#asyulm

[grilledcheese-aspiration]

WAIT!! WAIT!! WHAT THE HELL!!

i *think* she was struck by lightning but i had just missed it, i didnt even know it started raining until i heard thunder and some frantic noises out front :( FML

[henrysglock]

What's wrong with you. Why are you all the SAME fucking shape

IRL Pennhurst Asyulm, PA // Chessman Manor (The Changeling, 1980) // The Mirrored Creel house (ST: TFS promo art)

[thehandydandymagicman]

The Boys Crazy Asyulms

If u ever seen the concept art that the creator of invader Zim had made for the nightmare version of the crazy boy Asyulm or whatever it’s called. I took my best shot at un nightmaring it. When I draw any fan art or make fanfic for invader Zim I have the setting in Dayton, Ohio. Just so y’all know.

[cecilspeaks]

166 - Delta

The stars tell us our future. They’re rarely correct, but yet there they are, blathering on night after night. Welcome to Night Vale.

At the foot of a sandy hill, a woman explains to her son what a flower is. She’s pointing at an orange starburst atop a squat bulbous cactus. She says: “Flowers are beautiful, aren’t they?” I cannot hear what her son says. She answers: “Because bees like beautiful things and flowers want the bees to take their pollen, that little bit of yellow powder, right down there inside, and give it to other plants, so they can grow up and be beautiful too.” There’s a long pause. Then she says: “Nature wants to make more and more beauty all the time. That’s all it wants to do. If it is not beautiful, it cannot live.” She’s upset at her son’s next question. “Humans wish to make beauty too, but not for nature,” she snaps. “They want computers and airplanes and factories, oh Benny, don’t touch.” She sighs. Then she says: “The cactus hurt you, didn’t it? The cactus knows you’re human and it does not want you to watch it, and now it has let you know that, you won’t touch it again, will you? No Benny, you won’t.”

Underneath the scant shade of a dilapidated wing of an MD-90 aircraft, a middle aged man tells another middle aged man about a time he went to New Orleans. He thought the French Quarter was too crowded and the jazz scene overrated, so he drove east along the upper neck of the Mississippi Delta to a Swapshack, where he paid a man 50 dollars to take him on a hovercraft to look at alligators. “Such majestic and hideous creatures,” the middle aged man says to the other. “You know, when I was little, I cried thinking about how I would never see a real live dinosaur. All the world had left were bones. But right there in southern Louisiana lay dozens of living dinosaurs. It’s an extraordinary world when you finally realize that all life is magic,” he says. The other middle aged man had heard the story dozens of times, but still he replies: “I hear you, I hear you.”

A young woman thinks about a job interview she never attended. She is happy without that job, yet she feels regret for what could have been. “I cannot imagine myself behind a desk making spreadsheets and memos,” she says to no one. “But I cannot imagine a 5-dimensional horse, nor the width of the void, nor the language of whales. I cannot imagine a lot of things but the pay, the pay would have been pretty good.”

Behind a blighted Palo Verde Tree, hidden between lush acacia shrubs, two teenaged boys kiss for the 50th time or so. It is brief, as one stops to look around, on alert for overbearing parents. They kiss for the 51st time or so and then laugh. Their fingers clumsily fumbling over each other, trying to decide on the perfect grip, the perfect touch. They melt like marshmallows in the flame of inexperienced joy. This moment in their lives is as pure and powerful as they have ever felt and may ever feel again.

My mind is crowded with voices, with people living their lives all day listeners. these are the stories, they are eating fruit and playing cards. They are arguing about who said what and when. They are meditating and conversing, retelling old shows and books they remember from when they had such things. A copy of Tina Fey’s memoir “Bossy Pants” was found in  a suitcase seven years ago, and everyone in the group has read it at least once. Someone mutters that they used to have a copy of Karen Russel’s “Swamplandia!”. It was in her purse when they landed here, but someone won’t own up to stealing it. another says the book might have been used to make a fire one night, because whoever made the fire might have thought the owner was done reading it, hypothetically.

It’s been several days since the voices came into my head, and at first it was new and interesting, but already I have grown tired of it. I do not know how Amelia Anna Alfaro lived her whole life with these sounds in her mind. It’s unceasing and I’ve not gotten much sleep. The teenage lovers sneak away each night to hold hands and talk big dreams underneath the moon. It’s sweet and romantic, but at 2 AM, give it a rest boys! I could try to talk back, but none of the voices can hear me. It’s like asking the rain to return to its cloud. But when I talk to Carlos, the voices go way. Thankfully I have my greatest peace when I’m with my favorite person. I can’t keep Carlos awake at all hours or have him skip work to be with me, so I have to learn to make peace with the voices, as they are noisy but permanent room mates in my brain now.

