#I'm fine and I spooked myself and while I think I DID trap something in that room that wanted to leave

[beyondthetemples-ooc]

...This lotion I have smells like a sandalwood incense blend, and it's making me so nostalgic.

(It's this one if anyone's wondering, it's wonderfully moisturizing and does NOT leave my hands feeling greasy at all! Which is a MIRACLE for me with lotion! Also it smells lovely if you like sandalwood. Sisu likes the smell so much, he keeps trying to lick it off my hands.)

Anyways. I haven't used sandalwood incense in so long... The smell brings me back to being 15, meditating for three hours at least twice a week...

I'm so glad that for the first four years of my neopagan practice, I had a separate room to meditate in. Because I was under the impression that a lot of neopagan people are well into their adulthood, that "if it's natural, it's safe." Including for pets.

That is NOT the case. Not at all! Many things are toxic or unsafe to pets, even if they're made with the most organic materials you can find! (Hell, plenty of organic stuff is toxic to humans...)

I didn't know that burning incense and candles was dangerous for my birds! But luckily, SO so luckily, there was an entire Other Room I'd do all that in.

The only exception was when I got Spooked^tm by a weird sound after a Samhain night with some friends and a ouija board (don't judge me, and don't worry, nobody got possessed). Anyways, I burned a shitload of sage to smoke cleanse the whole room (attic room AND the room with the birds, just in case the thing I suspected was lingering Moved), and Fizzy (my first ringneck dove) started coughing/wheezing. Luckily I was able to figure out what was wrong and snatched him and held him right in front of an open (screened) window.

He stopped wheezing in a couple minutes, but it was scary in the moment. Nowadays if anything like that happened, I'd be rushing my wheezing bird to MedVet because statistically, if you're hearing noises, there's probably already fluid in those lungs. Which for birds, can turn very deadly very quickly.

Which is why it is a VERY good thing I never burned 2 sticks of incense and like 9 candles in the room where my birds were.

Nowadays I don't use incense or candles at all, actually, because of course the birds are in my room, the same one I meditate/spellcast in, but I now know that even having them In Another Room is risky for the birds. So I just. Don't burn ANYTHING unless I'm outside.

I'm well practiced enough that I could meditate while standing in line at airport security if I wanted to, anyways. I don't need the whole sensory aid thing anymore. ;P

I will admit, it was Nice, but having Alive Healthy Birds is even nicer.

[empty-cryptid]

👾

Spooky story, eh? Well...

One story that has never left me since reading it about 10 years ago is "The Russian Sleep Experiment" found on Creepypasta. It's not for the faint of heart, if you decide to look it up.

When I was a kid, I had a book of poetry about dogs. One of the stories was about a dog that haunted a forest. He was a skeleton dog in cowboy boots and you knew he was coming if you heard rattling bones in the woods at night. I think his name was something like Dry Bones or Bones, but I can't remember the book title, I don't have it anymore. It spooked me at the time. If we are talking about classic spooky stories, The Monkey's Paw was a book I found very unsettling. It also made me more aware of different meanings and interpretations words can have.

If I look at personal stories, I've had a few spooky things happen to me. 

Under the cut, is the story of my experience with a haunted house. It’s my favorite story to tell and completely true. If you want another spooky story, HERE is my haunted forest story. It’s also completely true.

CONTENT WARNING FOR HAUNTINGS, DEMONS, GHOSTS, ETC. BELOW THE CUT.

I Once lived in a haunted house.

Alrighty, so I had lived there for about a month in a room in the basement. The basement itself was completely filled with boxes, furniture, and other random items. The landlady was a hoarder.

There was a small walkway, carved out of the many boxes, that I could use to get to my room. It was so small, I had to turn sideways in some places and I am a fairly small to average sized person. I always wondered what was in the basement among the many boxes and worried that it would all fall down and I'd be buried in stuff until someone found me. My first impression was very uncomfortable.

So I stayed for a while anyway, it was cheap rent and I didn't have anything else lined up. The landlady was religious and I figured that is what the holy water and blessed salt was for...I really wish she had told me the truth up front.

One night, I close the door, get into bed and turn off the light as usual. I fall asleep with the usual amount of difficulty I have every night and all seems just fine.

Now, this house has no indoor pets, no children, and the landlady did not fit down the narrow walkway. I am the only one that could possibly be in my room. So when I feel the blanket is tugged a little, I figure I've dreamed it or imagined it. Maybe the blanket was just sliding off the foot of the bed for whatever reason. I pay it no mind, but I'm mostly awake now. It doesn't take much to wake me up.

I pull my feet up a little and yank the blanket back up a bit. It doesn't move. Now I'm getting a little annoyed and pull it a bit harder, thinking it's stuck. At this point I still haven't opened my eyes.

