#ghost whumper

[abhainnwhump]

Mind Control

(Content warnings: Necromancy, possession, demonic rituals, humiliation, major character death)

Whumper attaches a chip to the back of Whumpee's neck that gives them control of their nervous system.

Whumper only controls Whumpee's voice. No matter how hard they try, Whumpee can't say anything about them. Whumper forces them to lie to the cops and Caretaker. - Bonus if they have to say bad things about Caretaker and/or themselves instead.

Seeing through Whumpee's eyes, learning every secret about them.

Whumper controls Caretaker, but only occasionally and without a pattern. They black out when this happens, so one minute they can be cuddling them and the next they find Whumpee curled into a ball and covered in bruises.

Caretaker begs for Whumpee to stop hurting them, but they can't. The only thing they can control is their tears, which only increase as they stare at their friend's fresh corpse.

That moment where Whumpee falls to their knees and screams into the sky, clutching their head as they try to get Whumper out of it.

Eye color flickering eye color flickering eye color flickering-

Voice echoing voice echoing voice echoing-

Caretaker and Whumpee's other friends are suspicious. Whumpee is off in little ways. The way they sit, the way they smile and rest their face, it's all eerily similar to Whumper.

Whumper was killed when Whumpee was rescued. They come back from the dead as a ghost and possess someone for revenge.

Whumper performs a complicated ritual with a kidnapped tied-up Whumpee to bring their friend/lover back from the dead. Whumpee becomes the host.

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

This or That Gothic Snippet 16- Haunted Mirror

Inspired by my answers for this post by @blackrosesandwhump!  

Whumpee stared into the mirror as they brushed their hair.

“You’ve got a couple tangles in the back,” a voice echoed.

Whumpee nearly dropped their hairbrush as a ghostly face materialized in the mirror.

“Caretaker!” Whumpee scolded, “don’t do that!”

“Sorry,” Caretaker’s ghost said.

Caretaker’s spirit floated out of the mirror and ran their semi-transparent fingers through Whumpee’s hair.

“Want me to help?” Caretaker asked.

“Um,” Whumpee said, “last time you ‘helped’ me with something, the lights turned off and on by themselves for a week.”

“I’ll be careful!” Caretaker said cheerfully.

Caretaker grabbed the hairbrush and started working at Whumpee’s tangles.

“You know,” Whumpee mused, “I always thought ghosts couldn’t grab things, I thought your hand would just go right through it.”

“So did I, to be honest,” Caretaker replied, “but here we are.”

Whumpee relaxed as Caretaker ran the brush through their hair. This was nice. When they had first moved into the old house, they were terrified to meet Caretaker. Caretaker had been gone for at least half a century, but the mirror allowed them to enter the living world at will. Once Whumpee had gotten over their fear of ghosts, they and Caretaker quickly became fast friends. It also helped that Caretaker was adept at protecting them from the less benevolent spirits that lurked around their home.

Whumpee had closed their eyes in contentment when Caretaker suddenly stopped brushing.

“What’s wrong?” Whumpee asked.

“They’re back,” Caretaker said darkly.

Whumpee’s face fell and their breathing quickened.

“Whumper?” Whumpee asked in a frightened whisper.

An unfortunately familiar face appeared in the mirror. Whumper’s spirit floated into the room.

“Hello, little Whumpee,” Whumper’s ghost drawled, “miss me?”

“N-no,” Whumpee stammered, “I had you exorcised, you can’t possess me anymore.”

“Is that how you think an exorcism works?” Whumper laughed, “you have a lot to learn about the paranormal.”

Before Whumpee or Caretaker could react, Whumper flew into Whumpee’s body.

“Lesson one.” It was Whumpee’s mouth that moved, but it was Whumper’s voice that came out.

“Never underestimate the power of a spirit.”

Whumpee dropped to the floor and began to convulse, their limbs twitching violently and their body shuddering.

“Whumpee!” Caretaker cried.

Caretaker didn’t want to possess Whumpee, but it seemed to be the only way to help them now. Without hesitating further, Caretaker flew into Whumpee’s body.

“Let them go, Whumper!” Caretaker yelled.

“I haven’t been on the living plane in so long,” Whumper said, “I won’t give up my chance to be alive again!”

Whumpee gagged. They maneuvered themselves into a crouching position and Caretaker and Whumper tumbled out of their mouth.

“I’ll chase them back into the mirror,” Caretaker yelled, “it’s your job to break it!”

“What!?” Whumpee cried, “but I’ll never be able to see you again!”

“It’s the only way to keep you safe!” Caretaker yelled.

Caretaker grabbed Whumper and threw them through the mirror.

“I’ll see you again someday, Whumpee,” Caretaker said.

“No! Caretaker, please!”

Caretaker smiled sadly at Whumpee and flew through the mirror. Tears streaming down their face, Whumpee picked up the hairbrush and shattered the mirror. All that was left of the mirror was shards of haunted glass littering the floor. Whumpee dropped to their knees and began to sob. They were finally safe, but at what cost?

…

Later that night…

“Whumpee?”

Whumpee stirred in bed and looked over to the mirror frame. They hadn’t had the heart to take it down.

“Caretaker?” Whumpee asked.

Caretaker materialized in front of Whumpee, who gasped, and cracked a sheepish grin.

“So, it turns out that shattering the mirror only keeps out malevolent spirits. The frame will still let ghosts like me into the living world.”

Whumpee sprang out of bed and tried to hug Caretaker. They nearly tripped when they passed right through them.

“I thought I’d never see you again!” Whumpee sobbed, regaining their balance, “I th-thought you were gone- like, really gone!”

“Not a chance,” Caretaker smiled, “I’m here to stay, you can’t get rid of me.”

Caretaker stayed with Whumpee the rest of the night, even after Whumpee had fallen asleep. The mirror frame hung on the wall, perfectly intact.

[stab-the-son-of-a]

For Now We See Through A Glass

No. 24 FIGHT, FLIGHT OR FREEZE Blood Covered Hands | Catatonic | “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Not so subtly inspired (directly) by @wormwriting's recent piece Stained Glass.

CWs: implied murder, implied drowning, mental health issues and instability, implied alcoholism, eye trauma

Tagging those who might be interested: @wolves-and-winters, @pepperonyscience

He has a pattern. He always has a pattern. A pattern, a ritual, a list of rules to follow. A ritual to unwind, a ritual to breathe. A ritual to be safe. 

At 7:00pm, he brews a cup of peppermint tea and places it on the coaster next to the remote. He pours out exactly three ounces of bourbon and places it directly on the table as far left from the tea as possible. He opens East of Eden to page 284 - On Thanksgiving of 1911 the family gathered at the ranch - and places it spine up on the right hand armrest of the couch; the binding is beginning to fray and he doesn't want to find out what happens when the spine finally breaks. There's always a breaking point. 

