#christmas horror (maybe)

[666frames]

Don't Open Till Christmas (1984)

[pinemangoart]

I have a myriad of self esteem issues but you know who doesn’t??? Billy. Billy Lenz.

It’s not even Halloween yet but I’m already thinking about my favorite slasher

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

You ever think about what's gonna happen when the Welcome Home website updates in December? Hopefully, at least for what I think, we'll get to see the fabled Julierella! Or any visual parts of the show in general. Probably something fit for the holiday spirit.

Maybe wondering about their relatives and loved ones living outside the neighborhood, and the fact that the residents haven't left to see them in some time.

Stuff like that! Maybe even some new recipes!

i try not to think about it or i'll become so nervoucited that i'll get nauseous

[dimension-20-every-introduction]

Everyone Introduced in Dimension 20′s Neverafter episode 4

[peregrinethegryphon]

I’ve both seen and made plenty of Slasher/Pokémon content, but I have yet to see Billy be given/turned into a Pokémon and I’d like to propose:

[criticalrolo]

every year we put an animatronic Santa in the window for Christmas and every year he makes kids cry because he’s horrifying. everyone give it up for creepy Santa

[solivagantingrebel]

The cognitive dissonance of absentmindedly working on a Christmas fic while watching a horror movie, spectacular.

[reiyo0chu]

THE PINK KNIFE

creator's recent nightmare.

plot:

(this might be a little confusing)

TW!

major amounts of blood, knives

This is not suitable for people who get scared easily and/or have scopophobia.

10:07 pm

I was looking after my siblings, my dad was on his phone, and my mom was cooking. Suddenly, the tv silenced for one moment, though it was still normally playing those bright childish videos. I heard babbling that sounded like the middle brother (we are 3 siblings in my family, I am the oldest). A couple seconds later, it got slightly louder. My mom went to the door and saw a humanoid child in all black with luminous little white eyes. I put away my phone for a second and looked at the screen door. I saw it too, I immediately alerted everyone to go to the bedroom. My parents were demanding the reason and evidence and I showed them a news article that explained everything.

" If you hear a voice that sounds like you,

keep calm and hide somewhere safe. "

They needed me to elaborate.

" There were reports from families that

they saw black humanoid entities that

like any of the family members' appearance

when they are against the light. They

have luminous white eyes and clearly seen

in dark places. "

Ex:

I convinced my family for the second time. "Please, let's just go."

We went to the bedroom, the babbling got louder. 5 mins later I heard the screen door make a sound. He's inside, keep quiet. Then I heard the kitchen items clitter and clank.

Then someone was knocking at the door. My innocent siblings were making too much noise. The entity forced the door to open.

There it was. He was holding a knife. As soon I was about to be stabbed, I punched the humanoid child, grabbed the knife and stabbed him several times.

The entity became unconscious, then vanished in thin air. My parents thanked me, but I felt stupid. Why tf would I choose to hide ourselves in the bedroom. That was so fucking dumb of me.

We all went out of the room, and my mom hurried to check on the dish. It was ready, we then had dinner and straight after, prepared to go to bed. But I was not only ready for bed, I was prepared for the worst.

The moment I turned off the lights in my room, I started to pray, desperately hoping that I, my family, and everyone will be safe. I closed my eyes, with my face covered with a blanket. I never knew that it will be the last day of my life.

3:16 am

I heard someone knocking at the door. I knew it, it was here. Although the house was secured, how did it manage to- common sense, the windows. But how did they open? I was totally confused. I went to the door and blocked it with my body.

BAD DECISION, BAD DECISION. I broke into tears. I looked at the window and there it was. The entity had hair like mine, and supposed she was wearing a mini dress, the outfit I was wearing last night.

My windows opened.

I was in tears, pleading, begging, and said my last words. My teeth were grinning. I was scared. She was holding that pink knife from the kitchen storage.

"PLEASE DON'T DO THIS TO ME! I'M JUST A NAIVE, WEAK LITTLE GIRL, PLEASE HAVE MERCY ON ME! *sniffle*

...

"I'm sorry, Mom, Dad, I know I was the cause of your stresses. I was too much in my world. I'm sorry, God, that I have sinned too much. I wish everyone won't forget me, if they make it alive. You, everyone, you won't see me again in person, but please make a place for me in your heart too. I love you so much that I will never forget you, even if I went to either heaven or hell. I'm sorry for what I did wrong to you all, but now it's goodbye. Thank you so much for being with me through the years. Once again, I love you all. Goodbye, friends, family, everyone. "

The lights turned on.

