#haunted duplex

[kieraelieson]

An idea.

Logan and Virgil live in two apartments, side by side. They have never met, other than maybe an awkward wave or a nod in passing.

The apartments used to be one house. Roman and Remus died as children in that house, and haunted it as ghosts afterwards. They are somehow stuck separated ever since the update to two apartments.

Now Roman haunts Virgil and Remus haunts Logan. As ghosts, they have a power of being able to summon anything they can fit inside their fist that has at any point in time existed in the house. They have small fists though, as children.

Roman likes to leave Virgil little Werther’s candies around. Remus likes to swap out Logan’s goldfish with one from the past.

Janus is a Reigen-Arataka-style exorcist, and Patton is his boyfriend and assistant who is very taken in by the flash and glitter and believes it fully. At some point they are hired, and then re-hired and re-hired, to get the twins away. The twins find this hilarious.

[almostfoxglove]

THE PRETTIEST

written for @quinnnfabrgay-writes & @hauntedhowlett-writes' #MONSTERSMASH2024 challenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Max Phillips x f!Reader CREATURE: GHOST + MAX PHILLIPS WORD COUNT: 4.3k CW: Smut (piv), voyeurism/non-consensual voyeurism (he's invisible and reader doesn't know he's watching), Max is a bit of a creep okay he's doing his best here, protective!max, jealous!max, enough manager speak that I got tech startup flashbacks.

SUMMARY: After a restructuring at the company, Max finds himself dead—this time for good—and haunting his old duplex. Lucky for him, you move in.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

Of all the hell holes where one might waste eternity, Max is pretty sure his vacant duplex is the worst of them. Six rooms, two floors spined by a spiral staircase—all boring and hollow and dusty. Disgusting. How difficult would it have been to let him haunt the office? He could’ve leered over all those pathetic little office drones, driven them crazy forever. Fucked with their desk chairs, their hard drives, mixed up all their coffee mugs. Not that Max has mastered the art of affecting the material world yet, but he will.

Petty? Sure. But you can’t blame a guy for feeling a little owed after all management’s little reorganization. His relocation to the goddamn fucking afterlife—and to this prison of an apartment where there’s no one to subjugate or fuck, no less. 

What a waste of his potential. His talents.

Who knows how long he spends stuck alone in this place until someone shows up, but eventually people do. The real estate agent—Doreen and her little beehive hairdo, her eyebrows always penciled on too thin—and, over what Max estimates to be about three weeks, a parade of nobodies she tours around, preaching godless, truthless sermons of the duplex’s good bones and the good life they could have in these dreary fucking rooms. He’d be proud of her sales pitch if he weren’t so goddamn pissed.

He tries, he really does. Yells often, I’m right here, Dor-een, honey, right fucking here! And waves his arms in front of her face, but he can scream as loud as he likes; nobody hears a thing. 

For the first time in his many lives, people walk straight through him. 

There might be, possibly, some karma in that. 

Max doesn’t care for it.

It’s misery until the day Doreen brings him you.

Come on, Max whines, slouching lazily on your couch. Curled up with your bedsheets cloaked over your head, you rot on the cushions beside him, four hours deep in a Desperate Housewives marathon, oblivious to his company: your usual Sunday routine.

As usual you don’t hear him, don’t see him either. Sitting right beside you, making no dents in the pillows, his glossy dress shoes kicked up on the coffee table. Still he finds himself complaining, one hand gesticulating wildly at the screen, You’re killing me, baby. It’s obviously the fucking neighbor! Guy’s got a box of death under his pool!

Meanwhile you just sit there, enthralled as Eva Longoria struts about in her tiny skirts and tiny shoes. Max tells himself the only reason he stays in the room when you watch this garbage is for her and all the other pretty housewives or to leer at what bits of you peek out from your duvet each time you reach for your tea on the coffee table—a wrist, your elbow, and when you knock over the popcorn bowl and slip the sheets from your head, the lovely hollow of your perfect neck. Truth is, if you were to quiz him, he’d be able to cite the plot of the whole season beat for beat.

Not that he’s enjoying this, this—this garbage. Never.

No fucking way. He’s just perceptive. Has an excellent memory.

Plus this is the one way he gets to be close to you. Such a pretty little thing, taunting him without ever knowing it. That sweet mouth, those clever eyes. Showering with the bathroom door sometimes cracked like you know he’s here and dying to peek through the veil of your jasmine-laced steam. Chewing the ends of your pencils while you sketch out some masterpiece on looseleaf that you never get around to painting.

Sitting on your couch, at your dining table, at the foot of your bed while you brush out your hair after a long day—it’s the closest Max gets to feeling like being stuck here might not be hell, just purgatory: always a breath away from the thing he’d like to touch, but at least he’s not simmering in battery acid or being flogged. He’s had his share of blood-bag roommates—brief fascinations that drained so quickly—but you? You’ve lived in Max’s apartment for three months and he’s no less drunk on you than he was the day Doreen toured you around. Can’t quite put his finger on why. Maybe it’s the longing, the forest fire that sears through his ice-box chest every time your eyes skim his face by accident, never lingering. 

What can he say? Max is a man, after all. Under all the blood and monster.

And you’re the prettiest creature he’s ever seen.

When the show cuts to commercial you mute the TV, immune to the serpent-tongued promises of liars like him. Lured by nothing, by nobody. Already slinking from your bedsheet cave, all bare legs and cute little ankles striding out of the room, leaving him with the ghost of you, the smell of your perfume kissed into the duvet.

What he wouldn’t give for the chance to sell himself to you. He’d charm you all the way to your perfect knees.

In a way, you and Max are the perfect couple. You’re free to do as you wish, and he’s free to watch you every second that you spend at home, miserable the moment you leave for work in those tight fucking pencil skirts. No better than a dog, he spends his vagrant hours of isolation alternating between puppy-eyed pouting and anxious pacing, tortured until your evening return. 

How did he ever live here alone? Alive or otherwise. He can’t remember now. There are too many rooms, too few sounds, too few breaths, too few footsteps. He misses you. Your bedhead and pajamas, your blanket nest in front of the TV, the cute way you answer the phone. 

Today, you don’t come home till eight fifteen—and Max has spent thirteen hours losing what’s left of his mind.

Baby, he sighs, rushing for the front room at the first turn of the lock, a grin stretched to dimples in his cheeks. Seems even if you can’t hear him, Max can’t help talking to you, perhaps childlike in his belief that someday you will. Where the hell have you—

His sentence hacks itself in half, drops to silence, because you’re blushing when you come in, eyes shyly downcast, one hand shaking the rain loose from your hair, tendrils clinging to your cheeks. “Here,” you say, and for a beat Max thinks you’re speaking to him. His mouth drops, stunned. 

Is this it? Can you finally see him?

“Come in, come in,” you say.

