of course Mick had no clue that was how he met his Amy, but the suggestion was rubbing salt in his wounds.  Maybe Mick was on to something though.  Three months was the longest Ketch had been celibate since losing his virginity.  It might be nice to find some release.  

Of course his mind wet to Amy and who she may have fucked over the past three months.  A rage ignited inside him at the idea of anyone touching her.  He would rip them to shreds with bare hands and make her pay for letting another person near what belonged to him.  Amy was his possession, she may have stole herself away but that did not relinquish his ownership.  Of course any punishment she received would only happen if Ketch could control his anger upon seeing her again.  Sometimes he fantasized about squeezing her beautiful neck until the life vanished from her eyes.  She deserved it for what she was putting him through.

“Are you alright mate?” Mick broke his concentration.

“Let’s get that drink.” Ketch flipped off the computer and stood up to his colleague’s surprise. “Not that pub though. I want to head to the tourist area. One of those clubs has to be open.”  

Mick nodded and turned to leave the room.  Ketch followed behind him.  He would never give up.  She had taken something more important than the book, something Ketch hadn’t meant to hand out to her.  His heart.  The first woman to ever do so, and what did she do with such a precious gift? Destroyed it.  Oh she would pay, one way or another, she would get what was coming to her.  Ketch would never let her get away with such disrespect.

~~~

The economy sucked and that meant ending up in a crappy job that had nothing to do with your major.  The plus side of not having a family and living out of motel rooms meant it was easy to pack up and leave.  And so you did, cruising across America until you found another crappy job you got sick of.

You arrived in Denver and took as an assistant manager doing retail.  It was stupid, your first day you knew it would be like every other job you worked the past six months.  You gave it six weeks tops before you left the store.  There was an urge inside you to do something that mattered, but you couldn’t figure out what that was yet  

In your free time you read every Supernatural book you could get your hands on.  There was no Amazon prime available for those bad boys though.  You were right, they were not that popular which meant checking out used book shops, eBay, and the occasional comic book shop.  Of course your newest occupation was right next to one of those and, lucky for you, they were open late.

The bell to the store rang when you pushed open the door.  You made a bee line to the clerk behind the desk.  

“Hi.” You gave him your biggest smile. “Do you carry any Supernatural books?  And not just books about the Supernatural, but a specific series called Supernatural by…”

“Chuck Shurley!”  The man said the name at the same time as you.  

“You’ve heard of them before?”  Your heart about jumped out of your chest. In six months this was your first conversation with another fan.  

“Heard of them?  I go to the convention every year! I cosplay Sam.”  He was your height, much to short for the younger Winchester. On top of that his hair was too long, and he lacked the muscular build of Sam.

You shook your head, that didn’t matter.  

“Convention?” You didn’t know one existed.

“We like to keep it small.” The man tucked his shoulder length hair behind his ear. “We don’t want it to turn into a Walker-Stalker con.  Only true fans allowed.  It’s by invitation only, happens every fall.  If you’re interested I could get you on the list. You would make a killer Tamara, or maybe a Jo.  What about one of the Rubys?  Yeah! Ruby! She’s a demon and can look like anyone.  Or you could dress as a little girl and be Lilith!”

“Right.”  You smiled and gave a nod, pretty sure that not many women attended this thing. “Maybe next year.”

“Don’t have any in stock.”  The man shook his head. “And if I did, I would probably keep them.”

“So you’re an expert?” You were almost giddy.

“Is Bella the worst thing to come out of Great Britain?”  The man puffed his chest out.

Again, you didn’t know how to answer, since that character had yet to appear in the few copies you’d obtained.

“I’m a newbie to these books, but it seems like there are an awful lot of characters. Do you know if a guide exists? Like a companion book?”  You batted your eyelashes.  

“There is a crappy wiki, but it’s run by this guy Lane.  He thinks that he is the perfect Sam.”  The man raised his fist. “But he has short black hair!  How can Sam have short hair?  Fucking Lane.  The site is a piece of shit too.  He thinks that Lucifer is a blond. I keep saying that’s not what he looks like, it’s just a vessel, but every time I make the edit Lane changes it back. I shouldn’t bother with it.  Maybe I should make my own….”

Realizing that the guy was going to drone on and on forever you reached into your bag.  Looking around the store like you had some piece of treasure you pulled out Arthur’s book.  