He turns the television on, turns up the volume, and carefully replaces the remote to the table, not allowing his hand to brush the mug. 

Then, each step taken like an ax chopping through wood, he takes in hand the worn blanket draped over the back of the couch and curls up, pressing himself between the left arm rest and the suffocating nothing to his right.

The same episode's opening credits roll. The same contrived plot plays out second by second.

7:14pm clicks over on the digital clock above the television. His heart cranks faster and his hand shakes right until the moment his fingers curl around the glass of liquor. It burns all the way down and suffuses through his throat, stomach and even his lungs. He keeps a posture of fabricated ease even as his ribs tighten and anxiety curls in his stomach. He drowns it in an ounce of alcohol.

But he can still feel it approach. The door opens. It's a silent motion, not announced by even the lock clicking open. It makes sense, if he thinks about it, but he does not.

He drains the final ounce and sets down the glass. He pretends he doesn't feel the pressure of a new being entering the room. He focuses on the actors and their simple quips and dialogues as if they're fresh and novel.

It flows around the sofa. It stands just to the right of the TV but he doesn't acknowledge it, doesn't look to the dark shape no matter how his eyes may want to skirt over the rerun he's seen countless times before. He knows each line by heart and could watch it behind his eyelids, but he knows better than to close his eyes. Not now.

His focus and vision narrows to a tunnel with the light at the end being a glowing television screen and trite acting. He tells himself he doesn't see it, but soon he can't deny it. 

A pressure divots the couch behind and beside him, ruining the embrace of fabric pressing against him, ruining the last vestiges of his illusion.

A flash of memory stabs him through the chest. Of shaking chains and of whispered pleas, of closing the door to lock the sounds behind him.

There are cold, cold fingers, and they find their homes around his wrist, layering over blackened bruises, or in between strands of his hair. 

He swallows a shudder, tries not to breathe, but the stench of stale water and musky earth still permeates his senses. Another flash. Reeds and bricks weighing down on a still chest, water soaking into wounds and a mouth left hanging open by a shattered jaw, like a door on a broken hinge. Bloodied hands washing bloodied hands in a too calm lake, surface broken only by the shoreline.

It whispers the next line of dialogue in his ear. Its breath is like leaves crunching underfoot; its laugh is like a broken wind chime strangled in the breeze. 

He breaks his own rule. He closes his eyes.

The hands in his hair and holding his hand grow sharp and harsh. Fingers dig into flesh until they become like claws burying into soil. Blood wells up in the cuts and drips to the couch cushion.

"You'd best not close your eyes for this part," the thing that was but now isn't Sidney snarls. It yanks Sterling's head back as it swings its ephemeral body over his, weightless yet heavy enough to crush his chest. Its presence is like cords of rope and its pressure is like the clay of the lakebed. 

His fear tangles in his veins and sends electric shocks all through his body. He breaks another of his own rules. He begs, "Sidney, please..."

"Open your eyes." It doesn't give him time to obey, just forces his head back further, straining his neck further, until his neck is bent over the edge of the couch, and uses one claw to pry open his eyelid. The pressure on his skull feels ready to cave in. His vision is blurred, though who can say if that's from tears or pain, but he clearly sees what will happen next.

The thing uses only one hand to hold him in place. That's all it needs. The other lifts high, long talons dirtied with soil and blood, flesh torn from the tips.

"Please, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"So sorry," it echoes, voice something warbling and distorted. "No, not yet."

Claws rake across bone, through skin and muscle and organs. Pain fills his mind, overwhelms his mind, and it becomes his soul, his very being. Blood flows free down his face and into his mouth as he shrieks –

Panting, Sterling bolts upright. The television still plays, sound up much too loud, remote on the floor, perhaps where his thrashing had left it. The glass is full again. 4 ounces. Perhaps he overpoured. 

He doesn't dare look around. Shivering in the nighttime chill, he brings the whiskey to his lips and swallows it all readily. He pulls the blanket around him as he lilts over, eyes staring at the screen but not seeing anything. His hand finds his wrist, feeling the fresh scabs and the hot pulse of fresh bruises under his own touch.

Cold fingers wind through his hair. 

"Not yet," something he doesn't acknowledge whispers. The room stinks of water and rot and alcohol, but the scent is fading. The peppermint tea is missing.

[whumpsmith]

OC talk~

A whumpee who is often targeted for his abilities and gets haunted by the ghost of his whumper~

More about he under the cut

Phil is initially introduced as Aiden's best friend, a columnist with a love for anything supernatural related, specifically the super heroes seen around the city. He loves to get to the bottom of things, even if that sometimes goes against better judgement.

Much to his surprise, however, he discovers he actually has his own abilities, and they're very powerful too, which immediately puts a target on his back.

A villain with the ability to steal powers is the first to get his hands on him, but before he gets the chance to extract the source of his abilities, Phil accidentally defeats him - something he regrets to this day since he didn't have control of his abilities at the time. (And it doesn't help that the villain then proceeds to haunt him either :) )

If you want to know all the juicy details you can read all about that in his story~

[stoic-whumpee]

A Little Death - The Neighbourhood?

Heya, thanks for the song! The Neiborhood seems to have many whumpy song xD

Ghost Whumpee who doesn't realise they are dead. They see their loved one grieving and wanted to comfort them, but their touches go right through the person.

Ghost Whumpee who is stuck in the house of their death, which has been abandoned for a long time. Whumpee is very lonely and is desperate for another voice or a touch of anything.

Going off of that, Ghost Whumpee turned Whumper possessing the first person unfortunate enough to stumble across their haunt. They are so starving for human contact that they will do anything they can to escape their haunt, even if that means taking over someone else's life and possibly dooming their victim to their old fate.

[mumbojumbo84317]

#GhostWhisperer

Network: #CBS

Premiered September 23, 2005

Ended May 21, 2010

No. Of Episodes: 107 (5 Seasons)

Starring:

#JenniferLoveHewitt

#AishaTyler

#DavidConrad

#CamrynManheim

#JayMohr

#ChristophSanders

#JamieKennedy

[letitbehurt]

Whumpees held captive by self-sustaining, off-the-grid hunters.

Constant threats of becoming compost for the vegetable garden. Hunting knives designed to skin. Deer hooks in smokehouses. Bone saws normally used on antlers, but perfect for severing the offending feet off of a runaway. And even if they do run, Whumpee won’t get away. Whumper knows these surrounding woods like the back of their hand, and they’ve been tracking their own food for most of their life. Whumpee doesn’t stand a chance out here. They know that.