Then a man steps in behind you, shuts the door behind his hulking form, and if there were any blood to speak of in his veins, Max is certain it’d boil at the sight of him. Tall and empty-headed, dopey as a dog, stomping his blocky, muddy shoes all over your hallway. Yours and Max’s. Getting goddamn filth on your hall carpet. Given just a few material cells, Max’d have this guy dead before he makes it to the living room, wouldn’t even bother drinking him. This breed of dumbass isn’t worth the mess.

But he’s useless. Less than a gnat. Sentenced to watch you trail this motherfucker who wouldn’t know Tom Ford from his Brioni into your kitchen, jackets shedding and small talk traded—boring, boring, boring, but you laugh when the guy makes a shitty joke about the weather. 

This guy, this nobody, gets to make you laugh while Max never even gets a chance to try.

On second thought, maybe this is hell after all.

“S’a nice place,” the dumbass says, laying his knockoff blazer over the back of a barstool. Cheap stitching. Terrible, too-thin lapels.

You look about the room as if standing in it for the first time and for a moment your eyes pass right over Max, whose long-dead heart winces. Yelps. If you could see him, there’s no way you’d entertain this guy. This nameless little worker bee. Max would make you laugh properly, how you laugh when something funny happens on TV or when you get a letter in the mail from your brother. Sudden and twinkling, often ending in a snort. Adorable.

Shrugging, you turn into your fridge and say, “Yeah, I like it,” and exhume two slim cans of vodka seltzer to set on the kitchen island.

Thank you, Max says, his arms crossed over his chest.

The dumbass’ brows flicker up as he regards your offering. Idiot. What was he expecting from a girl like you, a PBR? These are delicious. Elegant. Calorie wise. Max understands. Max would drink that with a smile and a thank you. 

Or maybe he’d skip right to drinking you.

Sensing his hesitation, you crack your can and take a sip. “They’re not as bad as they look,” you say, a nervous chuckle bittering your lips as you watch your date open his can and bring it to his nose to sniff. “Sorry. I don’t have anything else.”

You can do so much better, baby, Max sighs. You’ve got better right here.

Against his will, the hours pass. The evening goes on. You and the dumbass only drink half a can each—him with a half-snarled lip and you with a self-conscious twinge—but somehow by nightfall he’s got you scooching your barstool closer to him, allowing his slimy hand to rest on your thigh. 

Max bristles. Seethes. Don’t do it, he pleads to you, unheard. He’s not gonna fuck you right, just look at him. Send this idiot home and watch TV with me. Do anything but this guy, baby, anything but him.

You bend in slow motion and it’s agonizing, the tilt of your head as you press your lips to his. The wet slurp of his mouth taking the second you meet. A terrible kiss, though you’re polite enough not to flinch. Breaking from the prod of his pink-slug tongue to offer your neck, his mouth immediately moving, and fuck baby, it’s like you’re trying to kill him all over again. Drive a stake straight through Max’s blackened heart by giving up what he longs to claim.

In an instant, anger births itself from the hollow of his chest. His hand shoots out in useless violence, swinging as if to strike a seltzer can from the countertop and knowing it won’t do a lick of good as ire devours him, igneous and fervid, searing hot as life in his icy hands.

The can jumps from the counter and clunks to the floor, its contents gluggluglug-ing across the tiles.

“The fuck?” Max hears the dumbass gasp as he leaps from his barstool, eyes bugged wide and child-like and weak. You freeze, lips pink and swollen, staring down at the emptying can. 

It’s a shame neither of you can see the way Max smiles. 

Now that’s what I’m talking about, he crows. Finally a little substance around here! 

This is good. No, it’s better than good. This is the rush after a promotion, after the deal that closes out the quarter over target. The look on every sad sack’s face knowing they lost and he won.

This is the bite that finally breaks skin.

Maddening, burgeoning, addictive.

He’s real again. A goddamn Beetlejuice for you, baby. He’s gonna scare this fucknut out of here and have you to himself. First was the can, next is you, and he’s gonna kiss you so much better than that. In celebration, Max kicks one foot to send the can soaring across the kitchen floor and watches his shoe pass right through it, aluminum undisturbed on the floor. No, he mutters, kicking again. No, fucking—come on, you worthless piece of shit—

Your nervous laugh is too far away to comfort him. Distant too is your voice saying, “My room’s this way,” and the shuffling of your footsteps as Max loses his shit on the seltzer can that now refuses to budge no matter the swell of his outrage. By the time he snaps from his incensed trance, your barstools are empty. He blinks, breathless with muscle memory—his lungs wheezing because they remember wheezing, not out of need.

Baby? he calls out.

But you reply. A murmur too lusty to be a giggle—Max’s body coils up at the sound, taut and needy, and carries him toward the sound. He forgets, briefly, who you’re with. Believes he’ll find you in your bedroom alone beneath the covers, hands fluttering as you bring yourself to the edge of release. How beautiful you’d be, gasping in pleasure. He might close his eyes and pretend it’s him drawing out your every breathy, needy sound.

You’ve left the bedroom door cracked, and though in death he’s no longer bound by silly things like permission, Max has since you moved in found himself in the habit of respecting closed doors. Walls are chalk outlines over which he’s free to step, but he doesn’t, not if you’ve closed the gate. He’s not a monster. Or not a total monster—whatever, semantics. Point is that he only spies on your showers if you’ve cracked the door. Indulges in the soft moments of you sleeping only when you’ve left him that sliver of room.

Like the room you’ve left him now: slender and tempting, this stripe of your bedroom wall. A Degas print in a copper frame, the wooden post at the foot of your bed. 

Your sweet voice cooing here, like this, and the creak of your mattress.

Something black and silty sinks in Max’s stomach when he steps inside. Not the rage from moments ago. Something darker, heavier. Jealousy. Half-sheeted by your duvet, the dumbass you’ve brought home rocks above you, his shirt gone, his beefcake arm blocking the view of your chest, and though you’re making all the right sounds it’s obvious this isn’t any good.

He’s not fucking you right.

Your hands clawing at his back are too stiff. Your yeses a beat too slow. As the idiot pants—thrusts choppy and graceless—Max watches your hand tap his shoulder blade as you breathe, “Flip over.”

“What?” bumbles the guy, his hips stalling. “Oh shit—fuck yeah. Okay.”

Another grunt, then he rolls off and Max gets a glimpse of you—your red bra lacy and see through, your nipples so pretty underneath. It just isn’t right, the awkwardness of this colossal douchebag as he settles on his back and you ruck back the covers to straddle him, not at all breathless, hardly even flushed, your hair all messy at the back from disappointing friction.

“Shit,” the guy gasps as you sink down on him, clamping those boorish hands onto your waist.

You don’t even whine, not even as you start to rock, though his breathing gallops beneath you. Guy looks two seconds from nutting while you look years away from anything even loosely resembling an orgasm—your rhythm changing often as you try and fail to find a pace that suits you. “Christ—oh my god, ” the guy groans.