(THIS WAS JUST THE LIGHTING OK)

There my corpse laid, the pink knife penetrated the right side of my chest. My blood splashed and flowed until it was outside my bedroom door.

🩷🔪

(I cried while doing the ending)

[chipmunkweirdo]

Some Halloween doodles from last year that I finally got around to coloring….on October first. Then, I forgot to post them.

[pumpkinnning]

Solarpunk??? Bad dog?? Also red??? Ik it’s greedy to ask all three but???

~rolling-restart

Hiii 😁 no not at all !

I answered solarpunk here.

Rest under the cut because very long

Red was a working title for the first sebchal fic i ever thought of. I took out a lot of the worldbuilding ideas for other fics so I will probably not write this one but who knows. This AU takes place in a dark fantasy post apocalyptic dystopia, in a city surrounded by malignant darkness full of monsters that is constantly trying to devour the city. The city is defended by ten magic houses that are each devoted to a minor god/spirit ; each house is headed by two Riders that work together to harness the power of their god so that they can go out and battle and push back the darkness, sometimes gaining new ground and sometimes losing it. It is said that one day one of the Riders will achieve Apotheosis by melding with their god entirely and manage to vanquish the darkness forever, freeing humanity from its curse. We follow Charles as he becomes Seb's partner and learns to be a Rider - worshipped like a demi-god by the population, but also the heavy cost of failure and learning that this power comes with heavy chains. This is a dark world full of manipulation and intrigue so their relationship starts out as very toxic but somehow they end up finding real tenderness and decency in each other. And then of course stuff goes down ! Ahhh this was fun honestly. I wish i could write three times as fast I have so !!!!! Many ! Ideas !!!

Bad dog was my attempt to write a straight up horror dead dove fic, but after putting the plot down and a few scenes I was like. This would be really interesting psychologically but i don't know if I have the stomach for it. In this one Seb works for the mob and his boss asks him to figure out who has been brutally murdering a lot of his collaborators and assets. Turns out that it's Charles, the ward of the old boss himself - known for being a dissolute party animal and a general mess, but this is probably a facade. Seb figures he's a genius with something seriously wrong with him but feels somewhat responsible because after all, they created this monster. Instead of killing him as he is ordered to, he convinces his bosses he can "rehabilitate" him and channel these violent tendencies so they can use them.

So he takes Charles to an isolated compound so he can break him down and mold him into something better but instead it's Charles that ends up getting in his head and convinces Seb to set him free so they can take down the rest of the mob together, especially as Charles shares his reasons for wanting to do so.

I think the cat and mouse psychological aspect would be fascinating ; I do love the "villains in love" thing where they're both horrible people but they get each other and descend into this shared madness, the Hannibal/Killing Eve vibes etc but honestly this would have gone into extremely dark territory and idk that i want to stay in that headspace for too long.

[thatdoodlebug]

harry: the hell is this?????? secretly got marv somethin too

[mariocki]

A Ghost Story for Christmas: A View from a Hill (BBC, 2005)

"Who's Baxter?"

"He was a watchmaker down in the village. Well before my time, of course. Fancied himself an archaeologist, like yourself."

"Well... I am an archaeologist. Actually, I'm a doctor."

"I'll have to get you to take a look at my feet."

[slasher-chikn]

Christmas in Haddonfield

Later…

[cowboysmp3]

would anyone like to give me a job. maybe.

[vitiateoriginator]

I wish I were still young enough to go trick or treating

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

dead, to begin with

A few weeks after the loss of Stephanie Brown and the return of Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne is visited by the ghosts of Robins past, present, and future.

____

@amonthofwhump‘s 12 Days of Whumpmas Prompt: Holiday Haunting

You can find resources related to the current Roe crisis on my sideblog here.

(tw blood, gore, unreality, past child death, past child abuse, past malnutrition, animal death, forced feeding, strangulation)

Also posted on Ao3 here.

_______________________________________________

There’s a body squirming against him, warm breath stirring across his cheek. For a heartbeat Bruce wonders if it’s another date whose name he’ll have to pretend not to remember, but no, even before he cracks his eyes open he can tell that the body is far too small.

He turns his head slightly, blinking against the low light in his bedroom. There’s a tangle of black curls snuggled up under his arm, chin resting on his chest. Blue eyes blink up at him, tiny lashes fluttering.

For a heartbeat he thinks Dick, but then the boy speaks: “Hiya, B.” His voice is Crime Alley rough, with none of the Romani accent Dick had as a child. 