So, you know how it feels to have a heavy cat climb up onto your bed? That's what I felt at the foot of my bed. I'm definitely awake now and have pulled my feet up closer to my body. I'm starting to panic and pull the blanket over my head. It starts to crawl up onto the bed on all fours. Weight settles on either side of me, over my blanket, pinning me down. Whatever this is, it's holding itself over me on all fours, straddling my body. It starts to lower itself slowly, settling on top of me with the weight of a fully grown man trapped in the body of a toddler. The limbs are far too long, the body far too heavy for it's size.

I use all my strength to push it off of me and slam on the light. Whipping around right away, my eyes settle on...nothing. Nothing hit the ground, nothing fell off the bed, and nothing is in the room with me. I stayed up for the rest of the night, waiting for it to return and warring with myself about whether I just dreamed that or it was real, but it didn't return.

In the morning, I go upstairs and find the landlady in her chair. After staring at her for a moment, I sit down and tell her what happened.

She looked up at me and said this: "It's a good thing you didn't look at it. It's very ugly. Next time banish it in Jesus's name and put this around your bed. There is an unmarked burial ground next door, and I believe there is some kind of portal near your room."

She handed me some blessed salt and some holy water. Both were blessed by a priest. She then asks me, "Have you seen the little girl yet? She's nice."

Somehow, despite never seeing the little girl, I could describe her perfectly.

I left the next day and never returned.

[equalseleventhirds]

i said i wouldn't write it but i did

vaguely a sequel to this, but far in the future and focused on jon (annabelle features briefly tho. she's fine. annabelle will always be fine in my fics.) with ofc the presupposition that they've failed in one world but kept trying, bcos i think that would be fun*!

*(by which i mean heartbreaking, i'm so sorry)

There are rules, to the traveling, or at least there seem to be. There are certainly questions to be asked and points to be made, about how many instances count as a definitive rule rather than simply a pattern. But Jon likes to think of them as rules. He's always preferred concrete answers, even if it turns out they're less the truth and more just a convenient way of conceptualizing things.

So he has rules.

First: the Fears always come through on the same day. October 18, 2018. Or, given the impact history has on calendars, the equivalent of it; he'd once spent months trying to correlate the forty-third moon of cycle 1852 with his calendar just to prove his point, but the math had all worked out.

(Which does indicate, at least to Jon, that yes, the Fears probably did originate in his home world, Georgie. He'll take his petty wins where he can get them. For as long as he can remember the discussion, and the people, he's proving wrong.)

Second, it is still his tapes that the Fears follow. For every apocalypse there has been a new catalyst, but none of these new rituals supersede his. Maybe it's a testament to the strength of the Web's original plan, or maybe it's just something about Jon himself. He knows what he thinks, but... well, there isn't enough proof just yet.

Third, in spite of endless attempts to trap them and stop them, Jon is always able to travel with the Fears. Perhaps they simply can't stop him, as the original antichrist he apparently is; dozens of apocalypses in dozens of different universes, and Jon can always feel his rightful place as ruler of that terrible fearscape calling to him. He hasn't taken it yet, but it's there, and the Eye cannot abandon its true pupil without his permission.

Or perhaps they simply don't care. Every attempt so far has led to the exact same result, after all: another world left behind, another death by starvation averted, another new feast for the Fears to sink their teeth into.

Fourth, he always passes out upon entering a new world.

It's kind of annoying.

---

It is slightly unusual for him to wake up warm, comfortable, and covered in a blanket, but Jon's not about to complain. It's nice. He doesn't get a lot of comfort, and he likes sleeping in a bed, especially since he's always eldritch-nightmare-free in a new world. For a limited time only, of course.

He's fairly certain he's inside; aside from the softness underneath and around him, the air is still and temperate, the light through his eyelids is artificial, and all he can hear is the faint whirring of appliances and the whispers of two muted voices.

"—complete stranger, definitely dangerous, looks like he's from hell—"

"Okay, fine, but I wasn't going to leave him, and anyway haven't you noticed he's a bit—"

"A bit what? Scarred? Bloodstained? Glowing eyes, because I don't think I need to remind you, Martin, his eyes were absolutely glowing when you found him—"

Martin. Now there's a name. Not an uncommon one, but... he thinks he knows that voice.

Or. Well. He might know both of those voices, actually, which is even more interesting than waking up in a bed.

Jon opens his eyes.

He's met himself before, is the thing. Not in every world, and not always particularly recognizable, but he's met himself. He's met versions of Martin, too, and eventually stopped going completely useless with heartbreak every time. The merest handful of times, he's found both of them in the same world, sometimes something almost like friends, but usually not.

The fact that they have their arms around each other, casual, comfortable, close, is both entirely unexpected and perfectly, wonderfully, terribly familiar. Jon briefly considers crying about it, but there are more important things to be doing. For example.

"The glowing eyes aren't actually that sinister. I mean, they are, but not for the reasons you're probably thinking."

Jon—the other Jon—jumps at the sound of his voice, then leans forward. Curiosity, of course; that hardly ever seems to change. "You—the glowing—who are you?"

"Jon," this new version of Martin scolds, and for just a moment he's back home, with his Martin, with that exasperated tone—but no, this isn't his Martin, and he's also leaning forward now, his voice turning gentle. Concerned. Coaxing, like he's a spooked animal, and Jon doesn't think his Martin has ever talked to him that way. "How are you feeling? We found you unconscious in the street."