Max sucks his front teeth, tongue soiled with venom.

“Touch me,” you sigh, bouncing now. The curtain of your hair shivering down your back. 

This guy fucks like he’s never touched a woman before. At your request his knuckles only pale, fingers pinching you tighter. That’s not what she means, Max growls. Touch her fucking clit, you pin-dicked imbecile. Can’t fucking please a woman, should be fucking ashamed—

His pointless ranting is cut short by a sudden moan as the guy lifts you off him in time to come all over his stomach, chest rapid in its heaving, upper lip snarled in pleasure he doesn’t have the goddamn decency to return to you. For a long moment you hover above him, waiting, but his head just slumps back against the pillow, satisfied. 

Done.

He’s actually done. Motherfucker.

When you crawl off him to sit back against your headboard—arms crossing over your stomach self-consciously—Max sees red. Sees fire. Sees the roiling magma at the center of the earth where someone oughta make this fucker take a nice hot bath. 

He’d do this right. He’d fuck you properly, have you coming apart at the seams, go down on you until you beg for his cock and edge himself for as long as it takes to have you screaming his name. Can’t you see that? Can’t you feel him here, right now? Can’t you feel how bad he wants you? Can’t you imagine how much better he’d be? How good he’d make you feel?

Letting out an airy chuckle, the brute wipes the back of his hand across his sweaty brow and pushes himself to his feet. Redresses with a goddamn smirk on his face—not one of cruelty, but it might as well be. He thinks this is a job well done. Time to go home. 

A peck to your lips, then he’s rattling on about calling you, seeing you again, maybe Thursday? Friday? While you just sit there, blinking up at him in disbelief. “Sure,” you say, dazed and not quite thinking. “I’ll call you.”

Yeah, she’s not calling you, Max snarls, following the guy out of the room. Watching as the jackass plucks his jacket from the back of your barstool, steps over the mess of seltzer without a thought to clean it up for you, and waltzes right out the door. Not a care in the goddamn world. 

Though he hears you get up shortly after to use the bathroom, you don’t emerge from your bedroom and Max doesn’t disturb you. He spends that time in the kitchen, grabbing and grabbing and grabbing at the dish towel hung over the handle on the oven door, trying to pull it off. 

For at least an hour, his hand glides through the towel as if it’s water, not a flutter or sway in the fabric. Not even a brush, a compromise. It just hangs there, indignant. Mocking him. Deaddeaddeaddeaddead. Maybe it’s the Senior Sales Manager in him, the apex predator at the top of the food chain—but Max can do this all night. He’s not backing down, not letting a stupid fucking towel get the better of him. That lazy curtain of terrycloth will disintegrate before he waves the white flag. 

Beyond the picture frame windows that stare out into the barren, colorless street, the sun has shied to navy blue, letting out the round-mouthed moon, and you have not emerged from your bedroom for hours. He wants to check on you, ask if you’re okay. Frankly, baby, he’s getting a little worried. On the next sweep of his hand, the towel gives up the ghost; Max pulls it from the oven handle, marveling at the toothy fabric. He’s holding it, really holding it, all on his own. 

Thank fuck he’s not haunting the office. If any of those bull-brained fucks saw him now, as he kneels on your kitchen floor, he’d have to die all over again. Somehow. The technicals aren’t important—what’s important is that no one’s here to see him on his fucking knees, mopping up the spilled drink. Something like joy burbles in his chest when he reaches for the can and seizes it, placing it safely on your counter. The floor dry and shining again, clean. 

Max folds the towel carefully and returns it to the rack. 

As if on cue, the bedroom door croaks down the hall and you emerge. A huge t-shirt slumps from your frame; you’ve tied your hair up, put your glasses back on. Dressed down for the last dregs of night, rubbing the back of your hand in one eye, tired. 

You look so, so tired.

I’d rub your shoulders, baby, Max sighs quietly and though you won’t hear him, it still—after three whole months—doesn’t feel any less right to hope.

He steps out of your way as you round the corner into the kitchen with a yawn, hands clasped behind his back, cheek dimpled and eyes alight. Just like he wanted, just like he hoped, your eyes fall immediately to the floor where the can is missing, the spill wiped. Lashes flickering—the towel dark at the hem on its handle, the empty can on the counter. Your brows pinch low over your nose, curious. 

Pretty good for a dead guy, Max grins.

How sweet, that lifting flinch at your mouth’s sharp, pink corner. The soft hm you make in reply. It’s not much, but this strange, fluttery feeling in the dark cavity one might wrongly call his heart? It doesn’t feel half bad. 

Not bad at all.

He’s getting better at it. Not great, but the projections look good. Give him a little time, he’ll have this whole place dancing. Put on a big show, announce himself properly. 

In the meantime he practices when you’re not looking. Small stuff—he opens cupboards. Shuts them. Hits start on the dryer when you forget to press it yourself. Some days he wastes reaching for things and coming up empty, but now again his luck sparkles. Things move. Bend to his will. Isn’t long until he can hold it for a while—gathering the matter to run the vacuum around, or reorganize your pantry. A tidy house makes a tidy mind, baby. No good living in a dump. You’re so busy, always cracking around like a ping pong ball, and hell, it’s not like Max can leave this place, get a little air in his idle lungs.

He likes being useful to you. Likes that tiny smirk on your lips when you find something fixed or organized for you, even though you likely chalk it up to having forgotten that you did it yourself. Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need the credit. Isn’t that strange? How often he smiles at you? How perfect he finds the taste of your name.

Winter has arrived like a secret—whispered about for weeks and then suddenly let loose on the world. You come home from work in the evenings with icing sugar hair. Usually unbothered, far as Max can tell, but today you stagger in flushed from the cold and dark in the eyes.

Shit, baby, Max says when he sees you. Bad day?

Sniffling, you drop your coat right there in the hall, let it puddle over your shoes, and stalk off on a mission, barreling into the kitchen. The fridge door rips open, casting blue-white light over your face, and you must feel a hell of a lot worse than you feel because you don’t even blink at the contents inside. All the shelves wiped clean, the bottles arranged with the labels facing out, those wilted, bad greens deposited in the compost. You just reach in for the half-drunk bottle of Riesling that to Max smelled mostly like juice and swipe off the lid.

You chug on your way to the couch, leaving the fridge door open behind you.

Max closes it when you’ve gone, the TV already switched on in the living room, the lilting strings of the Desperate Housewives theme song swimming through the air. When he turns the corner he finds you wrapped in the throw blanket he now knows the texture of—supple and velvet, weighted and warm—with the wine bottle nestled in your lap. 

A silver tear hangs on your cheek. 

Really bad day, whatever it was. 

He wants to ask. Wants to pull you into his arms and pet back your hair. Wants to lick that sadness from your skin. 

