#The Dent Schoolhouse

[wonderlesch]

Top Haunted Houses & Attractions 2023

Top Haunted Houses & Attractions 2023 shares all things that go bump in the night. Cutting Edge Haunted House, The Dent Schoolhouse, Headless Horseman Haunted Hayrides and Houses and more. Read on if you dare! Let's get spooky!

Hello and Welcome to my next Travel Destination Guide: Top Haunted Houses & Attractions 2023. Autumn is my favorite time of year. I love the leaves changing colors. I love more the haunted houses and spooky attractions that you can explore during Halloween Season. Yes, Halloween is a season, for me anyway! Read on to discover Cutting Edge Haunted House, Knott’s Scary Farm, 13th Floor Chicago and…

[asyoushould]

Anyone else have to visit haunted houses in the day time?

[retrograderesemblance]

@honorhearted

Rising to her full height, Molly moved habitually to wipe her hands on her apron before remembering that she wasn't wearing one over her petticoats; she made do to brush her damp palms against the material, not much caring if the light fabric darkened. The dress was an engagement present, from Anna.

"I suppose the leaking roof was your idea."

Glancing away, she finally attempted to take in the interior of the schoolhouse; it might've been in good repair, if not for the early winter, the rain turning to ice and collapsing in - not fully but enough to leave dents and gaps in the wood - sections of the roof. The bucket she'd placed on the floorboards beneath the worst of the leaks was already near full but she didn't see another object to replace it with.

"One of your lessons plans?"

[fishybehavior]

random fic, its kinda loose. But I liked writing it

----

Kai was exhausted.

Working in the forge since before the sun rose, spending hours in front of the hot forge, slowly pounding metal into shape.

Nails, repairs, tools. He had a full list of orders and he needed to finish them in three days time. So he worked with no break in trying to get the most tedious parts finished. Kai wanted to at least get all the nails done before he opened and some farmer came in for emergency repairs or parts.

Dousing a dozen glowing hot nails, he saw his sister run out the door. They waved at each other for a brief moment before Nya was sprinting for the schoolhouse. Kai chuckled as he watched her run, making sure she makes it to the building just within sight of the workshop before he returned to the forge and continued his work.

His muscles ached and his head pounded from the constant banging. Farmer Ito had sent one of his farm hands to the shop, days before the harvest one of the metal supports for the tractor broke, and Kai had to fix it. Interrupting his schedule as the piece was irreversible damaged and a brand new part had to be made from scratch.

Ito promised a part of his sale of the rice harvest if he could fix it before sundown. Being the biggest farmer in the village, Kai immediately dropped his schedule and focused on making the part.

The old shop didn't have any fancy equipment that would have made making a new part a simple task. Honestly very little of the shop had anything from this century. Each piece being handcrafted by his ancestors for the singular purpose of crafting fine and deadly blades. His ancestors would be rolling and screaming in their graves to witness their furnace being used to melt cheap alloys, their hammers for pounding out nails, or even the anvil, made by his grandmother's hands, would be used to hammer out dents in old cook ware. But blades didn't put food on the table, or give them coal for their fires. So he just made sure he gave them a good offering during the summer festival to hopefully delay their wrath for another year.

After hours of toiling Kai had managed to replicate the part before sunset. It was a good replica, modified to take more weight and sheer force to hopefully make sure it didn't fail during the harvest. Giving the part to the farm hand, he felt relief in knowing that a few more coins would be in their purse, he decided to close the shop.

Turning off the air blowing into his forge, Kai let the coals cool and die down as he put up his tools, unfinished pieces, plans, and did a quick sweep of the floor. And once the coals have dulled to a low red glow, he closed the front of the forge, securing the windows as well, before finally entering the home to get some well deserved rest.

[akumanoken]

The truth of the matter

It was an auspicious day… he had to make sure of it. Sakura was about to throw all of his father's plans into the ocean to sink and cover in coral and barnacles. Despite the blatant insubordination, the subterfuge, he felt confident… which was rare. Months prior, he could never have felt this outside of the festival stage. But perhaps it was because he was finally lifting a heavy burden from his chest.

He had a few messengers let the town know that the princess would be coming to the festival square to speak, which was something he never did. He visited the towns, made surprise visits to the orphanages and schoolhouses, but he never did any official business, preferring to sit with the people as one of them.