He can feel Martin's curiosity too, pushing forward under his concern, just as questioning as Jon but too polite to outright say it yet. He has to cut this off, or he really will cry.

"Mm... no," he says. "Well, yes. But also." Good lord, he's confusing them. Par for the course, but he should probably try to be somewhat comprehensible.

He holds up a hand, extending one finger. "I am... fine. More or less. Trust me, I'm used to this, and this isn't even the worst way it's happened." Another finger joins the first. "My name, as I believe Martin has guessed but then dismissed, is Jonathan Sims. I am not you from the future, nor am I lying, nor am I crazy, because—" a third finger "—interdimensional travel is not only possible, it has happened, is happening, because of and along with terrible monstrosities I am determined to stop, and I have explained this too many times to too many people to have much patience for anyone being shocked and disbelieving, much less a version of myself doing so, so you can either get over it and move on or I can go elsewhere and do something useful."

"Excuse—"

"And," he continues, pushing himself up so he can sit and lean forward even more intensely than his counterpart, "I would actually rather not do that just yet, because I have an extremely pressing question for the two of you."

"Um," Martin says, and "What," says the other Jon.

"How," Jon asks, deepening his voice to exude solemn, ominous, and eldritchly important, "did you two start dating?"

---

It was so... normal. Apparently. Two people, mutual friends, a chance encounter. A prickly exterior ("He hated me," both of them had claimed), but without the insecurity of being Head Archivist and the fear of dread powers beyond his comprehension, their friends had helped him open up and—eventually—apologise. A budding friendship, and then a romance, and then...

It isn't a version of them Jon has seen anywhere else, in any of the worlds he's traveled to. Normal as it is, it's a highly improbably scenario, and certainly not the same as his relationship with his Martin had been. But it was, in an infinite number of worlds, still a possibility.

Jon isn't quite sure how he feels about that, knowing that some version of them could have fallen in love without the trauma, but that they hadn't managed it.

His hands aren't shaking, as he lights his cigarette. At least there's that.

"I quit, you know," his counterpart says from behind him. "Years ago. I'd forgotten about those until you asked."

"Well then, thank you for indulging me." He gestures, meaning the cigarette, meaning the bed, meaning his claims about reality, meaning his intrusive, gossipy questioning. Meaning everything. He's not sure it gets across.

The other Jon laughs, quietly, and moves to stand next to him. "I am my worst enabler."

"Oh, that's hardly true."

"Mm." They're silent together for a while, but Jon is restless (both of him), and eventually this reality's version opens his mouth to ask. "Do you—do you know why I—I don't want to say believed you, I'm still not sure I do, b-but, didn't throw you out immediately?"

"My myriad charms?" They both laugh at that.

"Jonathan Sims," he says, as if that explains anything.

Jon takes a drag of his cigarette, considering. He could probably Know, but... indulging himself. "What about me?"

"No, not you, or. You know. You. But your name. Jonathan Sims. I decided you weren't, weren't a deliberate lie to trick me, or a future version of myself, or a mind-reading monster—"

"Well—"

"—when you said your name, because none of those things would have said that." He smiles then and holds up a hand, and—oh—his ring glints. "I've been Jonathan Blackwood for a while now."

They'd told him married eventually, but he hadn't even thought about his name. He's certainly thinking about it now. "Jonathan Blackwood," he says, soft, to himself. And to himself. "That... that sounds good."

"It does, doesn't it."

Whatever they might have said next is lost as an incredibly loud engine roars nearby and a sleek black motorcycle pulls up in front of them. Jon sighs and takes one last drag of his cigarette as the rider removes her helmet.

"Been off finding yourself, then, Jon?" Annabelle asks.

"Oh, extremely funny, yes. Did you steal that?"

"It was a gift."

"Of course it was."

The other Jon is staring at them both, his eyes repeatedly drifting back to the web-covered hole in Annabelle's head. "Who—what is—is that a—"

"She's a spider monster," Jon supplies helpfully. "She came with me, although apparently she did not pass out in the street this time."

"Two streets over, I think. Pity, I would've loved a nice nap in a proper bed, but I did get this motorcycle out of it. Come on, Jon, you can mope on the way."

"I have not been moping—"

"Haven't you? You're not the one who deals with how maudlin you get every time you meet yourself—"

"Yes, fine, thank you, we can go." He stubs out the cigarette and pauses, looking at himself. "Uh. Tell Martin—well, goodbye, I guess. I'd say I hope we meet again, but if you're lucky we won't need to?"

"...sure."

"And I'm—I hope you—that is, I'll do my best—well." He sighs. "Things are about to get... dicey, for the world in general. But just, look out for each other, and we'll try to handle the rest."

"Jon, we should be going."

"Yes, all right, all right." He gives himself one last, probably not very reassuring smile, and climbs on behind Annabelle.

They do have work to do, after all.