Maybe this isn’t the show he’s imagined. Not much of a reveal—but you look so small right now, alone on your couch. Wine splashing in its bottle as you bring it to your lips, not bothering to wipe that tear away. If Max had a heart that beat, it’d stutter as he watches you. Helpless isn’t something he cares to feel.

No time like the present. Max sighs, scrubs a hand down his face as he ticks his jaw to one side, and nods. Alright, baby, he relents. Hang on.

On his way to the bathroom he cracks all the knuckles on his left hand, rolls his neck, swings his shoulders. Stretches himself long and limber like he’s about to run—but this is it. Curtain’s coming up. Time to find out if one glimpse of him sends you sprinting for the hills. Though he casts no reflection, Max stands before the mirror hanging over the sink and straightens his tie, corrects his lapels. Old habits, but it never hurts to look good.

Hand waggling, then, over the tissue box on the counter. He slaps himself hard, sending a delicious ripple of pain across his cheek. Come on, he begs. Don’t play hard to get.

The box lifts.

Here he comes: tissue box in hand, stalking tall and proud down your hallway with his chin up, shoulders back. Gets the momentum rolling, doesn’t hesitate, just waltzes in.

Your head snaps in his direction, eyes round and brows rising. To you it must look like the tissues float through the air to your side. Max steps back with butterflies jittering in his bones. 

Don’t be scared, he pleads. It’s just me.

With your head cocked to one side you consider this, though you’ve not heard his voice. Probably for the best. Came out a little softer than he meant it to, a little needy, and that’s just not becoming of a man like him. He has a reputation to uphold, even now. 

After a long, bludgeoning pause you click your tongue, swiping one white tissue from the box to turn over in your hand. Deliberating. Then your face cracks, possessed by a slithering smirk. Your gaze flickering so close to him it’s almost as if you’ve looked him in the eye. 

Deep in his chest, Max feels a strange throb—his stirring heart—as you say out loud, 

“I knew someone was there.”

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[jo-harrington]

Corroded Coffin Fest - Day 27 - You'll Be In My Heart

Summary: Eddie and the boys fight their homesickness when they're on the road for the summer.

Word Count: 964

Rating: T

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Store Manager!Reader

Warnings/Themes: Friendship, fluff, allusion to sex, discussion of marriage

Note: Alright final Saturday of this event, I'm both sad and excited, it's been a really great one. For this day, I'm going back to my fondest series, my baby, The Store Manager Verse. It's specifically set before the proposal in Longevity and it very much explores how Eddie got the idea to propose to Store Manager at all.

And I might've fucked up the timeline and my own fic canon so just...if you notice something, shhh no you didn't.

Check Out the Main Post for @corrodedcoffinfest here! Even if you didn’t start on Day 1, you can still join!

Tagging: @the-unforgivenn at her request.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

August 1990

The summer of '90 was a special one.

It was Corroded Coffin's first real life tour. Well, not really.

"Actually," you told them when they broke the news to you, "you're forgetting about the Independence Day Tour of '87."

"We didn't make t-shirts for that one, sweetheart," Eddie teased and dropped a kiss on the top of your head before diving into the details.

It wasn't a true tour in the sense that they'd pack up the van and hit the road and never look back until the tour was over--that would require them quitting their jobs for a time, something their wallets desperately couldn't handle. But a few days off here to go to this festival? A few days off there to enter into this Battle of the Bands? That was doable.

It was as close to a tour as they were gonna get for a little while, and it was gonna help them get further in their music career.

It also prepared them.

Being away from home for a few days at a time prepared them for an inevitable week or month or year that they could potentially face if their star grew brighter.

Eddie quickly realized, though, how much he would miss you when that time came, because he missed you terribly now.

He started seeing you everywhere he looked. Foods he thought you might like to try, love songs that reminded him of you. Someone at one county fair even did a cover of Beth, which he would argue was your song. And at one fest, there was a booth with hand drawn postcards featuring cute fuzzy animals with nefarious settings in the background.

It started with one of those.

A postcard of a kitten with a big purple bow sitting in a haunted forest. Purple for Claires, he explained when he presented it to you on their return home. You gushed over it, said that you loved it, and it went up on the fridge.

Until the next time the guys were out of town.

Next it was special chocolate caramel candies with thick sea salt on top from a booth that sat next to the main stage. They had probably eaten more chocolate than any other food during that trip; you had to try it.

Then a big over stuffed teddy bear--

"It's an Eddie Bear, actually." He pointed to the denim vest it wore. "See?"

--that he won playing a game of ring toss.

A huge tin of assorted fudge from Mackinac Island and a promise to take you with next time they went.

A necklace made of special stone beads that supposedly helped with everlasting love or something; he'd gotten to choose a tarot card when he bought it. He got the two of cups, whatever that meant.

Each and every gift that Eddie brought you when he was away was special. Some big, some small. Some made you ooh and aww, some made you cry because of how much you missed your idiot boyfriend, one even earned him...well...lets just say his bandmates, who you shared a duplex with, made themselves scarce for the evening.

But it was the last stop on the tour that brought maybe the best gift, the most meaningful. It made Eddie really stop and think because...well, this was the stop that they were debuting a new song about his parents and his childhood and how the future wasn't set in stone and you couldn't change things that were bad for you, even with the best intentions.

Marriage is a Death Sentence.

So it was ironic that the first thing to catch his eye would be a ring.

Not a typical engagement ring, not a diamond or really anything big and shiny at all. It was strange and artsy and interesting but when he saw it there at that little crafters booth...he just thought of you.

It was a weird thought. Jarring.

And it scared him.

He turned tail and walked right out of the booth, stopped at a stand where they sold little critters made of recycled wire and bought you a tiny porcupine. There, done, gift bought, no need to think of it anymore.

But he couldn't stop thinking about the ring for the rest of their time there. Not when they performed, not when they ate lunch, not when they packed the van at the end of the night to go home.

He hadn't given marriage much thought when he was younger. He liked dating, liked dating you. You never brought it up, neither did he. But then you took him as your date for Jen's wedding a few years back, and the two of you talked about it and of course you were on the same page. Couldn't see yourselves doing the whole commotion, no suits or dresses, no desire to have your families and friends stare at you for hours.

Not to mention some of those vows were just heinous.

No wonder Al and Elizabeth Munson were destined for heartbreak if they vowed to honor and obey...blegh.

So marriage? No, not at all. Immediately no.

But you? Forever with you? You were his best friend. Wouldn't say his soulmate, that was Jeff obviously and you had no problem with that. But you were...you were you.

So the answer was a resounding yes. Always.

Eddie ran, faster than he'd run in a long time if ever, through the booths as everyone packed up for the night, to the little crafters stall from earlier.

"I was just about to pack up," the vendor laughed as Eddie caught his breath. "You made it just in time."

It was fate.