“So you’ve never seen this before?”  You were hesitant to hand it over, but wanted answers and this was as good as you were going to get without scanning the thing and putting it online.  

“No.” The man examined the fancy binding before opening it up.  “Someone put a lot of time into this.”  

You tapped your fingers on the counter,  not enjoying how long the man held your book for.  In fact you found yourself starring at his hands, unsure how long it had been since he washed them.  That was Arthur’s book.  Nobody else should be touching it.  You went to grab it back, but stopped yourself.  You were sounding like a crazy person.

“Someone took a lot of time to make this.” He looked up and turned the book around towards you. “But these pictures of Sam and Dean are ridiculous.  Sam isn’t that tall.  And they’re hunters, not models.  I’ll still throw you a bone, how about two hundred for it?”

“Excuse me?”  You wouldn’t part with the book for a million.  

“Fine, you called my bluff.  Five hundred.” The man went blank faced.  

“It’s not for sale.”  You shook your head. “I just wanted to know if you had seen a copy before.”

“This isn’t a copy.”  The man leaned forward and flipped to the front. “There’s no source information.”

You had noticed that before.  He flipped to a random page and ran his fingers down.

“This ink is high quality.  Not what would be used on a Supernatural paperback.”  He went to the end. “This stuff about a bunker?  It’s not in the books.  To me, this is high quality fan fiction.”  

He ran his fingertips down the page.  

“And from a quick scan it contains no smut.”  He shut the book and set it on the counter. “A very rare find.  Did you make this?  Because if you want to mass produce this, we can go 50/50. I’ll make copies and distribute through my channels.  We could sell them for a thousand a pop.”

You picked up the book, wanting it out of the man’s grasp.  He tensed and went for it.  

“Like I said, it’s not for sale.”  You put the book back in your bag and clutched it to your side, happy you trusted your initial instinct not to scan the pages and put them online.

The last thing on your mind was the money as you started out the store.

“Wait!” The man jumped the counter.  

You didn’t pause as you went outside.  

“I’ll pay you a thousand just to read it.”  He followed you into the parking lot.  

“Sorry no.”  You sped walked to your car, holding your back in front of you.  

“I will give you a copy of every book in the series just to read it.”  He was right behind you.  

You did not turn around.  Arthur’s voice running over and over in your head. I work with monsters.  The bookshelf in his apartment, filled with these bound books that looked the same.  It didn’t make any sense.  

“Please Miss.” He stopped following you. “I am sorry I tried to low ball you.  That thing is priceless. Just let me read the part about the bunker.”

You didn’t respond as you kept walking to your car.  His footsteps picked up again and you took off sprinting.  There was enough distance between the two of you for you to dive into your front seat and hit the lock button before he made it to the window.  

“Ten thousand dollars.  I will mortgage my house.”  The man was on the other side of the glass.

You didn’t look at him as you turned over the engine and sped out of the parking lot.  In the rear view window you saw the look of pure frustration on his face.  It shook you to your core.  If he was that frantic about it, that meant one thing.  He was asking himself the same question you were.  Was it real?

The idea had been eating away at you for some time.  To the point you were debating on buying a plane ticket back to England, ready to sit in that damn pub every night until Arthur showed up.  If a credit card company would have approved you you would have by now. Arthur.  Even thinking his name made your heart ache.  

It had been six months since you left England, and not a day went by you weren’t thinking about the man.  Were you too harsh?  Did you not realize what was in front of you, too distracted by logic to open your heart to the possibility that what you had was real?  

The memory of him filling you up, your wrists in his hand as he rocked inside of you.  So many nights you had tried to find him online.  Even making a Facebook page with a whopping 23 friends.  All you had to go on was Arthur in London.  How could you not think to ask his last name?  Imagining the primal look in his eyes made you moan out loud in your car.  If you didn’t have the resources to get back to him you had to do the next best thing.  

Denver was another bust.  You were going to head back to the motel to grab your stuff, but you wouldn’t be staying the night there.  You were fighting the inevitable.  If you couldn’t get to Arthur to answer your questions you were going to the next best place. Lebanon Kansas.  Maybe the bunker would be there or maybe you would find nothing and get some closure as to whether Arthur’s world was real or not.  

If Sam and Dean Winchester existed maybe they knew how to get in contact with Arthur.  But was that what you wanted?  Arthur back?  His smiling face at the pub your final night in London flashed in front of your eyes.  He was a man of many sides, maybe you had given up on him too soon.    