[whumpy-wyrms]

it’s my birthday so here’s some whump prompts! feel free to eat these up like birthday cake :)

whumpee being stuck in captivity for so long, unable to track the time or having their memory wiped so that they don’t remember when their birthday is or how old they are.

whumpee’s birthday is the only day when whumper is somewhat nice to them, giving them cake and presents, and spending the day doing whatever whumpee wants to do (except leaving, of course). whumpee has to savor this day as much as they can, knowing the next day will be filled with pain and torment again.

fae whumper who kidnaps whumpee by throwing them a birthday party. whumpee eats the cake not knowing that they’re now trapped there forever.

whumper getting whumpee as a birthday present. maybe they’re a scientist getting their first test subject, maybe they’re a vampire getting their first bloodbag. whatever the case is, whumper is excited and whumpee is terrified.

ghost whumpee who’s birthday continues to be celebrated by their friends, even after they died. they still feel loved and appreciated even if nobody can see or hear them.

ghost whumpee who’s birthday was forgotten or ignored after they died, never celebrated by the people who they thought cared about them.

multiple whumpees in captivity. whenever it’s one whumpee’s birthday, whumper leaves them alone but tortures the other whumpee twice as bad, and forces them to watch.

whumper having nobody to celebrate their birthday with so they kidnap whumpee.

whumpee who’s birthdays are more fun with whumper than anywhere else. whumper getting them their favorite birthday cake, presents they’ve always wanted, spending the day having the most fun whumpee’s ever had. whumper taunting them about how they like it here, and would never be this appreciated anywhere else.

whumpee getting kidnapped on their birthday, rescued on their birthday, recaptured on their birthday, or dying on their birthday.

whumper taunting whumpee during their birthdays. burning them with birthday cake candles, feeding them a cake they’re allergic to, or poisoning it, and taunting them about how another year has passed and nobody has come to rescue them.

whumper who celebrates their own birthday by torturing whumpee, saying it’s the least whumpee could do to give them a happy birthday.

whumper who loves to celebrate whumpee’s birthday, taking the day off and goofing around with them. whumper blowing up balloons and throwing them at whumpee, making their hair stand up from static electricity, or inhaling the helium to sound all squeaky. silly whumpers my beloved

whumper notices whumpee seems lonely, so for their birthday, whumper kidnaps someone new and gifts them to whumpee to keep them company.

whumpee who escaped captivity and is on the run. they’re living in the wilderness, unable to celebrate their own birthday and risk being found.

whumpee who’s birthday marks the end of a time loop. every time a year passes, they go back to the beginning and have to go through the whole year of being tormented by whumper all over again.

for caretaker’s birthday, whumper sends them the bloody remains of whumpee as a birthday present.

whumper forcing whumpee to eat parts of themself (or a loved one) for their birthday.

whumper cutting immortal whumpee open while they’re still conscious and feeling everything, burning candles in their flesh and cutting them up to eat instead of eating a birthday cake.

[mj-iza-writer]

I wrote this at work on a slow day. Character death- MJ

"Amy, stop spacing out", the charge nurse snapped their fingers while they checked vitals.

"I'm sorry, but do you ever feel like something is watching you in this room?", Amy shivered, "it gives me the creeps."

"All of the time", the charge nurse sighed, "I try to ignore it, this poor soul needs us", they looked at the battered body.

It had been a full week since the detectives had located Caretaker's location and raided the building. Caretaker and two others had been held captive there. All three varied in how long they had been there.

Caretaker had been there three weeks, and even in that amount of time, the doctors felt it would be safest to put him into a coma to heal.

The second person had been a week there, they escaped with minor injuries.

The third, Whumpee, had been there for a year. They were badly broken by the time they were removed. It seemed they had fought to stay alive long enough to be found, they succumbed to their injuries in an officers arms. Dead by the time they felt the chill of the night air.

Caretaker had been heard yelling, asking about the two others. No one had the will to tell them Whumpee died.

Now, Caretaker lay in their hospital bed, a long road to recovery. Most was to be spent in the medically induced coma.

Most staff couldn't get over the spooky feeling of someone watching in Caretaker's room.

No one noticed Whumpee sitting on the floor beside Caretaker's bed. At least no one could see them there it seemed.

Whumpee often cried, they didn't want to be invisible. They wished to be acknowledged again, even if it meant going back to the torture. This was almost worse than anything their captors had done.

Whumpee stood up and gently poked Caretaker.

"Caretaker", they whispered, "please tell me what's going on."

Caretaker just layed there motionless.

Whumpee screamed, causing the lights to dim. The monitor beeped a few times before someone rushed in.

"That's the second time today", the charge nurse sighed, "whatever keeps doing that needs to stop, it's going to kill Caretaker."

Whumpee whimpered when they heard those words.

Another nurse came in.

"Everything okay?", they asked.

"Yes, Caretaker is stable", the nurse looked over the vital another time.

"Good. I was reading the chart for Caretaker. Did you know two others came out of that place. One hadn't been there too long, so they were fairly okay and were in a different part of the hospital. But one other named Whumpee died as they were being carried out", the nurse frowned, "it seemed Caretaker had been doing all they could to keep Whumpee alive, with promises that they would be rescued soon. Whumpee died as they left the building."

Whumpee listened, "I remember now, I didn't want to be forgotten in this world. Caretaker kept promising me that we would be found, just hold out a little longer. I remember now. I-I died."

Whumpee fell to the ground in front of the nurses.

"Not to be superstitious, but you don't suppose Whumpee could be here with us. They seemed pretty close to Caretaker", the nurse frowned.

Whumpee listened bewildered.

"I don't know, I have a hard time believing in ghost."

"You can admit though it's spooky in here", the other admitted.

They both left agreeing with each other.

Whumpee stood by Caretaker's bed now. They cried but tried to be careful with their emotions they didn't want to kill Caretaker or anyone for that matter.

Whumpee sat by the bed for the rest of the day thinking about what had happened. Wishing they knew more of what was going on. If only Caretaker were with them to tell them it was going to be okay.

"He probably wouldn't be able to see me anyways", Whumpee sighed.

The door opened again. The nurse from earlier came in carrying something.

"This is awkward, but is there by chance someone in here named Whumpee?", they looked around.

Whumpee stood up.

"If you are here, will you move this", the nurse held up a string with a needle hanging from it.

Whumpee went over to them, but stopped suddenly, "how am I supposed to move that", they waved their hands at it. Nothing.

"Come on, I can feel your energy. Just tell me I'm not crazy", the nurse pleaded.

Whumpee groaned, "I can't", they looked at the string and with all concentration they could muster tried to flick it."

"It moved", the nurse exclaimed excitedly.

Whumpee fell back suddenly feeling really weak.

"Okay wow", the nurse looked around excitedly.

Whumpee smiled, glad they had been noticed again.

Whumpee decided to tour around the hospital a few days later.

There was nothing else to do besides watch Caretaker's steady breathing and the machines thankfully keeping Caretaker alive.