He pointed where the ring still sat, as it if was waiting for him, and said,

"I'll take it."

[radiaurapple]

Lucid Dreams of New Orleans: Chapter 14

CHAPTER SUMMARY: IN WHICH Lucifer and Alastor go home.

FIC SUMMARY: Lucifer has always kept his distance from sinners. It’s what keeps him (relatively) sane — if he gets too close, he is haunted by visions of the tragic mortal lives that landed them in Hell. But in his new life at the Hotel, it is more difficult than ever to stay away — and when it comes to light that his daughter’s insufferable facilities manager is gravely wounded, it falls to Lucifer to deliver his soul from Death. In so doing, he falls headfirst into the sins, past lives, and heartbreaks of the one human whose contradictions he is powerless to resist.

we've reached the end-ish folks!!! I have an epilogue and some other ideas i want to go after this in the same universe--I am taking a week off next week though so expect the first epilogue on 6/27!!!

thanks so much to everyone who has read along and I hope you enjoy!! 🍎📻💖

[AO3 LINK]

The portal to Heaven closes in a puff of sparks. Lucifer is left behind, staring at the space Alastor occupied only moments ago. Without so much as a word to the hotel’s other residents, he opens a portal to his room, right over his bed; he steps through and flops unceremoniously onto the comforter. 

He usually escapes into a memory in moments like these — when he’s alone and awash in self-pity, his mind a prickly hedge maze of grief. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to call up something pleasant. 

It’s no use. There’s only one place he wants to be right now, and none of his memories of that place and time belong to him.

Lucifer sighs and flicks his wrist; a portal splits open in the middle of his room, spilling green light over the carpet.  

Which is how he finds himself on Earth. 

New Orleans. October. Sunset. 

Lucifer steps off a cable car in the French Quarter and stumbles through the crowd of evening commuters. He inhales a lungful of a skateboarder’s cotton-candy flavored vape and coughs; the crowd thins, and he ducks into an alleyway and bends his form into a white pigeon. He flaps his wings and takes off. 

He glides over the rooftops. As the millennia went by, Heaven seemed to care less and less about Lucifer’s intrusion here. He rarely interferes in the affairs of mortals — but from time to time, he likes to walk among them, to see them exercise the gift of free will in a wider range of hues than his skewed and gruesome view from the top of Hell. Every time he comes here, he discovers some new human creation that brings a smile to his face — that makes him wonder if he might have been right all along. 

This time, he isn’t sure what to think.

Below, he spots Elysian Fields Ave., a few blocks from Alastor’s old home. He alights in the shade of a house between two garbage bins; he steps out onto the street in the same pale imitation of a human form he wore in Alastor’s memories. 

The suburban street is quiet and still apart from a hideous, boxy electric vehicle that drives past on the road. He borrows Alastor’s sense of direction and heads northwest. Soon he’s lost — most of Alastor’s landmarks are gone, and only the shape of the streets is familiar. He circles Alastor’s block three times before he finally accepts that the houses where Alastor and Hollis lived are both gone, replaced by multi-story duplexes. 

He finds what he believes was the lot of Alastor’s home and stands before it on the sidewalk, stares at the building that now occupies it, unsure of what he came here for. He wants to knock on the door and tell them everything that happened here — to tell them about the game nights, the lone drop of blood, cigarettes and violin in the rocking chair on the porch. He wonders if late at night, or during storms, the memories resurface like ghosts — one high and trembling note remembered in the sound of falling leaves. He wants to ask them if there’s anything left of those short human lives — any mark of their existence. The outline of a shoulder worn in the lacquer on the back of a violin. 

As Lucifer stands there, the thread of linear time frays, and his consciousness splits between both places at once — the present world and the memory. Alastor is coming down the sidewalk, right now and ninety years ago; He steps right through Lucifer, like a ghost, and climbs the invisible steps of a yellow house that no longer exists. 

The sound of a car door jolts Lucifer back into his body. He bends his form back into a white pigeon and flies up to look over the city. 

He takes inventory. Most of Alastor’s places are gone. Economy Hall — the lighthouse that marked the edge of Lake Pontchartrain — the City Park pool. The park has expanded north of Florida Ave., which has itself widened from a street into an interstate. Many of the charming cobblestone streets downtown are now paved with asphalt.

The Francs Amis, the first place Lucifer really saw Alastor with his own eyes, is one of the few buildings that still exists. Lucifer perches on the chain-link fence across the cracked asphalt street and eyes the sign out front. A dry laugh escapes him — it has been repurposed into a church. Figures.

[AO3 LINK]

[im-ashl]

greetings fellow creacher,,.,,, some music 4 ur tumblr travels..,,

this one is called space sticky B)

if u r wonderin about the album art it is about a horse looking for an apple with a skyrim marker above it

this song is called rayman purgatory. it is about raymans purgatory

i sampled rayman sings sex bomb to make that a a instrument. an i think that PRNNTHH sound was mouth made

FallenStar - a song that I came up with 2day! this was my first attempt at playin it i really really love how it sounds

the art is stuff i made 4 a character in a game a while back. their names are .root the Robot and Bolt the Plant

heres the after version w/ some more 8 bit stuff.

as u may see my naming conventions 4 these songs is p much jus type out the first vibe thought that comes to me

okok but 4 anyone wanting to do musical compositions!!! i think the most funnest way to do it is to just have fun w/ it. u dont gotta make mastapieces jus play with instruments an go 4 it

do u ever sit an think about the fact that you are a real life organism

pov a skeleton invited you to his apartment to hang out. this music is playing in the background while he stands there awkwardly

oh man its hard to edit text on tumblr

image is of the vst that i used for this its a little skeleton guy and hes on my computer i like to imagine thats his little house

an he stares at me an sounds haunting i love him

okiedokie i hit my upload limit! i will upload more in time i have a hUGE folder w like. hundreds of songs on it i am peekin through

[soph-the-podcast-nerd]

some things I thought while listening to Neighbourly

House 3: Nobody deserves more attention and affection you guys

House 4 is lesbian goals (except for. Yknow. The whole haunting house thing)

House 6: nice retelling of bluebeard love to see it lol

All i ask is to live in house 9 with 2 witch wives, baking and doing tarot is that too much to ask

House 10: coleridge is so interesting. I need to know more about him. (well I need to know more about ALL the characters but hes interesting)

House 15: sad! Beautiful! Symbolic! I think they deserve a happy ending :( I really like this episode, its beautiful and symbolic and whatever (hey I’m not an official podcast review blog cut me some slack lol)

House 25: I love CJ and Arron with all my heart and wish them nothing but the best. Mwah. 

House 27a and 27b: fellas is it gay to be in a prank war between you and the guy who shares your duplex thats been going on longer than anyone can remember? (Yes)

House 31: u. All of u. Are very gay.