[bonesandpoemsandflowers]

I used to go to various spooky cities pretty regularly, just for fun. Aesthetic, fun, spooky dates and spooky love, tres goth, whatever. The past few years I have had much less time for fun, and that’s been mostly on purpose.

But the LAST time I went somewhere spooky for fun, it was Savannah, not New Orleans, in, hmm, summer 2015? Yes. The weekend before my best friend died, you see, not that I knew that was going to happen when I--well--I’m getting head of myself.

Bunch of highly personal spiritual shit under the cut. Don’t click if that’s not your bag. If it is your bag, I hope you like skeletons.

I grew up Santera, right. I was dedicated to Oshun at an early age. My mother got more into Vodou as time went on, and in Miami, at least, those lines are really blurry. But like all kids that grow up in bomb ass mystery religions, I went through a rebellious Wiccan early teen and-it-harm-none hippie dippe phase. As you do, honestly. It’s a thing.

And then, as an adult, for most of my adult life, I was an atheist. I never talk about this, and I kind of hem and haw and skirt the issue of what exactly I do now, despite the occasional witchy post. I was never an obnoxious atheist, and arguably I was never a really good atheist, because it’s not so much that I didn’t believe, but that I decided I shouldn’t, and that’s not the same thing. But time went on and I managed to bury that kernel of belief very deep. I didn’t want to come across as credulous. Give me my GMOs, give me my artificial sweeteners, give me all the fucking science and none of your anti-science bullshit that you wrap up in absurd and appropriated tidbits of mysticism.

(and a lot of that stands, actually. give me my GMOs.)

So: I was an atheist, and I was trying very hard.

Certain powers, you see, are patient.

I kept the aesthetic and my cultural pride, though--Oshun and Erzulie always got my hushed little prayers in quick mind whispers. Oshun got votive candles no matter how far from belief I allegedly got, and to Erzulie I gave my skin--and this was a devotional act, full stop, despite everything else I claimed to not believe. And the ocean, I never stopped worshiping the ocean in one sense or another, and even my poetic obsession with the ocean is devout.

however.

however.

Someone I shoved out of the picture entirely.

Certain powers, you see, are indulgent. They’ll wait for your silly little human insecurities to play out. up to a point.

In my dreams since I was a child I have been friends with a decomposing skeleton wearing a tophat. As I got older I recognized who that was supposed to be.

I don’t even remember when or specifically why I threw out my magic shit and put my Baron bust in a closet, but I did. I couldn’t get rid of the Baron Fabulous bust, even though I tried to make myself want to do that, so I climbed on top of my kitchen counter and shoved it into the back of a pantry far too high for me to reach.

And then and only then did I make any real progress in pretending to be a legit atheist. Out of sight, out of mind, out of life, motherfucker!

So the point is, I went to Savannah in full on sneering mode. “Hah! This hotel claims to be haunted! What a quaint marketing strategy. Midnight one man show of ghost stories in a historic theater? Sure, I like atmosphere and aren’t people so suggestible?. After hours tour of a huge famous cemetery? Hahaha sure whatever that’s cute, thanks for booking us for that, babe. Let me prance through here and not say hello and leave no offerings, let me laugh and sneer and make fun.

Anyway, so then I had the single most terrifying weekend of my entire life.

I have had a lot of mundane real life scary shit happen to me. And I’ve had a bunch of weird shit happen to me. And yet I have never, ever told anyone the full story of what happened to me in Savannah. I can’t. Even if I sat you down, looked you right in the eye, and told you everything, and you believed me--I would not be able to explain to you the DEPTH of everything, how it felt. What it meant.

And what played out soon after.

I joke about this weekend, but only because I’m making fun of myself. For being an idiot. And a rude idiot, too. So disrespectful.

I took most of this in stride at the time--sort of. I flailed around and I panicked and I knew I had to make some changes. Years after I had put him there, I scaled my kitchen counters, pulled the Baron out of my pantry closet, put him up on a prominent bookshelf in my apartment and said, basically, “MY BAD I’M SO SORRY.”

I mention this, sometimes, and I mention my best friend dying, and I think some people think that I’m implying a cause and effect relationship there. Absolutely not. In no way whatsoever. I don’t think magic works that way at all, and, frankly, I’m insulted you think my deity so petty.