I do have news to report, but it’s mostly stuff you already know about. The high school basketball team has tryouts on Saturday. The library is doing open mic poetry nights on Tuesdays at 7, and we all know it’s a trap. Don’t do it unless you’re well armed. And the Opera House is extending its run of Verdi’s “2 Fast 2 Furious”, starring Renée Fleming, through the end of the month.

It’s hard to concentrate on reading these news stories with so much other language running through my head. Like this: there’s a guy who’s complaining about metal scraps that haven’t been cleaned, and the woman he’s talking to is explaining that they are conserving water for drinking and the guy is saying that it’s unsanitary to make dining utensils out of dirty metal, and she replies that they’re not making any more forks or spoons, they don’t need any more forks or spoons, they need knives but not for eating. What am I supposed to do with this information, it’s been going on nonstop for days? You cannot possibly understand what its’ like to listen to someone you don’t know, who you’ve never even met, who you can’t even see, ramble on and on about their boring personal life straight into your head, it’s awful. I can hear another person saying he’s found something. Good for you pal, way to find another rock or stick or lizard or whatever.

Wait. “Weeeee have founnnnnd ittt,” the voice says. I know this voice. It’s the first voice that’s been familiar to me, where do I know this voice, he is saying “first weeeeeeeee found you. You who are – no where – now weeeeeee have founnnnnnnd itt.” And other men are barking in agreement. Listeners, that voice is Doug Biondi from the asylum, and the voices around him are the agents from the National Safety and Transportation Bureau, all of whom escaped the Night Vale Asyulm two months ago. They are in nowhere, in an otherworld desert standing near a door attached to no building. Not far from a passenger set, long since rotted away. A jet that has been home to 143 passengers and crew members, one of those 143 – the pilot. Asylum warden Charles Rainier warned us of this. He had been a been a passenger on that plane, he became part of a small commune that grew into an angry cult under the leadership and telepathic influence of the pilot. Charles told us that the pilot would find those who could help him find Night Vale. Help him find the real world, and Doug Biondi knows the way back.

The pilot found Doug and Doug found the pilot. “Iii know the wayyy,” Doug Biondi says, laughing the laugh of a man whose smile is too big for his face. At the foot of a sandy hill, a mother tells her son it is time. “Stop crying, Benny. Stop crying so that there will be more flowers, more beauty.”

Underneath the scant shade of a dilapidated wing of an MD-90 air craft, two middle aged men argue over which hand made axe is sharper. At last, they agree that the one crafted from the rotor flap and held together with the hand belt is the better blade. “No you take it,” one says. “No, I insist you, I’m happy to use the smaller axe,” the other says, “because it is easier to manage what with my back spasms.”

And behind a blighted Paolo Verde Tree, hidden between lush acacia shrubs, two teenage boys kiss the way you kiss when you think it may be your last. They whisper impossible promises and raise high their rusty shovels, the spades’ tips having already been sharpened to deadly points. They race toward the gathering crowd.

A young woman who thinks often about the job interview she never attended shouts: “Nature is beauty!” “We are beauty!” replies antoher woman. They repeate these calls. “Nature is beauty! We are beauty!” And now every voice in my head is chanting the phrases, chanting and chanting and chanting, it’s too… it’s too much!

Silence. They’re silent suddenly. My head is clear. I can think my own thoughts.

Night Vale, I’m getting word that Sheriff Sam is barring all known passages into our town. This includes roads, trails, sewer grates, even the Dog Park which is not officially an entrance to the Desert Otherworld, but you know, let’s be honest here. We’re on lockdown, Night Vale. No one enters or leaves.

Good. This is good. If the voices can reach me, they can reach any of us. In fact, if the voices can enter my mind, then the pilot and passengers of flight 18713 may well already be here, or some of them anyway. Or maybe the voices come and go. This is the first moment of silence I’ve had alone in nearly a week. Maybe the voices aren’t always there like, like radio signals as you leave a city or, or a cell phone in an elevator, maybe the voices can’t permeate us under certain conditions or maybe… Or maybe… The voices are silent because… they are listening. Maybe they’re listening to their leader, their pilot who is giving instructions on what to do next, when and where to attack.