Whumpee came back to the room in time to see the doctor come in.

"They are looking good", the doctor exclamined, "I may consider taking them out of the coma if it keeps up."

Whumpee sat on the couch across the room from them to listen.

The nurse who knew Whumpee was there. They looked around the room.

"You seem a little sidetracked", the doctor smiled.

"I'm sorry, um it's weird, but I feel like someone is watching", the nurse blushed.

"You mean like a ghost", the doctor smiled wider.

"Yes", the nurse looked down, "do you believe in ghost?"

"Well honestly I don't know, there are a lot of things we don't know about in this life", the doctor sighed, "but I don't doubt your senses. There was a death involved in this case."

"Yes, Whumpee", the nurse looked at Caretaker.

"Yes."

Whumpee stood by the light switch, they had learned a few tricks, and was working on their energy. They smiled as they flicked the switch off then on again.

"What the heck", the doctor looked around.

"They have a few pranks they like to pull", the nurse sighed.

"They?", the doctor looked at them wide-eyed.

"Whumpee, they've been with Caretaker this whole time watching over them", the nurse smirked, "I was able to make contact, and I think they've enjoyed being noticed again. The room seems lighter than it did before doesn't it."

"Y-yes", the doctor tried to catch their breath, "I uh, wasn't expecting that."

Whumpee laughed as they walked to the bed. They reached down and touched the doctor's hand.

The doctor jerked back.

"Cold hand touch yours?", the nurse grinned.

"Y-yes", the doctor looked at them shocked.

"They won't hurt you, I think they are learning how to do things, and are trying to be noticed more", the nurse sighed, "I wasn't ready when they poked me the other day."

"What do we do?", the doctor asked, "this is a new one for me."

"Just say hi, they don't want to cause any trouble", the nurse smiled, "they just want people to know they're here."

The doctor nodded, "Hello Whumpee, I promise Caretaker is in good hands."

Whumpee smiled finally someone else knew they existed still, they weren't forgotten.

A few more days passed, three weeks since Caretaker was hospitalized.

The doctor peaked in, "alright Whumpee, no spooks, I need to check on Caretaker."

Whumpee sat on the couch and watched the doctor and nurses working on Caretaker.

"I think we can take them out of the coma, they've healed remarkably", the doctor smiled happily, "better than I thought."

Whumpee did a happy dance, they could finally find out if Caretaker could see them. They ignored the thought of Caretaker not seeing them though.

Later the staff came in to start the process.

Whumpee stood at the bedside next to them.

They poked the nurse they had befriended.

"I know I'm excited to", the nurse whispered.

Everyone gave a weird look, only the doctor gave a knowing glance around the room.

The nurse quickly pointed out where Whumpee was.

The doctor nodded.

Whumpee watched as Caretaker struggled to wake up.

Caretaker gasped a couple times, "where am I?"

"You are in a hospital, just getting out of a medically induced coma", the doctor smiled, "you are safe now."

Caretaker closed their eyes, "okay, yep its coming back to me, how is, how is Whumpee and that other one? Are they okay?"

"How about we finish here, and we'll talk", the doctor sighed.

"No please I know Whumpee was in bad shape, and no one has told me anything. Are they ok....", Caretaker locked eyes with Whumpee, "oh they're right there, good. Whumpee, you look like your in better shape than me, oh that's good", Caretaker relaxed.

Whumpee almost cried.

The doctor locked eyes with the nurse, they both shivered.

Everyone else looked startled as well, Whumpee wasn't there. They figured he was still processing.

Once everyone had left except the doctor and the nurse. They both sat beside Caretaker's bed.

The doctor started, "Caretaker I am so happy you are awake, you've been an honor to take care of."

The nurse agreed.

"I have some news though, um, Whumpee died that night", the doctor sighed, "um the moment the officer got them outside they passed", the doctor wiped a stray tear.

"I'm looking at them right now", Caretaker pointed, almost pleadfully.

Whumpee wiped a tear away, they disappeared and reappeared closer to Caretaker.

"I'm dead Caretaker", they sighed.

"No, no please", Caretaker sobbed, "you were supposed to be free with me, and live and be remembered. And- and be reminded there is good in this world."

"There is good", Whumpee reached and grabbed Caretaker's arm, "this doctor, this nurse, you. There is so much good here.

Caretaker sobbed as they listened.

The doctor looked away, they eyed the nurse.

"I'm so sorry Caretaker", they replied, "we both believe Whumpee is here with you, they've been here this whole time watching over you, and playing pranks on us. I think you might be able to see them, I'm taking it as that."

Caretaker nodded.

"I'm sure you both have a lot to talk about so we are going to leave you now. Use this call bell if you need us", the doctor pulled down the alarms.

Caretaker wiped a tear as they watched them leave.

"The other person was rescued as well, they've already been cleared to go home, they couldn't see me, but I spent some time in their room before they left", Whumpee stood by the bed, "so far you've been the only one to see me. That nurse made contact with me first, then the doctor felt me."

"I yelled for you, no one told me. I'm so sorry", Caretaker sobbed.

"The only thing I would change from this is that I wish I could have known you on your side of life. I have no idea what I'm supposed to do now', Whumpee looked down, "the officer that carried me was very kind. When he saw I was dying, he stopped and hugged me as I died. I'm okay."

Caretaker shook as they listened.

"I promise, I'm okay. You were right, I was able to hold on a little longer, and be free, just in a different way. Hopefully, you will remember me if I ever do fade out of existence. I honestly have no idea what will happen to me now."

"I won't forget you Whumpee I promise", Caretaker smiled weakly, "until that happens will you stay with me, haunt me if you will. Maybe you can enjoy your freedom that way until you know what you are supposed to do."

"I'll enjoy that", Whumpee grinned, "it's been fun learning to be a ghost."

Caretaker nodded, "I'm sure."

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all. @villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived @sacredwrath @porschethemermaid @monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz @bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13 @notpeppermint

[cinnamon-roll-whump]

Little dove

(cw: possession, self harm, suicide mention)

"Hello, my dove."

The young angel barely moved as his captor approached, floating closer to the birdcage he was held in. He had no reason to. She was safe, and far from here, and really, what else mattered?

"What, not excited to see me?" He could hear the frown in the ghost's voice, then, his head appeared through the floor and the angel startled back, falling onto his already damaged wings and tangling in his chains. He stifled a cry of pain, unwilling to give his captor any satisfaction.

The ghost rose higher, smirking now with half his body inside the cage. "My, my, dove, glad to see there's some life in you yet." He leaned abruptly forward to grip the angel's chin in one now-solid and icy-cold hand. The angel tried to pull back, but clawlike nails pierced his cheek and throat and he stopped. The ghost studied him for a long moment, staring deep into his eyes. The angel stared back. What little pride he still had left would not let him be the first to break eye contact.