I knew someone was going to die. I knew. I don’t mean in a nervous, jittery, “am i losing my mind?” kind of way. I don’t mean in an anxious gnawing preoccupation kind of way. I don’t mean in a doubtful dreading way. I don’t mean paranoia. I don’t mean fear. I don’t mean anxiety.

I mean that I knew. I knew someone close to me was going to die. I knew that was nothing I could, or should, do about it.

I was being warned, not as a threat, but as a kindness.

I knew. When we called the cops and the cops eventually called us and the door was getting bust open at 3 something AM, I knew. I was there and fully awake and well dressed.

Why? Because I fucking knew.

I didn’t put on pajamas that night. I showered and changed into a fresh set of clothes.

“What are you dressed for? Come to bed.”

Fine, I’ll come to bed. But I won’t sleep.

And I didn’t. Because I knew. I knew I was just going to have to get up and get dressed again, and I knew why.

And so it was, and at 2 something AM, we got the call, and I soberly drove us over to my best friend’s neighborhood, and I knew.

Did it still hurt? like a MOTHERFUCKER. like you will not believe unless you’ve lost someone that close to you, and if you have, I am sorry.

So it wasn’t the terrifying weekend that brought me back.

It was that warning, that kindness. That mercy.

And oh, did it still hurt. My friend who died was my best friend and also my best social outlet. We used to go dancing every weekend and he was a b boy in addition to being a personal trainer and a huge nerd. I adored him. Z adored him. And he adored us.

So his death was a big deal. And his death, so close to my personal decision to come back to magic, that was a big lifestyle change.

I’ve written about that before, and how then I slowly became a hermit in a tower. Hermitage. Spiritual hermitage along with the writing, along with the increase in physical discipline. I have learned many things. Not half as much as I’d like? Sure. Nonetheless.

But there was a lot of terror, at first. And a whole  lot of other emotions. And I haven’t sorted that out yet.

Here’s what I’ve only just realized, though.

That weekend, and what came soon after, and that process I went through? That is a bonafide reawakening, my friends. That is some born again shit. That might seem obvious in the telling, but it WASN’T, as it was happening.

You don’t realize that change is going to stick, sometimes, and even when you say “things will be different now,” you don’t know what that’s going to mean.

and don’t get me wrong: I was, for a time, VERY distracted from the spiritual quest.

There are shamanistic traditions that talk about cracking open the head as a form of initiation.

Now, I’ve had my head literally cracked open--or more accurately, carefully drilled open by a highly skilled neurosurgeon. So, check, I guess.

But when I look back at the absolute, like--

Everything that’s happened since then.

So much has happened since then.

And so much happened as a result of that weekend, and the thing is, it was a total confluence of events that brought me to Savannah, nothing of my doing, really. A hottie booked me a romantic trip and so I went, duh. Wouldn’t you?

But so here I am, all these years later, which isn’t even really that many years later, and my world is so fundamentally different. So much has changed and I didn’t even notice it changing at the time. And so much has remained the same, too, and I am forever grateful for those precious constant things. I love you, my constant star, and I always will.

But body, soul, aesthetic, skill set, academic knowledge, everything! So much is different! So! fucking! much! AND I lost all my material possessions!

And here I am, booking a hotel, grabbing a friend, and making my way to New Orleans. Just for the weekend. If a confluence of events brought me TO Savannah, it almost feels like this has been the opposite. I have been so stressed lately, about everything. I didn’t think I was going to be able to swing this, period, let alone last minute. But you know, really? So much fell into place for me, here and now. There’s been so much luck. So much grace.

So even if, like, nothing happens--even if I somehow manage to have the most boring weekend ever, which I’m SO not going to do, but whatever, even if--there’s still something, something...

An initiation? Not exactly, I don’t think. A rite? A proof? I don’t know, exactly.

A chance to apologize? Well, yes. Always more of those.

But I think of the last couple of years, and I think of the future plans I’m trying for.

And I feel, more than anything

That my divinity is loving to the point of indulgence, and understanding, and kind--

but ultimately, ultimately, if he holds out his bony hand

I still have to step up and take it.

Ten years ago, in my dreams, he asked me a question.

And only now am I finally saying:

yes.