I don’t know. But I must use my moment of clarity to tell you some news. Nope, the voices are back. A single voice is back. I know, without knowing, that it is the voice of the pilot. He says: [in a neutral tone] “Uh, hi there, this is your pilot speaking. Just wanted to let you know that nature is beauty, we are beauty. We propagate our pollen, we spread our seeds, we grow new life over old life, we cleanse the toxins of technology. We depose the human king and return natural instinct to its rightful throne. If you can hear my voice, then you are chosen. You are chosen to join all who join our nature. All who join our beauty. All who refuse will be recycled into the earth, destroyed and dispersed to fertilize new more beautiful life. All those who are beautiful are chosen. All those who are not, are a cancer, blight, infection and disease. All who are not beautiful will be cut away, amputated, so that the Earth’s wounds may finally leave, so the Earth may grow beautiful once again.

We have been found and we will return. Open the gates to freedom, end the tyranny of artifice. That’s all for now, we’ll be arriving in just a few moments, Night Vale. There is going to be some turbulence.”

[distraught] I’m sorry, listeners! I did not meant to do that, I did not want to do that! The voice of the pilot overtook me and I, oh, I need to lock myself inside the studio, I have to protect you from me, but first the weather.

[“A Prayer for the Sane” by Danny Schmidt http://dannyschmidt.com]

I brought Carlos to the studio. When I talk to Carlos, I don’t hear the voices of the passengers from 18713. I don’t hear the voices even now as I look directly at Carlos while I’m speaking. Like Charles Rainier’s fishing hole or, or Amelia Anna Alfaro’s puzzles, Carlos grounds me, lets me be wholly me.

Thank you, Carlos.

Oh, I also had Carlos bring a pair of handcuffs with him that he bought at –Target on his way to the station, and used them to shackle me to my desk. If Charles Rainier is correct, then once the pilot can speak to you, he can control you. And if that should happen, it won’t happen but if it should, then now I won’t be able to leave here and do harm to anyone else.

From my window, I can see far down the street a spiral of black smoke. There are flashes of emergency sirens. Now I can see people coming up the road. They are long-haired, sun-scorched and nearly naked, wearing not much more than flat wide-brimmed hats and short tunics fashioned from seat upholstery. These people are carrying large blades, roughly honed from scrap metal. Some have widdled down pieces of plexiglass windows into sharp points and tied them to ends of long sticks. They’re deliberately walking up the hoods of parked cars and smashing windows and caving in the roofs with their bare feet.

It is no doubt that the passengers of 18713 are here, Night Vale. If you can hear me, sty inside and lock your doors. If you can her the pilot, then do as I have done. Secure your position so securely that not even your own mind can talk you out of it. Sheriff Sam has stubbornly kept up all roadblocks in and out of town, so we have no choice but to stay. The long unmoving lines of traffic at the edges of the city are easy prey now for the 18713. The pilot offered the choice of joining or refusing, but it is not a choice, not really. He either can control you or he cannot. Those whom he cannot control will be killed at the hands of those who can.

[anxiously] Carlos? You don’t hear the pilot voice, and thus cannot be controlled. But I do, and I can. I have been controlled. We’re in trouble, Carlos. I can’t stay chained to this desk forever, can I? And if the pilot means to destroy you, he might make – me do it myself. Just promise me you’ll run. Leave me behind if that happens, OK? OK. But for now, do not let me out of these cuffs, not even if I use a safe word, which I hear is something quite a few people use in healthy fun intimate relationships.

The people of 18713 are climbing up storefronts and tearing off signs. I can see about 10 or 15 in normal street clothes in the crowd now, which means the group is growing. They are recruiting quickly.

But something else is eating at me. In the asylum, in Doug Biondi’s journal and among the myriad voices in my mind, I still have not seen nor heard Amelia Anna Alfaro, the first person to make contact with the pilot. She disappeared in 2012 and no one has heard from her since. I need to find her. Somehow, if anyone can solve this, it might be her. She was always the best at everything.

Stay tuned next for the sound of me talking to Carlos forever and ever.

Good night, Night Vale. [creepily] Gooood night.

Today’s proverb: People who live in glass houses shouldn’t hire that realtor again.

[oceanux]

myself and a friend (@tinygreens on instagram/twitter) have decided to collab to do portrait commissions in exchange for donations!!!

with the rise of the BLM movement, we’ve both learned a lot about racism and injustice in our own country, so we chose four Irish organisations that need all the help they can get. donate a minimum of €10 to any of these, and send me a screenshot of the payment as proof. then you’ll get a collab portrait just like one of these:)

here’s the list of orgs to donate to - just click the name of the organisation and it’ll bring you to where to donate to

• MASI (justice for asyulm seekers in ireland + seeking to end direct provision) info here

• DP donations (supplies for those asylum seekers in direct provision) info here

• Small Trans Library Dublin (supplies for struggling our out of work trans people in ireland) info here

• OriginsEile (community organisation for queer people of colour) info here

please please consider donating!!! all of these organisations are for a great cause. and you get a pretty portrait out of it. so please share and if you can, donate!!!