Finally, the ghost laughed and released him. "Such stubbornness. Oh, you will be fun to break!" He twisted and spun around, running his icy hands over the angel's wings, caressing the broken feathers. The angel shuddered, pulling away, but it didn't help: the ghost only moved closer. There was no escaping something that obeyed no physical laws and could move between tangibility and intangibility at will.

"Shame about your face," the ghost said finally, caressing the permanently damaged skin on the younger man's right cheek. "I'll send someone to fix up your wings, though. The ceremony's in only three nights, and I want my new body to be as healthy as possible. I'm really looking forward to flying, I didn't get to do that in my old life."

The angel's teeth clenched and he had a sudden strong urge to attack the ghost, strangle him with his chains. But he was a ghost, he'd died long ago.

The ghost waited for a moment, watching him, then turned and began to sink down through the bottom of the cage.

"I'll never stop fighting you," the angel said quietly.

The ghost paused and turned, chest-deep in the floor, one eyebrow raised. "Oh?"

"Never," the angel continued. "I don't care what it costs me, you won't ever touch her, you won't ever get anywhere near her. I'll kill us both first."

The ghost rose out of the floor to pat his head, tugging at his hair til his eyes welled with tears. He leaned down to the angel's ear. "I look forward to it, dove." Nails raked down the angel's cheek, and the ghost was gone.

The angel stared off into space for several long moments, then shook himself and lunged at the bars again. The chains on his wrists stopped him short painfully, but he kept going, flapping his wings like an injured bird desperate to stay aloft.

The worse he could injure himself now, the worse off the ghost would be when he took over his body, and the better off his love and her allies would be. Best if he could break a wing or two, or a few ribs, but an arm or leg would suffice as well.

He gritted his teeth and threw himself backwards into the bars, stifling a scream as something gave way.

[shshshquietnow]

Based on a post by @whumpitlikeyoumeanit: ghost caretaker and medium whumpee.

Ghost caretaker maybe being a past victim of whumper, bound to the place they died, where whumpee is being kept now.

Whumpee being inherently terrified of their presence. No, not scared they're a ghost, they've been seeing ghosts all their life. They're scared they aren't the first victim, and that apparently the last victim fucking DIED.

Whumper, not knowing whumpee can see ghosts maybe, is elated. Whumpee was fighting back, defiant, the WHOLE way to the location, but as soon as whumpee is put in their cell they go dead (ha) silent and obeys whumper to a t.

Caretaker can't comfort whumpee. They can't say it's gonna be okay, caretaker themselves is the embodiment of there's not a good chance of it being okay. All their touches are cold and make whumpee shiver... the most they can do is torment whumper, but even then... whumper was the one to torture and kill them in the first place, they're still scared of whumper, and what they could do to whumpee if they lose their temper.

Not being able to leave the room as whumpee gets tortured... trying to encourage whumpee to put on a brave face as whumper taunts them... getting fed up of whumper and sending a chill through them... whumper finding out about caretaker eventually... lots can happen.

[stab-the-son-of-a]

But now face to face...

No. 17 HANGING BY A THREAT Breaking Point | Stress Positions | Reluctant Caretaker

No. 20 IT'S BEEN A LONG DAY Going into Shock | Fetal Position | Prisoner Trade

Last bit with this, I promise.

TWs: Suicidal ideation, body horror, gore, past murder, throat gore, noncon touching

Taglist: @painsandconfusion, @teamwhump, @pepperonyscience

At 7:00pm, he brews a cup of peppermint tea and places it on the coaster next to the remote. He pours out exactly three ounces of bourbon and places it directly on the table as far left from the tea as possible. He opens East of Eden to page 284 - On Thanksgiving of 1911 the family gathered at the ranch - and places it spine up on the right hand armrest of the couch; the binding is beginning to fray and he —

The book has split. Cracked. One half of the book remains held firm in his grasp but the other slides off the arm of the couch and hits the floor. 

All he recognizes is paper flapping, folding. The lakeshore is in the front yard. The front door is behind him. 

His mind is a blur of panic and terror and an endless refrain of not safe not safe as he jerks into motion. He leaps over the coffee table and past the television, down the hall. His breathing swells in his lungs like a roaring flame. 

Sterling yanks open the door to the attic. Before the stairs have even clattered to the floor, he's dragging himself up them with frantic haste.

"No, no, no, please, Sidney," Sterling begs, even as he knows its futility. Eyes screwed shut, he relies on blindly fumbling for the next step, and the next. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please!"

The last step gives way under his hand but momentum leaves him only with a sprained wrist as he sprawls forward. Lightning flashes and thunder shakes the entire houses. His chin hits the floor, blood on his tongue and pain in his jaw. There's pressure at his back unquantifiable but there's also still no reaching hands closing around his ankle or leg. 

The attic is dusty and stale, cluttered and in disarray, but it may as well be empty- he knows he can't hide from them, not up here. Maybe not anywhere. On the far wall, there's a small circular window overlooking the woods. His hands tremble so badly he can't even get a grip on the latch on the window. Water droplets pour down the glass, each one mocking his state.

"Don't do this, please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll buy a new one," Sterling blabbers. "It was a mistake, just an accident!"

Unwillingly he remembers similar accidents. 

"Why, pray tell, is there glass on the floor?"

"It was an accident. My hand slipped. Please, sir, I'll pick it up—"

"And the wasted liquor? You can't pick that up."

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, sir, I'm sorry."

"You're always sorry. Yet always disappointing. Into position."

Panic and guilt and terror all combine into a sickening mixture as he puches through the glass. Blood and water run down his arm as the glass slices open his wrist and hand. It's ice cold, every part of him feels cold. A low keen crawls up his throat. He strikes at glass and wood, both splintering under the force, until he's punched out the majority of it. 

Slipping through the hole isn't a tight fit. It should be, it used to be, he knows this, but he hauls himself over the edge and hits the ground rolling. Rocks and shards of glass and dirt all bury in his skin but he doesn't stop. Gasping he races toward the tree line. 

The underbrush and tree limbs grasp and scratch at his arms and face and legs. Leaves and sticks crunch underneath each footfall and slice up his bare feet. Rain pelts his face and mud threatens his footing.

The lake is behind him, however, and there's a road some distance through the woods. 

There are people. People who can help, or at least try to save him from the monster he's created, or even just end this God awful cycle. He jumps over small trickling streams and darts around mossy stones, gasping for air. 

Something cold wraps around his ankle mid leap and he faceplants. His ears ring, an echo of coming pain. A fog covers his mind. He knows he needs to get back up, to run away. He needs to run. 

Instead something (oh he knows what) drags him. Scrambling for purchase, he digs his fingers into decaying leaves and much too small stones, dirt curling under his hands and giving him away to Sidney. 