House 34: I really like this episode, the story and the ending, its great lol :)

House 38: I love this one! A great retelling of echo and narcississ where echo gets the story she deserves <3

House 40: excuse me what the fuck. what the fuck. What. The fuck?

anyway go listen :)

[fluoresensitive]

with so much of horror being centered around 'something's wrong in this house' but owning a house being more and more unrealistic, how do you think this particular brand of horror will evolve as a horror author yourself?

hmm, that's a really good question, wait!

well, i think, as always we adapt! people still rent houses (myself included), so there can still be something wrong with the house, it's just harder to leave/the circumstances become a little tenser. you can't exactly break your lease because the walls are oozing—the landlord, that scumbag, insists there's nothing wrong with the insulation. if you're hearing voices and strange sounds, it could be a gas leak (he never got it fixed) or the cheap wood flooring put in. a location can still be haunted even if it's not yours technically, and the horror of being trapped in a year's lease in a haunted duplex is just as terrifying (if not way more realistic) than being trapped in a mortgage.

so, yeah! i just think we'll adapt. the same way scary stories used to be about scary things in the woods coming to invade the village and transformed into stories about the scariness of the city (though, that's so loaded, i can talk about the racism behind the fear of urban landscapes all day), we'll take our horror out of the 3br/2br home in the suburb and into the two story walkup we're splitting with roommates.

i think, also? 'you're wrong about' sort of talked about the horror of homeownership in the episode they did about the 'amityville horror' book—i thought it was funny that they were saying you'd stay in a haunted house if you didn't think you could afford anywhere else to go, and god isn't that true? i mean, i've lived in places with roaches, mold, loud neighbors etc, but me and my family held on because what other option was there?

[theiliad]

there's too many things that can be wrong with a house. too isolating. too self-contained. apartments and rowhouses can keep each other safe. safety in numbers. its so much harder to haunt a whole apartment building, a whole row of houses, all nestled in together. duplexes at least have a sibling with them. a house is out there alone, exposed, unprotected.

[jaytriesstrangerthings]

Daily Drabblers Prompt from @strangerthingswritersguild prompt “Come back!”

—

People don’t stay. They never really have when it comes to Steve. It was probably the first thing Steve knew for certain, barely ten years old and his parents decide to leave him alone with a shitty nanny who doesn’t really care about Steve as much as she cares about the Harrington pay rate. It didn’t matter how much Steve cried and begged as they were leaving, how desperate he was on the rare phone call begging his mother and father to “Come back!” promising to do anything and everything to be someone worth sticking around for.

There was nothing Steve could offer that compared to whatever New York or the Hamptons had. He was just a kid, but he was their kid, and he thought maybe that would count for something. Steve had never been very good at math, counting, apparently, was no exception.

It wasn’t until Robin that he knew what it was like for someone to stay. She insisted their souls were tangled together and promised she would never leave him of her own volition. Over the years she was a constant in his life. They went through everything together. As close as two people could be in a way that never really made sense to anyone else. Robin helped him take nudes on a regular basis, Steve checked Robin’s breasts for lumps on a monthly rotation, Robin helped Steve realize that maybe guys can be just as attractive as girls which is ironic considering Robin’s status as a raging lesbian. Point is Robin is his everything.

Was.

He’s yet to figure out what tense to use, didn’t think he’d ever really need to know. Thought “is” would be all he ever needed when it comes to Robin. He always just kind of assumed they’d die hand in hand in a shared room at some nursing home making jokes about tapioca pudding and gossiping about the staff.

Robin was supposed to stay.

After graduating they bought a duplex, each claiming one of the units so they could live together but still technically have their own space. They tore down the fence splitting up the backyard and still spent basically every night together like an infinite sleepover.

It’s cold without her, sitting on the green couch they found at a thrift store in town about a week after moving in. The fuzzy yellow blanket with cartoon bees she’d given him declaring he’s “the bees knees,” doing nothing to warn the ice in his veins.

Robin was supposed to stay.

Steve blames himself. It should have been him if it was going to be someone. He wished it was both of them if it had to be her. He was the one driving, looked over to her for a second too long and didn’t see the semi coming around the bend.

His car is fixed and sitting in the driveway, has been for weeks now. He hasn’t driven since that night. Maybe it’s fear, anxiety, maybe it’s just the reminder that she isn’t going to be sitting in the passenger seat anymore, flipping through songs and never making it to the end of one before she would get bored and switch CDs or change the station. Steve always pretended to be annoyed but he refuses to listen to the end of a song ever again.

Robin was supposed to stay.

There was a funeral of course, Steve was the first one there and the last one to leave, standing over the fresh pile of dirt and waiting for someone to jump out and tell him it was some insensitive prank or something. Begging her desperately to Come back! despite knowing she wouldn’t, couldn’t.

He knows she would. In a heartbeat she’d be back if she was able, even if that just meant haunting their duplex.

He’s half convinced himself that that’s why it’s so cold even with the blanket. Sometimes Steve feels like he’s waiting for her to level up in her ghost adventure or something, going from just making the room cold to flipping the TV channel and knocking things over like a disgruntled cat.

Robin was supposed to stay.

But people don’t stay. They never really have when it comes to Steve. It was probably the first thing Steve knew for certain. How could he forget?

[mysweetsinfulobsessions]

“POV the ghost haunting your duplex and you have some sexual tension going on”

By c.duart on instagram

[kieraelieson]

Hello, hello! Some of us Sanders Sides people are semi-cautiously poking our heads back in I see.

Not that either of us left-left, but still.

Indeed! It’s been real nice seeing you around 🥰 I need to stop in and say hi more often.

~ Another bit of Haunted Duplex

Virgil flopped onto the couch, burying his head in the cushions. Of course he had to visibly cringe as his very attractive neighbor saw him. He was hopeless. He’d never get to the point of introducing himself, much less chancing anything as dangerous as asking him out!

He sighed heavily, and then flinched as something touched him unexpectedly. He jerked back and tumbled off the couch, falling on his butt and looking desperately around for whatever it might be.

As always, he saw nothing. No movement, no sound, nothing. Until he looked at the couch where he had been just a second ago.

There it was.

A caramel werthers candy.

Virgil frowned at it in frustrated confusion. He’d purchased a single bag of werthers like three months ago or something, but ever since he’d been finding them Everywhere! And they frequently would just, appear. In open, empty spaces. Not like he was finding them in corners or pockets or between the cushions, but just like now, he could have sworn it fell on him, like someone had tossed it onto him.

Well. At least he liked them. And he didn’t want to keep track of exactly how many there were. He just knew they’d be far more than could’ve fit in that bag he purchased, and having that confirmed… ugh, it just led to too many creepy questions.

So he popped the candy into his mouth and threw away the wrapper.

Wanted to be tagged in this ask game:

@apricotbuncakes

[fipindustries]

i finally understand haunted houses

i changed many of the names here to respect the people's privacy

part 1

in the very early 1900's a man called Jason built a house.