The other messengers… were dispersed to the other parts of the islands, a sealed message in hand to be read aloud once they reach their destination. They thought nothing of it. Anything for their normally quiet princess. Whatever it was, it must be of great importance.

But here, in the festival square of their capitol, Sakura walked to them with a smile, face bare, watching them gather and holding a hand to his obi, settling his nerves. This was something he had thought long and hard about… and there was no other way.

"I know… it is sudden that I come to you all like this, but there are things… that I want to say, things that have been plaguing me for the past few months…. as I have thought about this country… of all of you. I… I want to promise something. That no matter what happens from here on out, my life is and will always belong to the people of Makoto. This is my home, you are all my family, and I love you with every breath in my body. It will never change. I will remain always a steward of our fair island…"

"But… but you have been lied to." He took a breath, watching everyone's eyes shift to each other and then back to the princess. "A lie that has been perpetuated for years, a lie given to you, and to the surrounding neighbors. My father has always been so eager to protect our country, to keep it as it always has been… as a shining pearl in the middle of the sea. A place rich in trade and goods, with children of the island who love and care for it with reverence. And in his desire to do so, he felt the best way to ensure our safety, is to have a girl… a princess to wed to a nation that will help keep us secure. It has been his plan since the start… and he has been ever determined to see it through…"

"But when I was born, I caused a dent in his plans. I am… I am no woman. I was born male." He let the murmurings grow a moment, and when he held a hand up for attention, he was surprised to see them grow silent. "For years I have lived this way, and eager to help my father with his plans, eager for his approval, I have lied to you all. It is… a blight that I cannot apologize enough for." A deep bow. "I… am sure it is a lot to take in. I don't expect anyone to be happy with such deception. But I wish for you to know… that despite my sex, I am still a princess of Makoto. I wish to remain a servant of my people and to hopefully become a queen that everyone can be proud of. I… could not continue the charade any longer, for to do so would be to invite the very disaster my father hoped to avoid. It is… all I have to say…" he said softly. Another deep bow to his people.

There was…. silence… and Sakura stood there, shivering in the vaccum… until a little boy Sakura recognized from one of the schools walked over to the princess and tugged on his kimono. "C-can we… can we still call you nee-san?? If you're a boy??"

The princess blinked, face flushed. "A-ah…. Shouhei…." He burst into tears, hugging the boy close. "Of course, you can…

[mystacoceti]

Preliminary Glance at an American Landscape by John A. Kouwenhoven

From the Blister-Dome of the Wabash Railway’s Blue Bird, en route from St. Louis to Chicago, the spring landscape of central Illinois is one of wide, level horizons with now and then a clump of leafed-out willows or a brief row of maples or elms which have budded enough to look hazy. It is a land of pale coffee-colored fields, darkened in irregular blotches where shadows lie and in strips where a tractor-drawn disc harrow has recently passed. A lone man driving a tractor is the only human being you are likely to see for miles, but there are many other living things: cattle—black, or black and white, and still winter-fuzzy—standing or lying in the unplowed fields; pigs and sheep whose young scamper away from the fenced railroad track when the train passes, though their elders are accustomed and remain still; and quite often a pheasant, green neck feathers shining in the sun, standing close to the track, always with is back turned to the passing train, looking over his shoulder at it but not otherwise disturbed.

The only city you go through is Decatur, a momentary collection of factories, warehouses, and handsome grain elevators, and a business district with some stone buildings of modest dimensions. Most of the towns you go through are small and irregularly square, with streets at right angles to the railroad, many of which do not cross the track but stop short at earth mounds partly covered with grass. Each town has a corrugated sheet-metal grain elevator and a Quonset warehouse or two near the wooden station. The houses are wood, with fruit trees blooming in their board-fenced yards. But there are almost no people in sight, just a few cars moving in the streets or parked at the curbs. And in less than a minute your are out on the prairie again.

Occasionally the level fields are studded with shining ponds, and now and then you see small streams whose flashing surfaces are almost flush with the fields they flow through, or shallow gullies banked with tin cans and bottles which glitter in the sun. Running alongside the track all the way, three tiers of shining wires dip from and rise to the crossbars on the telegraph poles—each of the three crossbars with room for ten bright insulators, some missing, leaving gaps like broken rake teeth. Sometimes the ground bordering the track also dips and rises where the right of way has been sliced down to grade through long, flowing swells of land. But the only real break in the general flatness is a huge eroded mesa, man-made from the waste of what may be strip-mining operations, which stretches along west of the track for miles, somewhere near Reddick or Essex judging by the timetable.