"No! No, God, no, Sidney, stop!" 

It doesn't listen to him. He convinces himself he doesn't hear the absolute silence all around him broken only by his cries and the sound of his own body being dragged through the foliage. 

Instead, he begs. Never a complete sentence, just word salad with all the ingredients being fear, pain and desperation. 

Sobbing now, he kicks and flails but the grip holding him is iron. 

"No more, please, no more," Sterling cries as Sid— as it drags him ever backwards, out of the woods. The sun has set, plunging the clearing behind his house, his prison, into stark darkness. He cuts his hands on sticks and stones and turns dirt to mud with his blood, inexorably drawn back. Dirt and grass give way for wet sand and moss and reeds. 

Still, he can see the thing wearing most of Sidney's face clearly as it bodily flips him onto his back.

"I'm sorry, God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I didn't!"

It leans in. Fetid breath and sharp pressure on his shoulders, a long, icy tongue running up the side of his face. He sobs and fists his hands into the mud. He can't tell which will swallow him whole first.

"Funny," it murmurs, and its teeth graze his flesh. "I do mean to."

"It wasn't meant to happen, it wasn't, I didn't want you to die!"

Claws on his shoulders. The weight of a ghost and guilt on his chest. He can't breathe. Their face is twisted, both with rot and hate and festering wounds. Bloat puffs their skin. Grass blades make a mockery of thatching the holes in their face, flesh and slimy grass intertwining.

"You weren't meant to die, I didn't want you to die!"

Teeth on his neck. A pinprick and then a dribble of blood and pain rolling down his skin.

"Sidney, God, please, please…" Sterling tries and fails to angle his head away from every disgusting, hateful touch but there's nowhere to run, nowhere to escape to. 

"I begged too," it laughs. "I begged you and begged you. Don't tell me you have buyer's remorse."

"I'm sorry- I shouldn't- I never should have bought you, never should have hurt you- never ever–"

It growls low, a warning. Wisely, he stops, but not before swallowing his grief and guilt with a whimper.

"What do you want from me? For me to suffer?" It's so absurdly accurate he can't help but laugh with Sidney. His laughter turns to choked whines readily. "I am suffering." 

"Not enough. Never enough. You deserve this all."

A sob rattles his chest and sets his head nodding weakly. "I know. I know. Just… Please, God, just… Let it end. Let go. It's been seven years."

Seven years since his hand slipped, since he dropped Sidney down the stairs (face smashed, head at an angle, and so, so much blood) and buried the evidence in the lake only for this to resurface in their place. 

Silence falls. He can scarcely hear his own breathing, shuddering and shallow. The woods are quiet, the rain falls in delicate sheets, and even the waves against the shore seem to hold their breath. Nothing in the area dares make a sound. Sterling turns tired eyes back to their distorted figure and waits.

"Seven years?" it repeats the words slowly, as if testing how they feel in its throat.

"Yes! Don't- don't you want me to pay? Properly? I can go- I can turn myself in. Please, God, please, they'll hurt me, you don't have to, they'll do it!"

For a single moment, Sterling is almost sure there is something left of Sidney, enough to stare at him rather than through him, enough to listen to him. 

Abruptly, its face splits open. Jaw bones crack and creak. Flesh tears as its stolen face stretches inhumanly. 

It swallows Sterling's screams right at the source, teeth carving through cartilage, and brackish water pours from its mouth to mingle with his blood.

Iggy picks through the woods carrying a bundle of daisies and lilies. Her hair is sweat slicked to her face and her shirt clings to her back as if the oppressive heat has fused the fabric to her skin. It's only a little after dawn, yet the humidity has already shed the nighttime chill.

Still, a shiver runs down her back as she finds the house. 

It looks so different than when she first saw it. The once proud peaks seem to sag; the bold, deep paint flakes away from the wood like it too wants to abandon the memories here; windows are boarded up and broken in equal measure, tongues of drapery fluttering through the holes. 

She licks at her lower lip as her eyes dart around, searching for even one single sign of human life in the area. There's a single light on in the living room, a pale yellow glow, but she keeps it to her back. Glass crunches under her shoes as she approaches the shore. 

"Hey Sid," Iggy whispers. Mindful of the mud already seeping up around her boots, she crouches down with one hand to hold her skirt away from the dirt. "I've missed you. Sorry I couldn't come yesterday. The storm…"

Of course, Sidney doesn't answer. Iggy hesitantly lays down the bouquet at her feet and hugs her knees. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't find you in time. I'm really… I'm so sorry."

This time, the silence feels heavier, damning. 

She swallows a lump of grief and bolts to her feet, bringing her hoodie in closer around her. "I- I really should get back home. Love you." Her final words sink into the mud with her footsteps and the flowers. Turning on her heel, she ignores the anxiety and paranoia telling her to turn back around, to look over her shoulder and see whatever is staring at her back, but there's nothing there. 

Iggy cuts a more direct path back to the path in the woods, cutting through the reeds rather keeping to the path circling the clearing.

Something catches her foot. Screaming, she kicks blindly at it and races forward, desperately telling herself she didn't hear anything. 

Several feet into the reeds, several yards away from the clearing still, she stops, panting and ripping her knife free from her boot. "Who's fucking there?" she snarls. "I'll gut you!"

Nothing answers her, nothing except for water folding over itself on the shore and grass blades scraping over themselves. Nature's soundtrack.

Nothing else, except for another soft sound. 

A human sound. Her heart pounds in her ears as she keeps her knife held at the ready and cautiously approaches the source.

Iggy covers her nose with her sleeve as the overbearing stench of blood fills her nose. She should turn back, she rationalizes, and yet she takes another footstep closer. Then another.

"Sorry… sorry… please… so sorry…"

The person huddling in the dirt and grime could charitably described as anything but. Pathetic, broken, a wreckage in humanoid shape. He doesn't react to her approach except to curl tighter in on himself, protecting his fragile middle with one arm while the other covers his head, as if anticipating a blow.

His whole body is covered in bruises and burns and small cuts, some an inflamed, angry crimson that spoke of untreated infection with weeping language. Every inch of his flesh is discolored in some way, either by blood, tears, dirt or some cakey mixture of all of the above. Torn clothes expose more wounds, some still freshly weeping, and every bone seems far too close to the surface, skin shrink wrapped around his frame.

"Sterling?" Iggy whispers. Her grip on the knife only tightens, but watching him flinch and beg for mercy sets off an uncomfortable sensation in her chest. 

He looks like hell. 

Iggy reluctantly replaces her knife in its holder and kneels down next to him, only for him to flinch away from her and all but sob and insist that he's sorry.

That sick feeling in her chest tightens further. 