Jason was a wealthy man, with a big family, all in total a wife, four daughters and one boy, the youngest of the bunch. and so the house that he built was suitably big as well. multiple rooms, bathrooms, a big ostentatious kitchen and an enormous hall.

and in that house he also established a bussines. he sold housing implements. Ovens, water heaters, furniture. and he built in the back a little woodshop with which to build all of that.

eventually jason grew old, along with the rest of his family, he passed away along with his wife. his four daughters married off into other families, into other houses. and all of this big emporium was left to the youngest boy. Robert.

robert was a lonely man. never had many romances. he was also a simple man, he like playing paddle and going on trips in his truck. when he took care of the house and the bussiness he dedicated exclusively to make furniture. he would spend his mornings listening to the radio while sanding away on different kinds of woods. since he was by himself many of the rooms in the house that were once bustling with people were left to collect dust and spiderwebs.

eventually, in the late 70's, when he was nearing fourty, he met a woman, a recent widow. he married her and adopted her three children who had recently lost a father. he moved with his newly acquired family to a new house where he raised the kids as his own. he dedicated his carpentry prowess to furbish the house, expanding it, adding a second floor, a big ornamented staircase, and attic and many other commodities.

but the old house was left completly abandoned.

robert would still use the woodshop and occassionally sell some wood or furniture. but as the 21th century made its way bussiness dwindled. the big hall that used to showcase many luxurious house fittings became more and more empty and eventually was turned into a deposit, as well as most of the old house. humidity took hold of the ancient roof. old kitchen and bathroom tiles cracked. the plumbing rusted and clogged. spiderwebs, made thicker by the dust, covered every inch of the rooms stuffed with antiquities noone cared about or broken things which the family had no other place to store.

the house grew old and dusty and bent and broken.

eventually robert grew old and senile and the youngest son of the youngest son, stephan, took over the place. he refurbished it, repainted it, cleaned it up as best as he could and then he tried many different bussines ventures with the place. first, he divided the more peripherial rooms into its own separate locals that he rented to other bussinesses. he kept the core of the house such as the bathroom, the kitchen and the woodshop and he tried to establish an antique repair shop. he also tried to turn it into a modern hipster bar and even a sort of public artistic kitsch gallery. none of these ventures were succesful and they all eventually had to close.

finally he decided to one last big investment on the place. changed the walls, closed off other spaces, gave it yet another fresh coat of paint. took out some of the oldest implements, such as the water heater, and changed them for other implements. still old but not as old as the original ones.

he carved the place further and turned it into a duplex.

the thing is, stephan did all of this with a place that was not, technically, his property. he had been granted access to this place simply because he was the (adopted) son of the son of the original owner. now robert was still alive, if too old to manage anything, and so the property still technically belonged to him and his sisters.

but none of this stopped stephan from deciding to rent the property, without contract or legal paper of any kind, merely a gentleman's agreement, to the oldest trans daughter of the oldest adopted daughter of the youngest son.

amanda.

here is where i come in.

part 2

i never liked this house. i never liked how it looked, i never liked how it felt and i never liked how i ended up here. my mom basically kicked me out of her house as soon as i got a job and put me in here, wether i wanted to or not.

the house was always too tall for my taste. i need small cozy burrows, but this old 1900's place, with its walls over three meters tall, was just too spacious for me. i also didnt like its look, my uncle had decided to go for an urban-industrial look, with grey concrete walls and exposed bricks. and finally i didnt like how this used to be a place of nostalgic childhood wonder (i would spend a lot of time exploring the old abandoned rooms when i visited my grandpa working at his woodshop as a kid, right after kindergarden) that had been turned into an ugly modern apartment.

but those were the least of my problems. this was an old old house, that had been rotting for a long time. and my uncle was not an architect or an engineer, at best he has some skill as an interior decorator. as time went on the house started to reveal more and more tiny flaws which were aggravated by the fact that, admitedly, i was a little negligent with the care of it.

in the two and a half years that i lived in this place this is some of the things i had to deal with:

*it had no AC, i had to install one myself out of my own pocket

*neither the kitchen nor my room had any windows.

*the big garage door, which is the only entrance to the place, would get stuck and not letting me in or out.

*the front door of my apartment is a big set of double doors, the lock on one of those double doors fell to pieces one day and now that door wont open.

*a lot of the lightbulbs straight up dont work no matter how many times i change them

*it had no doorbell, i had to install one which, some times, for some reason, completly at random would not function

*the bathroom was too big and so no modern bathroom curtain was large enough to cover the tub, i had to fashion a frankenstein solution by fitting two curtain poles together and to this day that thing falls down all the time

*the heater broke almost immediatly, i was never able to make it work again so i had to make do with smaller electric heaters that i would have to carry with me every room i went to.

*the kitchen sink was a solid mass of rust, i had to change it but when the plumbers came to take it off the kitchen counter it was discovered that it was a single piece with the counter itself and had to be sawed off with an angle grinder which made what should have been a quick an easy fix into an agonizing hours long process that covered my house in metal dust.

*it would get infested with cocoroaches every summer, so for a couple of weeks every summer i would have to get used to see cocoroaches everywhere on my floor.

*it would instantly get covered with spiders on the ceiling and underneath every chair and table.

*the large stained glass window that covered an entire wall on the living room would constantly let water in every time it rained, routinely innundating my house, i had to seal each individual piece of glass with sylicon by hand

*the toilet tank wouldnt stop overflowing innundating my bathroom so i would have to manually make sure the waterflow would stop every time i used the toilet

*the bathroom drainage was broken so the pestilent smells from the septic tank would get into my house and my entire house would smell like sewer

*the water heater would constanly leak water through its pipes and it exploded not once but two different times innundating my kitchen

*the aforementioned large window was dashed to pieces during a hailstorm making it so that i effectively had to live without a wall on my livingroom for a couple of weeks

*humidity overtook another wall in my living room, making all the plaster fall away and grow every kind of mold and fungus known to mankind

*at one point water started pouring out of a wall lamp, directly onto the electric breakers. i have no idea how the house didnt fucking explode that day. it could still happen again, nothing has been done to fix this, i have no idea where i would even start trying to fix this

*no, seriously, i have asthma and it got so much worse due to all the black mold that kept growing in this fucking place, holy shit

like, to be clear, this house went from annoying me, to severely inconvenience me, to actively trying to kill me.

so yeah, im moving out. i tried guys. i really really tried. i did my best to like this place, to turn this into a home, to make it my space, but this rotten place would fight me off at every turn. it genuenly started to feel like an abusive relationship. all i can say is that the house won. im leaving.

part 3

my grandpa died in 2022. i never came out of the closet to him. i dont know if he was aware enough to realize what was going on by the time i started transitioning. i am writing this in the house he was born in and where he lived half his life.