Most of the time there is just the wide, flat landscape of harrow-smoothed earth, ruled into squares by lines of wire fence strung on thin metal posts (not split wooden posts, as in New England), and along the fences there is a fringe of the dry, blond husks of last year’s uncut grass, with now and then a large, unaccountable sheet of wilted brown paper caught on the wire barbs. Once in a huge, immaculate field near Symerton, roughly forty-seven miles out of Chicago, I saw a rock. It was about the size and shape of a dented watermelon, but no one had bothered to move it; the parallel harrow tracks in the smooth dirt diverged to avoid it, then came together again.

Once in a while you see white roads taped across the landscape, and if they cross the track the diesel honks at them. Once in a while you see a lonely schoolhouse, usually of wood, with a flag flying briskly from a pole in front and a yellow bus standing in the grassless yard. Once in a while a field is dotted with round metal grain bins with cone-shaped roofs, looking like a battery of stumpy, unlaunchable rockets. And once in a while, too, near one of the clumps of trees, you see a white farmhouse, with red or white barns—big barns, with ventilators on their roofs looking like little barns straddling the ridgepoles of the big ones. Near the houses tall windmills stand on spindly iron legs, mostly with broken blades in their fans, and almost every farm has a gawky television antenna in the yard as tall as, or taller than, the windmill.

This is a landscape which a century ago looked to a Chicago newspaperman like “the untilled and almost untrodden pastures of God.” Standing with a group of excursionists in the middle of the rolling prairies, the reporter, Benjamin F. Taylor, felt as if he were in the center of a tremendous dish.

Not a tree nor a living thing in sight; not a sign that man had ever been an occupant of the planet . . . The great blue sky was set down exactly upon the edge of the dish, like the cover of a tureen, and there we were, pitifully belittled.

A century later the pastures of God are well-tilled and much trodden. The prairie has become, in fact, a technological landscape: subdivided by wire fences, smoothed by tractors, tied to the urban-industrial world by wires, roads, rails, and by the invisible pulses felt in the lofty antennas. The height of those antennas measures the strength of the city’s pull. As you leave St. Louis they grow taller and taller until, in central Illinois they outtop and almost outnumber the trees. As you approach Chicago they grow shorter until, when you reach the suburban landscape of supermarkets, drive-ins, and rows of little square houses with little square lawns, they need be only small, solicitous bundles of branching wire rods attached to the house chimneys.

The prairie landscape no longer belittles man. It is still vast, and you see very few people as you watch from a train window. But man’s technology has modified everything from the texture of the earth itself to the stance of the pheasants.

This landscape, through which I last traveled three years ago, came freshly to my mind as I began to assemble and revise the essays in this book. It did so, I think, because it embodies a number of the forms and patterns which seem to me to be characteristic of a civilization based as ours is upon a distinctive blend of technology and a somewhat untidy but dynamic form of democracy. And it is with some of these characteristic forms and patterns, and the indigenous energies they express, that these essays are primarily concerned.

There are other American landscapes, some of which embody forms and patterns that seem to have little in common with those of the prairies: the landscape of Maryland’s trim and cultivated Eastern Shore: the barbaric splendor of the Southwest’s mesas and canyons; the grim and powerful landscape of River Rouge; and—more like the prairies than it first appears—the New York Skyline.

The most endearing and comfortable landscape, to me, is in Vermont, where I spend the summers on a farm which lies like a large green saddle blanket on the small of the back of a mountainous ridge along the western border of the state. Eastward from the farm you can look down in the domesticated Vermont valleys of Pawlet and Dorset, with pasture clearings running well up the enclosing slopes. Westward you look out over a widening, open-ended valley where the tree-hidden village of Rupert lies, where dogs bark distantly in the evening, and where an occasional light blinks through the trees after dark. At the far, open end of the valley the D & H Railroad comes down from the north and curves westward into New York State toward the Hudson and the Susquehanna. You cannot see the trains but when the wind is right—when rain is coming—you can hear the imitation steam-whistle which the railroad, in tune with the new industrial sentimentality, has substituted for barking horns on its diesels. And beyond the valley’s open end the continent rolls gently westward through the Mohawk Valley and then invisibly onward past the Great Lakes, lifting easily across the prairies and plains. You can believe that if the atmosphere were glass-clear and the earth did not curve you could see two thirds of the way to the Pacific, for there is nothing high enough to block the view till you come to the Laramie Range and the Big Horns. Closed and friendly to the east, open and inviting to the west, it is a likable landscape.