"We'll get you out of here," she sighs finally. She can't leave him here. Whoever did this to him could still be nearby, and not even he deserved to be left like this.

Ignoring his whimpering, she pulls him into her arms as best she can. There doesn't seem to be a single part of his body that doesn't hurt him for her to touch, and despite the fact he's a foot taller, he's deceptively easy to help to his feet.

"I've got a first aid kit in my car. Just, shush. Alright? Walk with me."

Finally his begging seems to run out. Sterling leans against her and stumbles with each step, but he obeys her readily.

He doesn't speak again.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Ghost Story

Jameson's masterlist (scroll down)

-

CW: Traumatized whumpee/PTSD, references to past murder and torture, some dehumanization references, chronic pain, grief, a wee teensy bit of choking at the end

-

He fell asleep on the couch with a movie playing, Vincent Shield and Nat settled into armchairs on either side. Shield holds his water bottles like they'll vanish if his knuckles aren't white from the effort, and Jameson had watched him off and on, catching the way one hand shakes a little, the bouncing of his knee. The nearly visible craving for a drink that he tries to drown in juice and water and coffee.

They were there, when the movie started. When he wakes, they're both gone and there's a heavy blanket laid over him. That'd be Nat, always taking a second to do a good thing when she could just ignore it and no one would mind. His crutches are still leaning against the wall, waiting for when he gets up.

He can, vaguely, hear Trash Cat trying to break into a the cabinet in the pantry where her food is kept. The sound of her little paw trying to force it open despite the baby-proofing cabinet lock Nat bought is a constant soft thunk. thunk. thunk. thunk.

"Fuckin' quit it," He groans. The thunking sound briefly pauses.

Rrrrrow? Her little chirp is barely audible, curious and surprised. She must've forgotten he was down here. He hears her tap-tap-tap her way into the doorway, look at him, and then tap-tap-tap her way back to the pantry again.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

His eyes barely blink, working hard to squint and see the time on the clock.

2:45 am.

"Jesus fuck." His voice is a mumble, heavy with his exhaustion, as he rubs a hand over his face. There's stubble around the spaces where scars stay smooth and hairless, the cockeyed lift of one side of his mouth pulled always where a knife had been dragged like cutting cold butter.

Even goddamn better: his legs won't unbend. They stay curled, bent at the knees, throbbing agony down to his toes and up into his hips when he tries to straighten them. He can damn near feel the buckles from the braces he hasn't worn since he stabbed Brute to death. He can damn near hear Robert's echoing, rasping laughter.

He can't walk. He could hardly crawl.

He doesn't want to crawl around like a fucking dog anymore.

Maybe he'll just stay here til dawn. Why the fuck not?

The house is silent around him, with that particular empty weight of a home waiting for its people to bring it back to life come morning. A place between something and nothing, and Jameson isn't enough on his own to fill it.

He's barely a drop in the bucket of what you need to feel alive, at a time like this. Absolutely alone in the darkness, staring up at an old popcorn-style ceiling where a fan spins lazily, barely moving air.

Hey.

His head whips to the side at the voice, wide-eyed, pushing himself up on his elbows, heart pounding. There's someone in the doorway between the entryway and the living room, where Trash Cat had been before, watching him in shadow.

You passed out on the couch again. Gonna go to bed any time soon, or am I going to have to tiptoe around your dumb ass in the morning?

His head hurts. Maybe from having woken up from dreaming at the wrong time, it pulses pain with the same rhythm as his heartbeat, at the throb in his knees. They pull up even tighter, and he has to bite back a whimper he absolutely will not let out.

"... who the fuck-"

Call Mom, by the way. You haven't called her in like a week. She says you have 48 hours or she's calling the cops.

He collapses back against the arm of the couch, breathing slowly. His headache is taking over, wiping everything away but itself. Jameson closes his eyes.

Is he still goddamn asleep?

He counts to ten, breathing more slowly and evenly with each number. Then, on the final, torturously slow exhale, he cracks his eyes open again.

The shadow is still there. It hasn't turned into a person, only sort of smudged outline of one. There's a hint of blue jean seams down the legs, the suggestion of hair very much like his own. Even the glimmer of dim moonlight and streetlight from outside against a pair of hazel eyes.

Not that he can see what color they are from here.

He just... knows.

Just like he knows the taste of that voice, even though he can't remember having ever heard it in his life. It's a taste he's known his entire life.

Did you hear me, dumbass? I said call Mom.

"... who the fuck are you?"

Hey, so, while you're here. It's like he didn't say anything, or like the shadow is acting out the words of a script, not actually present or hearing anything he says. It moves, and Jameson flinches violently backwards only to see a beam of moonlight pass right through it as it goes past him, to the window. One grayish-nothing arm lifts, like peering through the blinds. I wanted to say... fuck. I guess just... sorry. About the other night.

"Wh-what-"

It was stupid. I knew you liked her and I still asked her out. That was really shit of me to do, Johnny, I'm sorry about that. You're just way better than me at getting girls to, like, see you...

"I d-don't know what the fuck you're talking-... who's-"

His head.

The pain is like a flash of lightning, bright white and chilled ice behind his eyes. He can't hold this sound back and whines like a goddamn animal as he curls up, hands up over his head, pressing his palms against his eyelids like somehow he can force the pain out of him if he only tries hard enough. The flashes keep sparking, again and again.

"Oh, God-... oh fuck, jesus-"

I broke up with her anyway. So, like. Sorry. Again. Can we not fight about shit like girls, anyway? I hate it. Who am I supposed to talk to if I can't talk to my brother, you know?

Tears run hot like tracks of sun-soaked water through desert down his cheeks. He's sure they'll leave rising blisters in their wake, as he chokes back one sob, and then another. His heart is twisted up in his throat and his legs are bent and useless, his hands hurt where his fingers are twisted into his hair, yanking at it ineffectually, unconsciously. "Please, it h-hurts, fucking stop-"

It's not your fault, Johnny. I was the idiot, you know? We had a fight, fights happen. I didn't have to leave it like that. I shouldn't have left it like that. Still. You didn't have to leave it like that, either. Takes two to fix a fight, right? You could have apologized, too.

There's a long beat of silence.

His headache starts, finally, to slide somewhere further back in his mind. It's still there, still a throbbing immovable force, but he can just barely manage to open his eyes.

The shadow is an inch away, staring at him.

Why didn't you apologize first?

He flinches backwards again, and the sharp spike feels like ice picks right through his eyes as his back arches, a tense bow of pain everywhere. An electric shock, discipline for the wrong thoughts, false memories clawing their way to the surface.

He hasn't worn a shock collar since training, but his body knows what happens when he remembers the life he left behind.

It punishes him anyway.

Why did you let me walk off by myself in the dark, Johnny?