What does saying yes look like? What will that mean? I can’t see the shape of it yet. And it honestly kind of doesn’t matter.

yes, yes, yes.

[sending-the-message]

The Campbell's by moonring_

I’ve always been proud of my granddad. He’s still alive, on an Irish farm that overlooks a small mountain. Every summer we bond by trekking up and down this mountain (which he owns might I add, no trespassing), and after every small ruin of a house, he loves to tell me the stories of who lived there, if he remembers them, what they did and how they died. As a teenager I loved these stories, I was always so interested in social history and how the old Irish folk lived. To top off the little annual cultural trips, (and what used to keep me up at night), he told me ancient stories the superstitious old folk once believed. These included orally passed down tales of fairies, ghosts, the banshee, and other creatures; of people offering their things to the fairies in order to be left alone and playing cards with the devil in a bet for their own souls. My story begins about one particular ruin up this mountain – the Campbell house, situated at the very top in between two bending oak trees. What I was simply told about it was the Campbells’ lived there during the time of the Great Famine (1840s); they had 10 children that all grew up and left for England or America in search of a better life, and were never heard of again. The parents then died, and the house left to the elements because they couldn’t find relatives. Now here it stands as a few crumbled walls nearly 170 years later. No Campbells have been in the area since, the neighbours have all died and that’s all we’ll ever know about them.

Right? Wrong. I needed to know more, I felt there was more to the story than this. You know when you just get a creepy but alluring feeling about a place? I had that. All other ruins had something more to them; an untold tale, a character. A naughty maid sleeping with the master of the house perhaps, or a fairy’s curse put on the family due to theft or disrespect for the ancient creatures. But this ruin was too old for any living person to know its secrets. Nothing was left of it bar old stone walls and crags in the ground where potatoes were grown, but I felt in my heart its untold mysteries needed brought to life. So this summer I went alone up the mountain to explore myself. I parked my car at my granddads place while he was away and began my journey. He always gets very uneasy when I go for a walk around the area alone (although I’m 21), but I guess he’s just protective of his granddaughter. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and I’ll be back in time before he comes home. It took me nearly an hour to walk through marsh land, barbed wire and sheep shite before I reached the enchanting ruins, but I soon began exploring the place. I really didn’t know what it was I wanted to find, but I looked under every rock, beside every wall to find some clue of the mysterious Campbells. And what did I find? Nothing. What did I expect really, there’s been no habitable life bar sheep and cows on this thing for 150 years.

As I was ready to give up and go home (my hands were freezing and wind was cutting my face), I noticed the Brannigan ruins opposite the Campbell ruins, and thought what the hell, may as well make a day out of it. This house was much better preserved, as relatives of the Brannigans had lived here right up until the 1950s. It still had a tin roof and some things inside, like an old stove, a teapot, a shoe etc - all typical things you’d find in an abandoned cottage. The place inside was much darker because it actually had a roof, so I took out my phone and started looking through all the cool little creepy things inside. As I looked at the beams above (must have been a thatched roof before it was tin), I noticed some papers wrapped up in cord perched between the beams and the tin. It was very high up, impossible for me to reach and hardly noticeable, but I began to get very excited thinking it was old photos or letters. I grabbed the table at the side of the room and bringing it to the middle, I got on top of it and was just able to reach the pile of papers. Lots of dust fell in my face though and I dropped them on the floor. When I had wiped myself down, I noticed I had really hit the jackpot.

Inside the folded up newspapers lay a diary. What better way to find out social history than a diary! I grabbed it and took it outside into the light, and running over to the big oak tree by the Campbell ruin, I opened the cord and read a story that has changed me ever since. This was no Brannigan diary, but the diary of Martha Campbell, wife of James Campbell, mother of 5 girls and 5 boys. This biography was a tale about their livelihoods, their downfalls, and their deaths. I thought Irish folklore was nonsense, but these letters still haunt me and made me question what is real and what is not.