Bruce lets out a long, slow breath. Jason never slept in his bed before...before. He tried once, but he woke up screaming and clawing at Bruce, begging him to get away, get the fuck away, before recognizing Bruce enough to break down sobbing and apologizing, and then avoiding him for the rest of the day. They never tried again.

But Jason’s here now, young and calm and whole and all the things he isn’t anymore. He smiles up at Bruce, and his grin is a perfect reflection of the cocksure smile Jason had given him while standing there with blood on his hands just a few weeks ago, rain glinting against his leather jacket.

“What’s wrong, B?” he asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Bruce swallows hard, forcing his racing thoughts to calm. “This isn’t real,” he says, trying to pitch his voice into a proper growl. But Jason is so warm against him, his little chest rising up and down, and Bruce’s voice breaks off into a trembling warble.

“Oh?” Jason sits up and he--he’s wearing his Robin uniform, smoke curling off his shoulders like dark wings. “Christmas is a time of miracles, isn’t it, B-man? Maybe you just need to expand your mind.”

Bruce coughs, throat aching with the memory of fire. “Jason--” he forces out, fighting the urge to scream or cry. 

His son smiles, a tiny hand reaching to press gently against his cheek. “Bruce.” There’s a bruise spilling down his cheek like a flower, black and purple shimmering before Bruce’s eyes. He smiles and his mouth is full of blood and missing teeth.

“Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.” Each word grows deeper, Jason’s voice sliding down the vocal register as his shoulders broaden before Bruce’s eyes, bones cracking and shifting in a sickening chorus. His forelock lightens to a jarring white and his eyes harden, something cracked and hungry crawling in behind them.

Bruce tries to lunge upright, but Jason’s faster, one knee slamming into Bruce’s stomach and knocking him flat to the bed, the hand on his cheek growing larger and more callused as it shifts to Bruce’s throat. Jason squeezes and Bruce rasps for air, choking on the aftermath of an explosion.

Fight, he tells himself, but Jason’s eyes are twin spots of green ice freezing him stiff. His son’s breath is warm on his face, impossibly alive and tight with the kind of fury Bruce has seen in himself so many times.

“You can’t keep your ghosts out, Bruce baby,” Jason croons, bearing down with his full weight. He’s gotten so big, so strong, pushing down with the weight of a fallen star. There’s black creeping in at the corners of Bruce’s vision and Jason’s features ripple and blur, distorted to monstrous proportions.

“That’s it.” Jason’s forehead rests against his, impossibly tender. “Let it out, let it go. Stop fighting, Bruce, you knew from the start that you weren’t gonna win. We were all dead from the beginning, remember?”

“Jesus Christ,” someone calls from the corner of the room. A girl’s voice, young and agonizingly familiar as Jason’s. “They weren’t kidding when they called you a drama queen, Jay.”

Jason’s fingers relax and he settles back on his knees with a huff, letting Bruce draw in great, desperate lungfuls of air. The smell of smoke still hangs around him, but at least it’s no longer suffering.

“Seriously, Blondie?” Jason calls over his shoulder. “You couldn’t let me have my moment?”

“You had your moment, honeybunch,” Stephanie Brown shoots back, sashaying out of the shadows of Bruce’s bedroom. She’s wearing her Robin costume, but it’s stained with blood in the same patterns Bruce remembers from her Spoiler uniform, the same patterns he had stared at for hour after hour. “You’ve had oodles of moments. Let some of us take a turn.”

Jason crosses his arms over his chest with a pout, his face darkening and features shifting as he shrinks back to his Robin self. “Whatever,” he huffs.

“Attaboy.” Stephanie’s eyes flick back to Bruce--she’s got bruises of her own, pushing out from under her mask. “And you, boss, you’ve gotta get up. We’ve got work to do.”

Bruce blinks at her; he wants to say I’m sorry or forgive me, but the first words to come out of his twisted, aching throat are “What work?”

Stephanie chuckles. “What work, he says.” She leans closer, and he can see that her headband is really a bloody bandage. “What work? Gotham-work, silly. Isn’t that what this was all about?”

Bruce’s eyes flick between the dead girl and the undead boy. “I don’t--”

But Steph’s already turned to scoop Jason up and toss him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, ignoring his kicks and cruses. She grabs Bruce’s hand with her free one and yanks, pulling him out of bed with impossible strength. “Come on, boss,” she says, and her smile has wolf-sharp teeth now.