"No-... no-... I s-signed up, I don't want you, I didn't want you anymore, it was t-too much, fuck, fuck off, fuck you, I didn't want to hurt anymore they promised I wouldn't miss you anymore, go away go away go away they took you out of my fucking head go the fuck away this hurts-"

Everything would be okay if you had stopped me. But you just let me walk away, like an asshole.

The shadow of his dead brother watches him with unsettlingly calm eyes, the thatch of his dark hair, the glint of teeth straightened by years of braces.

You let me walk away angry at you. You let me walk right up to him, didn't you? You never even tried to stop me from leaving. Who would I be if you hadn't let me die?

"Please... please, Hank-"

I was still alive when he threw me in that ditch near the woods, remember? Do you think I was awake? For that last hour or so? Do you think I was conscious? Do you think I was thinking about you?

The shadow of his brother might be smiling.

Do you think that I was still angry when he slit my throat?

Jameson pulls the blanket over his head. He can't think of anything else to do but hide.

The shadow can't find him here. The reality of everything he did, everything that's his fault, can't follow him this far into the warm darkness. The murder he could have stopped by being a better brother just one night out of a thousand belongs to the cold and the light.

It can't find him here.

It's ridiculous and childish and yet the voice goes silent, then, and his tongue goes numb. Seconds tick by, tracked by a clock Nat has on the wall. The quiet is heavy and Jameson fills it with every single thing WRU ever taught him.

His lips move mindlessly. He's never forgotten a single sentence. Every chant, every mantra, every constant repetition of his own lost humanity pushes the reality of what led him to it further and further away.

He keeps his eyes closed tightly, shivers in the chill of a cold white room entirely in his own mind, and whispers I signed up for it for a reason, I signed up for this, I was a slut with no future, I didn't want to be a person anymore, I ruined lives, it's all my fault, I'm better off this way, I don't have to hurt anymore, no one else will die because of me, I was made for this I was made for this I was made for this again and again.

The sense of the shadow watching him doesn't fully fade until he closes his own hands around his throat and tightens just enough to feel like a collar, just enough that he has to fight a little for air.

How long he stays like that, he doesn't know.

But eventually he realizes he can hear Trash Cat again, still trying inexorably to find a way into the cabinet where her food has been maliciously kept away from her need to constantly eat at all hours of the day.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Rrrrrow? Rrrrow. Thunk. Thunk.

He had a nightmare, he thinks.

Thunk.

Some kind of weird-ass dream. Something that tasted like a voice, frightening enough to have his heart beating and his body feeling wrung out and aching, like he was throwing punches in his sleep. Fighting something. Or fleeing from something.

What did he dream about?

There was a shadow, and hazel eyes, and a voice...

Thunk. Thunk.

Trash Cat apparently gives up. He hears her little paws tap-tapping along the floor as she tries her luck at shredding the toilet paper in the bathroom.

The nightmare's gone. He can't remember what was bothering him any longer. Still, his heart races and fear is a cold stone in his stomach. Fear and the sense that he has done something terrible. Something he can never make up for or take back.

He doesn't go back to sleep.

He waits, watching the ceiling fan spin, for the safety of dawn.

[scratchandplaster]

What Remains

CW: referenced murder, ghosts, supernatural Whumpee, Whumper-turned-Whumpee

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Whumper lies awake for another night. The cobalt-blue specter at the foot of his bed guards any sleep, a silent whine is their constant escort. Through the moonlight, every lash and stab wound glows visible on their defiled shape: translucent, floating above the carpet floor.

"My body," the living dead whispers with a hollow tone.

When they speak, nothing but these words leave them. For weeks now, even after Whumper thought he got rid of them, the haunting cold they bring with leaves him restless, unable to close his eyes for even a second. As a single tear slips down onto the pillow, the sunken-in stare rests on Whumper's helpless body.

This would be a waking night, like they all had been; it didn't matter in which room or which house he might have tried to flee to, ever since Whumper squeezed the last breath out of the cursed guest, they decided to pay a visit until sunrise.

"My body."

It had been a mistake to take them in, there were plenty of folk that would have made fitting additions to his collection. Unmoving, Whumper prays to a nameless force to end this, to let him rest.

But they can't be reasoned with, their request will never be fulfilled. Even before the first haunting, it had been too late; the object of desire was thrown in the bog, like Whumper did to all of his guests. 

So he just withers away also, alive but fading into nothingness.

"My body!" the phantom howls desperately, as if they can read the thoughts of their torturer like a book.

What else could they be offered? What satiates a trapped soul? Desperation catches on, and Whumper finally joins their hopeless whining.

"I'll do anything," he mutters, still frozen in endless horror, "just let me be. What can I give to you?"

A long silence settles between them but apart from the electric purr around, only a sudden hint breaks it:

"A body."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterpost]

[oligoweee]

• some whump things I love !!

I don't really make my own whump posts but will give it a try, so here's some I've thought of that I love :)

—

1. Whumpee that can't communicate and due to the injuries caused by Whumper, they have trouble moving due to being in pain and this leads to them just kinda laying in their room alone and crying as they wait for Caretaker to come check on them and gently comfort them.

2. Caretaker wrapping an upset Whumpee in a soft blanket and carrying them to a rocking bench where the two sit down and Caretaker comforts them as they continously rock back and forth until Whumpee calms down.

3. Whumper comforting Whumpee after putting them through a round of torture, they are extremely gentle before proceeding to start hurting them again. Bonus if Whumper still comforts them in a taunting way as they're causing harm.

4. Imaginary/Ghost Caretaker that comforts Whumpee after each and every one of Whumper's outbursts and when Whumper notices that Whumpee is calm they just kinda shake their head disapprovingly and try to come up with ideas on how to break Whumpee.

5. Whumper that conditioned Whumpee to not speak at all and then proceeds to get angry when Whumpee doesn't respond to a question that they can't answer by shaking/nodding their head. Bonus if Whumpee forgot how to speak entirely and it's not just the conditioning.

—

I got inspiration for these from quite a few things so yee ‼️

[gotta-whump-them-all]

Ghost hunter caretaker/whumper and ghost whumpee is sending me..!!

Caretaker hunts evil spirits/ghosts for a living but just simply can't imagine ever hurting whumpee since they are just so cute and nice

Whumpee is terrified of humans since they're so used to people trying to exorcise their houses of them and being scared of him

When caretaker comes and finds whumpee inside of someone's house and instantly decides to just take them with them back to their house

Whumpee freaks out and doesn't want to go but caretaker captures them and just brings them back to their home

The reason caretaker is also referred to as whumper is because they did technically take whumpee against their will but it was better than their prior life

They don't live in fear anymore, they have food and proper shelter, and they're aloud to freely roam the house as long as they don't exit the inside

Life is a little more nice for whumpee and now caretaker has a semblance of a friend or family