[mndstom]

There's a sheepish grin tugging on her lips before she opens her mouth to answer him. "I have. With Monster." And to this day, she still gets a little giggly whenever she gets to mention the brand's name. It wasn't exactly her dream to be sponsored by an energy drink, but it's pretty cool to be sponsored by one and drink their drinks for free. "As long as they're not slasher, I'll be fine with any horror movie." However, if the movie has intense scenes, she might cover her face and wait for the scenes to pass. Watching Hyunki's screen and how he's going through the movies, she hums in thought. She always finds it difficult to choose what to watch. There are too many good movies / shows to watch and so little time. Plus, now she has to consider his taste as well. "We can watch Paras---" Her sentence is cut off when he reveals he accidentally drank from her juice, and her dark hues briefly look at the glasses. "Which one is even yours?" She sounds confused, which she is. It's hard to tell the two glasses apart, thanks to them having the same content and almost the same amount of it. Her both hands sneaking underneath the blanket, Yoomi takes both glasses in her hands, studying them up close with furrowed brows. With a nonchalant shrug, she ends up sipping from one of them. "It's not like you spat in it, right?" Yep, she really doesn't care if they share the same glass. Placing them back in the middle of them, her attention turns back to his. "How about we watch Parasite first, then the Haunted ASYULM one if we don't feel tired?" The female finally suggests, touching her screen again to find the movies she talked about.

          " ah, okay, well, if you put it that way. then it makes sense as to why you would reach for energy drinks. let me guess, you're also sponsored by one of them too ? " it wasn't a wild guess of sorts, as hyunki was pretty certain that yoomi gets good offers, seeing the numbers that she brings and her viewership whenever she streams. in fact, he was a silent viewer of hers as well at the start. he doesn't even remember when and how they ended up duo-ing, but either way, he considers it his successful fanboy story. his teammates were well acquainted with that fact too, which explains all the teasing he's been getting the whole trip so far. " yup ! i saw they had classics before. but i believe they have local and current horror movies as well. " the gamer explains, grabbing the small remote to the television in front of him and starts looking through the library of movies, " hmm, what kind of horror movies do you like ? see, they even have parasite and like the haunted asylum movie. " he points to his screen, using his free hand to grab the orange juice on the island in the middle of their seats, looking at the cup after he takes a swig from it, " ohp, i think i accidentally drank from yours. " hyunki adds, smiling shyly at the mistake, " you can have mine, though ! heh. " turning his attention back to the screen, he chews on his lower lip, " should we watch parasite ? it's a classic for a reason. "

[eveyosh]

Terrifying asyulm tour of the past

Plz go to YouTube like and subscribe to support this channel

[catzclaw]

❛ ‘all right’ is not a term anyone would use to describe you. ❜ (alice)

"I'm completly 'all right'. I am the poster boy of 'all right' in Gotham. You know where I go when Batman kicks the shit out of me and then captures me? I go to Black Gate. I'm so totally mentally sound, that they just put me in prison and not in the asyulm."

[frankie-the-undead]

Each have their own personality. Connor is very egotisitcal and thinks that no matter what he is always right. Just a very shitty person. Elliot is more of a bookworm. He was extremely smart for his time period. Lee was an extreme introvert and didn't speak to anyone that wasn't her family. She enjoyed being alone and being able to do whatever she wanted as being a woman back then restricted her being able to do much. Samuel was more or less a mess. He hated Connor cause connor treated him like shit. The only person Samuel enjoyed spending time with was Lee. Samuel had severe schizophrenia and bipolar and was almost sent away a good few times by connor but Lee always protected him. They all died in their own little ways, Samuel being the first one to go and the only one to have been able to carry on the family name after he got married to his wife before passing away when challenged to a duel. The man who challenged him cheated and killed Samuel but was sent to hang the next day. Elliot was convicted of being a demon worshiper after Connor framed him. So he was burned at the stake. Connor sent Lee to a asyulm after he claimed 'she came after him with a knife' so she was sent away and was never seen from again. Connor finally passed away after the people realized that he was basically framing people and senting them up to die. He ended up being stoned after everything. So needless to say that they all had a tragic end. I wanted to call it a family curse that every single grossman carries.

It's like a family curse to just die horribly instead of dying of natural causes like a disease or old age

Or just falling down the stairs-

They're all very interesting and unique to each other, even in comparison to the other Grossmen we know, they're very different and their own person. I like it! Also, fuck Connor, man got what was coming to him.