I don’t have time to write out every single entry, and to be honest they’re not all exciting, not the first ones anyway. They start off as normal but they end, well, I’ll show you. The famine years were clearly hard:

June 5th, 1845

Praise the Lord my 10th child is born and I am well. He is named Henry James Campbell, a blessing to us and our home. Mr Campbell and the children are busy digging the first of our potatoes, and I pray to God they are healthier than the ones last year – a good to a half of them bad. We cannot starve for another winter, not with a new mouth to feed. My sister Bridget is off to England to find work, and my heart grieves for her well-being. She has not yet seen my new born and the likelihood is she never will. The twins cry because they are hungry and there is no consoling them. They have nightmares that we are cursed never to grow fresh food again. I wish they would stop with their terrible imaginations, it puts us all in an ill humour. The priest will soon be round with bread and stout to ease our suffering, but he has many a rounds to do as the towns folk are also poor and starving. Mrs McCullough tells me the fishermen are catching naught. We are heavily relying on this new batch of potatoes to fend us from death’s door.

But the Campbells had something dark stirring. There was only an entry every couple of months, but the entries during 1854 really sent shivers down my spine.

  December 15th 1853

Three years have passed since I buried my first born Thomas, but I feel he is still with me. I hear knocks on the walls and doors at night, I have dreams of him staring in through my bedroom window and the twins suddenly scream at the corner of the room and run crying. I have seen shadows in the field and I think of him. I feel he is protecting us. Mr Campbell does not believe me and thinks me wicked for imaging a ghoul like figure when there is only the living, a heaven and a hell. I have begun reading my Bible more often and I keep my Bible close at hand for two purposes. I often lose it then find it turned upside down or thrown across the room, but I also keep it for solace sake. I feel Thomas is playing games with me, he always loved to play. I will light a candle for him this Christmas.

  February 9th 1854

Now he believes me. Thomas has returned praise be to God. Although his presence gets louder and I now feel him constantly. The other children are too frightened to share a room with me, but I tell them they should not be frightened of their eldest brother. They say they see a cloud of darkness around me and I speak in an unknown language in my slumber. They have such wild imaginations, children. Thomas did frighten them once but I shouted at him for it. He sometimes hisses from the corner at them in the darkness and claws them while they sleep. He makes figures of wolves with red eyes and a handful of snakes in the bedsheets. He is awfully jealous for my attentions but all my children need disciplining. Even Mr Campbell is uneasy when spending time with me and would rather work in the fields. Does he neglect all his children? His firstborn son? I am content that all my children are returned home, why can my family not be.

  March 23rd 1854

He is thirsty. He is thirsty and he wants blood. But I love all my children. Why not me? I am his, he wants me to himself. He whispers to me at night. I cannot sleep for my mind is awake to his whisperings. My child. My dear. I long for death. My children long for death. They suffer. They suffer in an unprofitable world. I could ease their suffering. With a pillow. With a knife. Thomas will be with me always. The rest would never leave if I soothed them. If I eased their pain. I am almost convinced. I am a mother and my duty is to protect all my children. From the world. From themselves. From me. Oh Lord into your kingdom I commend my spirit. Show me the light for all I see is darkness and death.

  June 2nd 1854

They are gone. My children. Mr Campbell conspired against me and they are gone. They are banished from me and all I do is weep and pray. He sent them away to the farthest place from me so I may die with a broken heart. He says I am unfit, I have invited a spirit to harm our family and I am possessed with the devil himself. What lunacy, he should be tested not I. I still have my Thomas about me but my living darlings, they are departed for the sea. I tried to ease the twins of their sufferings. And my dearest Henry, he saw. He was ashamed, he cried. But I was doing the Lords work. For heaven is the goal, not this life. My darling angels all in heaven. With Thomas. Oh glory be to God in the highest! But now my heart will never mend and my wailings never cease. They are gone into the world to suffer, when I offered them rest. Thomas still whispers to me at night, and the Priest will not enter the house unless he is guarded with holy water. He empathises with Mr Campbell, he says I am mad and doing the devils work. They know nothing. They are not mothers. They will rue the day they took my babies from me.

  August 7th 1854

Tonight. Tonight I am a widow. Mr Campbell is not my husband, he is an imposter to sever Thomas from me. This I will not allow. My last child he will not take. The banshee will cry her terrible wail and I will be free.

  Here the entries end, and I was thoroughly freaked out. I ran over to Brannigans and put the diary back where I found it. I didn’t need to know the untold mystery. It should remain untold. My guess is the Brannigans found the murder scene at the Campbells and the diary, and took the diary to be kept and never found. I’ll never know what happened to Martha and to be frank, I don’t even want to know. I’m too disturbed. Maybe the neighbourhood know the secret and refuse to tell it, maybe my granddad even knows. But what I know is, I sure as hell will never come back up here alone. Some past mysteries should be kept in the past.