It is, I suppose, the landscape of this eastward-and-westward-looking Vermont farm, superimposed upon the landscape of New York’s skyline, which controls the point of view from which I have looked at America. But the characteristic landscape of the America I have looked at in these essays seems to me to be the “interminable and stately prairies,” as Walt Whitman called them, ruled off by roads and fences into mathematical grid. They have become, as Whitman thought they would become, the home of “America’s distinctive ideas and distinctive realities.” They produced Abraham Lincoln and the city of Chicago—both of which are ideas as well as realities and both of which seem to me, at least, to be distinctively American.

[spookyinc]

TheSpookyShop.com

The creators of The Dent Schoolhouse, a nationally known haunted house out of Cincinnati OH, wanted to share their love for creepy and spooky stuff! Guests of the haunted attraction have been asking us for years... WHY DON'T YOU HAVE AN ONLINE STORE?  Well, here you go! The Spooky Shop will sell exclusive Dent Schoolhouse merchandise, as well as, fun spooky decor, Halloween pins, collectibles and more!  Thanks for stopping by and supporting small business... stay spooky!  Check them out online! #spookyshop #spookystuff #spookyincstudios Read the full article

[bradleyenfield]

The Dent Schoolhouse - HALLOWEEN Haunt Behind The Scenes Tour (Cincinnat...

[nightshark327]

at The Dent Schoolhouse https://www.instagram.com/p/CkVB2JeONSNwKHi7FEjao9ZOe3hi-WQ5g0IEog0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[wrestlehorror]

156 - Haunter and Pro Wrestler Terry Rook

In this episode WrestleHorror hosts, Donnie Hoover and "Meathook" Jim Millspaugh talks with, Terry Rook from The Dent Schoolhouse, and pro wrestler B. A. Bundy.

Listen in as Terry gives us some insight on the haunted house business, his role as pro wrestler B. A. Bundy, and more.

Stay connected to Terry Rook:

- Facebook: B. A. Bundy

- Facebook: Dent Schoolhouse

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Copyright 2022 - WrestleHorror Podcast

Check out this episode!

[animatronicappreciation]

A very large animatronic pumpkin monster at the Dent Schoolhouse!

—————————————-

Oh, that is TOO cool! I wonder who built him?

- Mod Rat

[hometoursandotherstuff]

When they built a new school in Cincinnati, Ohio, an entertainment company turned the old Dent School into a haunted attraction.  

This is a fake story that the company made up. 

And this is the actor who plays Charlie McFree, the murderous janitor. 

It’s not your ordinary school.

The vice principal’s office.

School cafeteria. 

This must be the pre-school class. 

Here’s Charlie’s workshop. This looks like fun if you’re a haunted house enthusiast. 

https://frightsite.com

[premaritalgaysex]

Yeah, the Dent Schoolhouse might be pretty haunted, but the Bengals themed hearse constantly parked in front of the abandoned lot across the street from it? That’s worse.

[percyfied]

//haunted house disc horse

noah fence to any fans of dent schoolhouse, I also find many parts of it appealing, and can draw inspiration from it! but I could also improve on it in many ways! but more importantly, THEY'RE PROFITING FROM DEAD KIDS. I don't care if Charlie the janitor was the real killer, they found the remains of children in that basement and they're using that to profit. so much of it is tacky, too! but no matter what they are making an absolute mockery of the misery of dead, tortured children! they even had you watch Charlie murder a child (actors ofc but still) which is just as bad as those extreme haunted houses showing awful, triggering scenes, along with it being a possibly real event that had happened to a CHILD! That was 2011, idk exactly what changes they've made, but God they should turn the whole school into a memoriam instead of a nice little show! it's disgraceful, not respectful!