[ladyreisblog]

DC Scarecrow|Arkham Asyulm

Jonathan Crane (secret bad guy but good doctor to all those who know him at arkham) is having an affair with one of the inmates at the asyulm. No one knows yet as it’s still being kept a secret between the doctor and the arkham inmate. A group of inmates discover this secret and use it to their advantage, to get the doctor to help them get out of the asylum.

Sort of a origins AU-like the Gotham series but set in stone at arkham/like what would happen if this took place at arkham or they went through this instead..

Maybe just a regular escape from arkham idea, or something seriously bad happens at arkham and no one is sure what to do about it..like all the staff members die and they can’t leave their cell..it gets haunted or something.

Or like an American horror story type thing, but with arkham. Dr. Crane could be holding someone against their will at arkham, and the guy in charge of arkham just completely let’s him because he doesn’t want a rumor to get out.

[jonathan-cranes-mistress-of-fear]

One of my fav youtubers is playing arkham asyulm so I'm seeing it for the first time and he just got to scarecrow goodness, I just wanted to yell out to Jonathan "IM A HUGE FAN OF YOUR WORK" but its cute the youtuber is saying stuff like "I dont wanna do this, I'm spooped he's got me spooped" very spoopy times ahead!

Oooh, what youtuber? Anytime I get to watch someone being spooked by Scarecrow is a good time. Also, I hope you get to experience the game for yourself soon. I almost wish you didn’t watch a let’s play beforehand, that sorta ruins the surprises with his levels. (though if you can’t afford the game, that’s understandable)

Dino Andrade has the best Scarecrow voice, doesn’t he? ;) He’s the one I hear most often when reading comics.

[brielleinstitutehq]

is there an admin around?

Hey there greyface,

Sorry for the late answer but Admin Remm was sleeping pretty freaking deeply this night. I’m around now though, so I moderator Nikky. 

In the future it might be wiser to send us a IM instead of a ask we normally read and answer those quicker because we can do them with our phones!

[themidnightrose]

(Piano emoji) mad hatter melanie martinez

Where is my prescription?Doctor, doctor please listenMy brain is scatteredYou can be Alice, I'll be the mad hatter

Midnight smiles as she looks in the mirror. An empty pill bottle lays next to her on the sink, the last pill dissolving on her tongue. She grins wickedly before turning to the door, waiting for the doctor to come in. A old top hat sits on the floor in the corner gathering dust.

He comes in, makes small talk with her about her pills. She shrugs and says they don’t help. He offers to make her another prescription, not noticing how close she is until she rips his throat out. She tears his jugular, grinning as it paints her white room a beautiful red. 

I'm peeling the skin off my face'Cause I really hate being safeThe normals, they make me afraidThe crazies, they make me feel sane

She strolls out of the room, ripping the jacket they put on her when the doctor entered. Bronze fire follows her steps, quickly catching onto the floor and walls of her prison. She wears the remains of the jacket, her thin gown and her beloved top hat.

Midnight scrapes her nails across her face, carving a permanent smile on her face. She hardly notices the pain. Guards come and die. She walks out of the asylum, everything a blur as she keeps walking. Faint memories of exploded bodies, limbs ripped off and screams fill her mind for a second before its all pulled back under from the drugs.

I'm nuts, baby, I'm mad,The craziest friend that you've ever hadYou think I'm psycho, you think I'm goneTell the psychiatrist something is wrongOver the bend, entirely bonkersYou like me best when I'm off my rockerTell you a secret, I'm not alarmedSo what if I'm crazy? The best people are.

Her cheeks sting. It’s tiring to smile. She’s tired. Sleep sounds good. Looking at a random house, she decides to go pay a little visit. She climbs in just in time to see a random man breaking into the same house as her. She blinks beofre grinning. A friend! 

The man glances at her before ignoring the woman. She’s.....something else. He draws his knife and goes to head to the bedrooms but the woman is gone. He hears gurgling and is greeted with the sight of the woman ripping out a mans throat. She beams at him before bounding over to him.

He looks at her before sighing. He drags her to the bathroom, pushes her onto the counter and begins to clean her face. He bandages her cheeks, ignoring the adoration in her eyes. 

The radio behind them stops the music and reports the asyulm on the hill is buring down. He looks at her before putting on the final bandage. She jumps and hugs him, giggling like a maniac. He’s about to pry her off when she freezes. He looks at her to find her looking at something.

She’s staring at a flyer for a circus needing performers......

[black-shroom]