Bruce wants to protest, but he’s already being dragged across the room, stumbling past a tangle of children’s toys and glinting weaponry that definitely wasn’t there before. Steph tugs him out the door and down the hall, past the images of blood-soaked family members smirking at him from behind filthy glass frames. He jerks to a halt before one painting of Thomas and Martha Wayne kneeling in an alley, one on either side of a corpse charged beyond recognition. “What--”

“Come on, boss!” Steph snaps, yanking hard enough that Bruce almost face plants on the carpet. He barely manages to keep his balance as they round a corner and hustle down the stairs, the dining room door swinging open to welcome them with a wash of bright light.

Bruce staggers to a halt, blinking and rubbing his eyes as they try to adjust. Stephanie dumps Jason on the shoulder and he turns back into an adult as his feet rug, glaring down at her.

“You’re so mean,” he whines, exactly the way he used to do as a child. “I had a whole speech planned--”

Someone lets out a contemptuous little tutting noise from down the table. Bruce turns to see a small figure, smaller than either Steph or Jason, sitting at the head. Their features are obscured by a hood, but he can see that they’re wearing a version of the Robin costume--and that there’s blood shining on their chest like a flower.

“Who’s that?” Bruce asks, and he can’t quite blame the strangulation for how small his voice is.

“Him?” Steph says breezily, flopping into a chair. “Oh, he’s not important--” A dining knife comes whizzing through the air and she ducks, letting it slam into the wall behind her head. “I was going to say not yet, gremlin!” she yells, seemingly unbothered by the murder attempt.

The boy in the hood crosses his arms and slumps back in his chair with a huff that feels impossibly familiar. A cat pokes its head up from his lap, giving Bruce an unimpressed look that reminds him, oddly enough, of Alfred.

“Little psycho,” Jason says, plopping down in a chair and putting up his boots up on the table, taking a gun out of his pocket to stop cleaning it. He shoots Bruce a defiant look, like he’s daring him to say something about it, only there’s a bloody mass where his eye used to be.

“Don’t just stand there, boss,” Steph chides, gesturing at a pulled-back chair. “Take a seat! You’re the guest of honor, remember?”

Bruce takes a breath and carefully sits down, feeling the wood creak under him just the way that the old dining chairs used to. He makes himself look from child to child, forcing him to look at each one without flinching.

“This is not real,” he says, calm and steady, like a man in charge (like a mentor, a fa--) “None of this is happening. It’s a--illusion, of some kind.”

“You keep harping on about that,” Jason complains. “Who give a flying fuck if it’s real?” He smiles, and for a second his face is bone-white and twisted, tinged with sickly green. Bruce jolts at the sight before he can help himself, hand flying towards a Batarang that isn’t there.

“Don’t worry, boss,” Steph chides. “You’ve got nothing to fear, honest. There’s more than gravy than grave about us!” She laughs at her own joke, mouth opening wide enough that he can see blood down her throat. “And speaking of gravy, I’m friggin’ starving.”

She claps her hands and Bruce very nearly falls out off his chair, but suddenly his family’s finest dinnerware is laid out in front of them, candles blazing with Christmas cheer. On each plate, he can see...

“Like it?” Steph asks. “We were going to go with geese, but they all froze to death. Turkey’s more Thanksgiving-ish, and besides, Jerry’s off the menu. And lamb was kind of too on the nose, so...” She waves her hands, broken fingers swinging awkwardly. “Ta-dah!”

They’re birds. Neat, plucked, stuffed little birds, all arranged prettily with feathers spread out behind them. Bright red feathers, like spilled blood and rosy cheeks and...

“Mmm,” Steph says, taking a bit of her robin, cheeks bulging like a little chipmunk. “Alfie’s really outdone himself this year.”

Bruce can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t tell if the weight pressing down on his chest is guilt or horror or some twisted cocktail, but it’s heavier than Jason was.

“Rich boy feeling like a picky eater, huh?” Jason says, rough and sardonic. “So goddamn spoiled.” His skin presses tight against his bones, a mirror of the malnourished child who almost killed himself trying to jack Bruce’s tires. “There were days I woulda killed for a spread like this.”

The boy at the end of the table tuts against and lifts a glass to his lips. You’re too young to be drinking, Bruce wants to say, but no, the boy isn’t drinking. He’s spitting into the glass, red blood dribbling out of the darkness beneath his hood.

Steph swallows and says, “You need to eat, boss.” There’s a piece of her cheek missing now, ragged with the memories of teeth. “It’s how you get big and strong enough to keep Gotham safe.!