as the title says, i think i finally understand haunted houses. it's hard not to think that an actively malicious force is fucking with me here, trying really hard to make me leave. some of the things i had to deal with were downright baffling and if i was of a more superstitious cast of mind it would be hard for me to suspect interference from forces which dont belong to the mortal world. as samuel jackson said in the movie room 1408: "it's an evil fucking room"

i think back on the history of this house, on how i ended up here. an ancient house belonging to an old wealthy family, abandoned, fallen to disrepair, rotten. then passed on through illegitimate means to a gay guy who is not even related by blood to the original family, carved, modified, modernized and altered beyond recognition, and finally rented to a trans girl.

i could imagine that if this house has any ghosts in it they would probably not be very happy with the situation as it stands.

old printing negative for an ad of my great grandfather's shop

[septembersghost]

How do you think the order of the JM story goes now, if there is one?

i know some people very much don't like this conversation, which is okay, but i do think there's a lot of insight about her and her experiences and her writing that exists within it. i won't go too in depth into that, but the story and progression has significance in my mind, so:

i think there definitely is an order, though only taylor herself knows or could wholly explain that. i want to also preface this with the memory of what a big deal john was at that time, because sometimes i think people either don't remember or don't know, since he's not at that stature now, but room for squares, his debut album, came out in 2001. by 2009, he was working on his fourth album (battle studies, on which taylor featured) and had seven grammys. he positioned himself as this soulful, sensitive, misunderstood guy who was so passionate and lovelorn and dedicated to his music. the friend who introduced me to him was starry-eyed about him, the idea that he had a bad boy streak only added to the appeal. slow dancing in a burning room was on all the swoony playlists (though i was partial to 3x5 and stop this train, and then we got war of my life and edge of desire...). due to his status as a musician, and the specific compliments he gave her (ie: stevie nicks to his tom petty, "this girl is going to be around for a long time") i get why taylor looked up to him and felt that infatuated thrall. (his infamous playboy interview had not happened yet btw). he lived in a duplex in gramercy park that was converted from a church parish house, it still has stained glass windows (stained glass windows in my mind, i regret you all the time). remembering that context is an aspect of the story here. anyway, this is very subjective and my own interpretation, but, to me, they'd go like this:

superman (because it's innocent and sweet and hero-worshipping. "he's not all bad like his reputation") -> i can see you (trying to keep it professional, but developing a situation) -> electric touch (some are attributing this to JG, but i really don't see it because it's very closely aligned with treacherous, and this is the first date, and she's already so nervous and fatalistic. i also have some feelings about the subject here, the duet, and half of my heart. electric touch in and of itself sounds like it could be a JM title. patrick's verse is extremely john-coded. as is, "and you won't need space or string me along..." when connected to his own writing) -> ours (the situation is now serious feelings from her. "they'll judge it like they know about me and you...the stakes are high, the water's rough, but this love is ours.") -> treacherous (parallels back to the idea of hiding away, sleepless nights, an edge of danger. "your name has echoed through my mind and i just think you should know that nothing safe is worth the drive..." the two headlights also appear both here and in electric touch) -> foolish one (she's in love and realizing he isn't feeling the same, and she's already questioning herself and some of the manipulation she's experiencing. "you give me just enough attention to keep my hopes too high.") -> haunted ("don't leave me like this, i thought i had you figured out, something's gone terribly wrong, you're all i wanted") -> dear john (it all falls apart, and she is deeply hurt and scrambling for solid ground, and reassuring herself that she got out in time. "you are an expert at sorry and keeping lines blurry, never impressed by me acing your tests") -> the story of us (he acts as though everything that happened wasn't even a big deal, where to her it was defining. this and dear john could maybe be reversed? but i feel like that breaking point of devastation already happened and she's trying to get her bearings in the story of us. "this is looking like a contest of who can act like they care less, but i liked it better when you were on my side, the battle's in your hands now, but i would lay my armor down if you said you'd rather love than fight") -> i knew you were trouble (basically a reiteration of "i should've known," "and the saddest fear comes creepin' in, that you never loved me, or her, or anyone, or anything..." again hearkening back to "half of my heart is a part of a man who's never truly loved anything") -> would've could've should've (she's grown up, she has all the power of hindsight, maturity, and experience, and she realizes the full extent of damage that was done and that she carries with her. she didn't emerge as unscathed as she'd originally tried to convince herself. she's still haunted and battling the memories. "i damn sure never would've danced with the devil at 19, and the god's honest truth is that the pain was heaven, and now that i'm grown, i'm scared of ghosts, memories feel like weapons, and now that i'm grown, i wish you'd left me wondering." every single one of the previous songs speaks directly to those lyrics. "living for the thrill of hitting you where it hurts, give me back my girlhood, it was mine first").

[saintjimmy1992-blog]

“Wake up the house is on fire, and the cat’s caught in the dryer. Philosophy’s a lair when your home is your headstone. Icon is the last chance for hope when there no such thing as hero’s. Your faith lies in the ditch that you dug yourself in. Last chance to piss it all away. Nothing but hell to pay when the lights are going down. Oh, Deadbeat Holiday, celebrate your own decay. There’s a vacant sign that’s hanging high on the noose over your home. Oh, Deadbeat Holiday, get on your knees and prey. There’s a vacant sign that’s hanging high but at least you’re not alone. Christmas lights in the middle of August. Grudges come back to haunt us. Your oldest allies are your long lost enemies. Grounded in a duplex to find, that you’re living on a landline. Vacation hotspot is the cemetery drive….” Deadbeat Holiday - Green Day

[feely-touchy]

It's like I left the stove on in my old apartment

That dark abandoned place is screaming now

I can hear the fire detector calling to me

Begging to change the batteries one more time

Beckoning me to crawl back into its mouth

I don't want to lose my fingers prying

But I can't stand the screeching, crying sounds

So I close my eyes and brave the sorrowed blackness

Feel around for the familiar sharpness that I know

Hoping there's a way to silence all the shouting

Becoming less sure of it as I go.

There's a flickering light at the duplex I can't drive by

It's blinding in the way it sparks and blinks

I see shadows there waltzing like caricatures up the walls

The remnants of a lasting murder scene

And everyone tells me it's best if I go and fix the light up

That then the whole thing shouldn't scare and bother me

But I am haunted by the pictures in a movie in my head

Whose hands can reach out and grab ahold of my body.

In my dreams, these places have burned down already

And their ghosts have become cinders of the earth

But I know that somehow they are still there standing

Because I am tortured by the thoughts of my return

[simmerstories96]

Amira & Dominick FINALLY moved! 💕 They moved into the Deplanter Duplex for the haunting of a lifetime 😌

Both aspire to be Paranormal Proficient while Amira wants to dig deeper into paranormal & be an investigator 👻

Engagement Party was a huge success, now she’s off asking her friends to join her wedding party 💪🏻

Stay Tuned for more