[angry-geese]

Was wondering if you could write a shoko piece cuz you write her so well ಥ‿ಥ 👉🏼👈🏼

Of course!! I'm not entirely sure if this was meant to be a request but I felt like writing for her so I'm counting it as one kdhdjfj

Bitterness - Ieri Shoko x Reader

Warnings: sfw! death mention, mention of blood and injury. A little angstier than I intended lol, but it has a (somewhat) happy ending. Reader's gender isn't specified

A/n: this is a little shorter than what I typically write but I had many thoughts that I just had to get out jdhfjfjfk this was not proofread so apologies for any errors

Word count: 887

Jjk masterlist

You dig. You dig until your nails crack, and your fingers bleed. You dig until you can blame the tears on your bleeding hands. Wet earth cakes itself under your broken nails. It's raining again. The news this morning called for another storm. Such weather is unusual for this time of year.

You've never considered yourself a vengeful person. Grief and anger had not corroded your mind the same way you had seen it do to many others. You had spent much of your adult life carefully balancing your social life as a human, and your work as a sorcerer. One wrong move could send you careening over the side, past the point of no return.

But right now, that thin wire you’ve so carefully been balancing on has snapped.

A small village in Japan’s countryside was experiencing a run of bad luck. Elderly were falling sick. The village’s doctor had a mental break, and murdered his wife and children in cold blood. Children were claiming to see spirits in the bathrooms of the local schoolhouse.

With no one else to turn to, the remaining villagers called for the help of shamans.

The villagers blame their misfortune on a shaman’s daughter. A girl of about seven, who had been fed a cursed relic in hopes that she’d scare away their bad luck. A child who had seen horrors unimaginable to the average person.

And you had been ordered to kill her.

Then you find it. Rusty, and dented. Still sealed after all these years. Inside this tin, buried below the window of what used to be your dorm, is a package of cigarettes, and a lighter. You’re reminded of warmer days; ones spent with Nanami, and Shoko. Sneaking away from class to smoke when the time permitted.

Oh how different Nanami is now.

He found some reason for this to be worth doing. He found a reason to come back. You have yet to figure out that reason, but supposedly it's there. Maybe that's what keeps you here; the fear that if you leave, you will have no reason to come back.

The sudden halt of the rain draws your attention. What little moonlight was left, has been darkened. You glance up, only to be met with the sight of a figure looming over you.

She holds the umbrella over your head, something akin to a grin ghosting her face. The wet ground has soaked through your shoes, and the knees of your pants. You shiver.

“If you wanted a cigarette, you should have asked,” Shoko says.

The temperature difference between the outside air, and the inside of Jujutsu Tech is jarring. She leads you to the infirmary, which like many other places at this time of night, is dark.

“Cmon, you know the drill, sit on the table.” From a drawer, she produces a pair of latex gloves. They let out a loud snap! as she pulls them on. “Pants off.”

“Kinky.”

“Don't make this any weirder.” She says. “I don't want you getting hypothermia. I'm sure I have something your size—you left some clothes at my place the last time you stayed over.”

The metal of the table is cold as it greets your bare thighs.

From the counter behind her, she grabs a brown bottle, with a white cap. Shoko peels some gauze out of its plastic packaging, dousing them with a pink tinted liquid.

“This is going to sting,” she says, swiping the antiseptic across your hand. “Doesn't look bad enough to need bandages.”

She lets her reverse cursed technique take effect. It feels as if hot wax is being poured into your wounds. They mend themselves slowly. The fresh skin is slightly paler than your regular skin tone.

“Gojo was worried. After seeing you run off like that,” she says. “Thought you were going to pull a Geto on us.” Shoko laughs, but you can sense the anxiety that creeps up in her voice.

Discarding her gloves, and the blood-tinted gauze, she pulls her chair back up to the table. You sit with your hands folded in your lap. Leaving now wouldn't be an option. Not when Shoko stands between you and the door. And she has a look in her eyes—a look she only gets when she’s plotting something.

“I know you saw something out there.” She says. “Something you don't want to tell either me or Nanami about. And I don't want to press you about it, but I can't just watch you sit there and stew.”

Her hands are cold as they grab hold of yours. The black polish on her fingers is badly chipped. Her nails are short, much like she’s been biting them.

“Physical wounds I can heal,” she says. “The ones in your head? Not so easy,

“I wish it were that simple to help people.” She continues. “Would have saved you and I a lot of heartbreak, huh?”

She leans in close enough for you to pick up the scent of coffee and cigarettes that lingers on her. When she kisses you, the taste of her lipstick lingers on your lips. She’s the first to pull away. You lean back in, deepening the kiss.

With her thumb, she wipes away a bit of lipstick that has smeared onto your lips.

“Why don't we go home?”