“I...” Bruce coughs. His ribs feel like they’ve been smashed in and his ears are ringing and the candles are burning far, far too hot. “I can’t eat this.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Come on, Bruce. You liked it perfectly fine the week before and the week before that and the week before that. It didn’t bother you in the slightest to chew us up and feed us to that city of yours, did it?”

His stomach roils and Bruce shakes his head wildly. “I didn’t, I didn’t--”

“Tt,” the hooded boy says, and this one is as sharp and dismissive as a gunshot in the alley.

“Come on, old man,” Jason says. His eyes are white now, glinting like bloody domino lenses. “It’s us. If you can’t be honest with your goddamn ghosts, who can you be honest with?”

I didn't know, Bruce wants to say, but the truth claws its way out of his throat instead: “I’m sorry,” he whispers, a broken, aching rasp. “I’m sorry.”

“We know you are, boss,” Stephanie says, and her eyes are soft and tired, her voice stained like an old woman’s. “But it doesn’t really make it better, y’know?”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce repeats stupidly, helplessly. He wants to get up and run--where? Towards them, away from them, out into the night where the bats will keep him safe or down into the shadows of his cave? It doesn’t matter, because his limbs aren’t working anyway, frozen like rigor mortis.

“You know what’s funny?” Jason asks. “I think I might have kept loving you even if you weren’t. But you are, just not enough.” The candles flicker and crackle like laughing clowns, sneering gangsters, the roar of something unnamable. “And that makes it so much worse.”

The Robin at the end of the table jumps up, high green boots clunking against wood. Now that he’s standing, Bruce can see the sword sprouting from his chest, hilt emerging from his back to open into limp, dripping wings, dark red like an omen. The sight hurts more than it possibly could for a child he’s never seen before.

“I love you,” Bruce whispers, voice shaking. “I loved--I loved all of you, I--”

“Hush,” Stephanie says, voice trailing like a dying sigh. “It’s okay, boss. We’ve got it. We’ve got you. We’ll do whatever you need us to do.”

Robin crosses the table in the space between heartbeats and drops to one knee in front of him, hand shooting out to grab Bruce’s face and squeeze. Bruce gags, mouth forced out, and he can’t fight, can’t move, his training reduced to nothing just like it always is--

“Here comes the airplane,” Stephanie sings in his ear--when did she get behind him, her hair tickling his cheek? And that’s Jason hands resting on his shoulders, holding him down. His boy’s fingers are so large now, but the indexes still tap in time the way Jason’s used to do.

The Robin on the table cuts a slice of meat and holds it up to his face. It smells good, like Mother’s perfume and Father’s cologne and all the things that Bruce lost before he knew how enough to hold them tight. He can see hear the meat sizzling against metal, tines blackening before his eyes.

“No,” Bruce forces out, but it’s garbled, smothered, like a baby bird’s last few cheeps. The kneeling Robin reaches for him and the meat presses against his mouth and it cuts--

“Master Bruce!”

His eyes open and he’s on his back in his father’s study. Alfred’s got him pinned down, kneeling over him with wide eyes, wrestling shards of glass from Bruce’s hands.

Behind Alfred’s head Bruce can see the same window that broke all those nights ago, shattered yet again to let in swirls of freezing air. Bruce’s mouth is stinging and there’s blood dripping from his hands, painting the floor dark and ugly.

“Alfred, let me up,” he grits out. “I’m all right, I’m all right, I promise.”

“You were about to eat glass, sir,” Alfred huffs, eyes a little wild. “Forgive me if I’m a little doubtful--”

“Alfred!”

Alfred lets go and pulls away, shifting back onto his knees with a grunt. “Hold still,” he says, reaching for Bruce’s hands. “I’m going to wrap these up and then we are calling Miss Zatanna.” His tone of voice brooks no argument.

Bruce closes his eyes, too tired to argue. He swears he can still smoke in his mouth, heavy and bitter.

“I fought a witch last week,” he says. A small-time crook, really, but the blast she’d caught him with...he’d been foolish enough to think it had just made his head swim. Perhaps she hadn’t even known the real impact of the spell, but still. He should have called Zatanna (he hasn’t talked to her since she stood with him next to a defunct Lazarus Pit, talking about ghosts).

“Yes, you did,” Alfred replies carefully. “And you...you saw something, didn’t you? What did you see?”

Bruce takes a slow, deep breath, thinking of shadows and blood and feathers and--and that’s it. His mind is a blank, a swirl of ugly flickers and whispers he can’t quite make out.

“Nothing,” he says, and he almost, almost believes it.