#postmortem photograph

[the-memory-box]

[daguerreotyping]

Post-mortem tintype of a strikingly beautiful young man, c. 1860s

[discodiablo]

Depressed sensitive bisexual artist snaps after participating in the Stonewall Riots, now considers murder to be art

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Unfinished - Part One: Love is Like Ghosts

A/N: Happy Spooky Season, friends! This story has been marinating in my brain for the last few months, and I am super excited to share it with you. It's my first stab at something truly spooky, and though this part is mostly set up, the next few should hopefully bring the scares. If anyone is curious about the inspiration for this story, please please please feel free to ask because I have LOADS to say about it! I hope you guys enjoy my ghosties!

*Chapter title comes from Love Like Ghosts by Lord Huron*

Warnings: death, illness, murder, infidelity (not Reader and Marcus) mention of loss of parent, language

Word Count: 4,723

Summary: Maplewood Manor has a long history, not all of it pleasant, and not all of it known. You and Marcus also have a long history, and when you reunite for a few days, both of those long histories become intertwined.

Maplewood Manor - October 30, 1868

Henry Ashford stood at the window of his wife’s sickroom with a decision to make. 

His hands gripped the wood that framed the panes of glass as he watched three bright orange leaves swirl through the chilly autumn air on their way to the ground. Ever since he was a child he had been fascinated by the colorful display of the changing fall foliage, the leaves seemingly celebrating their own impending demise by turning as bright and beautiful as they could before departing from the branches they were born to. Once they’d fallen, he would traipse through the grounds in search of the right one - one with perfectly shaped edges or the most vivid golden hue. Bringing it back inside he would take it to his mother, the woman pressing it under glass to preserve it through the colorless winter. Henry would hang the glass encased leaf in his window like a suncatcher, marveling at the ghost of autumn he’d captured until Spring came again with its buds and blossoms. And then the leaf would be discarded, the glass awaiting its next specimen until he outgrew the childish hobby. 

Or perhaps outgrew was the wrong word for it. The fascination with preserving the beauty of things that had died stuck with him, stoked and fed by his father’s work in the burgeoning field of photographic technology. James Ashford was the owner of the largest camera company on the East coast, and the invention of the daguerreotype took his sales to new levels, solidifying the Ashford fortune for generations to come. At the same time it solidified Henry’s interest in a new method of preservation - postmortem photography. 

It was a strange thing for a young man to be interested in, and as such, Henry himself was regarded as a bit strange. Nevertheless when the time came to marry, a suitable match was made for him in the form of Eliza Cutwright, the daughter of a wealthy banker from Philadelphia. It was not a marriage of romance, nor was it one of shared interests. Though she was wed to one of the most influential men in the photography industry, Eliza preferred the majesty of oil based portraits and pencil sketches to the cold reality of anything caught by a camera lens. It was rendition, interpretation, that she found fascinating - the way an artist would paint their version of the truth, the world as it was through their eyes, with emotion and passion. Not the scientific chemical process of taking and developing photos. 

The Ashfords though, like any respectable family of the time, functioned as they were meant to. They hosted and attended high society events, Eliza playing the role of the ever-devoted wife, always a smile on her face, her arm always linked with Henry’s while they laughed and hobnobbed with investors and socialites. They had two children - a son, Edwin, and a daughter, Josephine - ensuring that their family legacy would live on for future generations. On paper, Henry and Eliza Ashford were an enviable couple. 

Behind closed doors though, they hardly had anything to do with one another. Each year that passed seemed to widen the gap between their mindsets, every bit of growth that Henry’s company saw driving Eliza further into her love of the traditional arts. He spent more and more time in their townhome in the city, giving the excuse that he was busy with running his father’s company and leaving Eliza on her own at Maplewood, only returning when decorum called for it. It kept both of them happier and made it easier for Henry to stomach his wife’s obsession with fighting against modernity. 

In turn, Eliza felt freer in her husband’s absence to commission artwork for their home, to visit galleries and meet with artists. In the Spring of 1868, while at tea with a friend, she was reacquainted with one of the first artists she had ever met - Calvin Harper. 

Cal was the son of the artist that Eliza’s parents had commissioned to create both individual and family portraits of the Cutwrights, and he would tag along with his father when he came for sessions. While the rest of Eliza’s family had their turns sitting for Cal’s father, she and the boy, roughly the same age, would play in the gardens or else in one of the house’s many rooms. The only time Cal would be at his father’s side, watching each painstaking stroke of the brush, was when Eliza was his subject. Mr. Harper would later credit Eliza for Calvin’s interest in art. Their friendship, though not one of equal social status, was allowed to continue even after Cal’s father had completed his work, but it was terminated the minute Eliza was betrothed to Henry. It wasn’t proper for a married woman to keep company with bachelors. 

Especially bachelors that same married woman had always harbored affection for. 

But when she saw a piece hanging in her friend Grace Felton’s parlor, the same movement and light present in every brushstroke and the familiar C.H. signature in the corner, she knew at once that it was Cal’s work. Grace had purchased some of his paintings and had taken his information so that she could hire him to do portrait work. At Eliza’s request, she put the two old friends back in touch, and though it had been nearly a decade since they’d seen each other last, nothing had changed between them. Their friendship was rekindled as though it had never been dampened, Eliza inviting Cal to Maplewood and commissioning him for the same work that her father had hired his for. 

He started with portraits of Edwin and Josephine, the children taking an instant shine to their mother’s childhood friend, running to greet him when he arrived, stuffing little bouquets of wildflowers or interestingly shaped rocks into his hand as gifts. Josephine had even made him a drawing, once, the girl beaming as he heaped praise upon it. He reciprocated with sweets and the occasional small toy. By the time both of their portraits were finished, Cal had himself two little shadows that sat and watched in awe as he painted, just as he used to watch his father. The way that they interacted only made Eliza’s heart grow more fond of him, and he more so of her. She began to imagine what it would have been like had she and Cal never been separated, daydreaming a life where they’d been together the entire time, where Edwin and Josephine were his and the four of them were a family. Where she’d never met Henry Ashford and never had to pretend to be anyone other than who Cal Harper knew her to be. 

The affair seemed inevitable, largely because neither party did anything at all to stop it. It began while Eliza sat for her portrait, the little willpower that either of them had to keep things plutonic vanishing entirely once Cal’s eyes studied every detail of her face, once she watched the lick of his tongue against his lips as he concentrated. They were careful not to let the maid or the butler see, and they never shared more than a brief embrace in front of the children, not wanting to drag any of them into things should Henry arrive home unannounced. But during the week or so that Cal stayed at Maplewood while he worked on a painting of the house and grounds, he and Eliza took every chance they could to slip away to the meadow at the edge of the property, or else up and away into one of the many spare rooms. 

The one that ended up being the last room either of them ever set foot in, actually. The room that eventually became Eliza Ashford’s sickroom. 

Just as the affair itself seemed imminent, so too was Henry catching wise to it. He met Cal on a visit back home, the artist taking the opportunity to start Henry’s individual portrait while he was available, setting Eliza’s aside to finish once he was gone again. Nothing happened then to tip him off about what happened while he was away, the two men saying very little to one another but remaining civil. Despite his affinity for photography, Henry was actually quite pleased with the outcome of Cal’s work, bestowing a handshake on him. It wasn’t until all four Ashfords were sitting as a family that Henry picked up on the attraction humming between the artist and his wife - and between the artist and his children. 

It wasn’t as though he remained loyal to Eliza while he was away. Henry had at least two women in Philadelphia that Eliza knew about. But a man of his stature was almost expected to have a mistress, and so long as there were no bastards involved and no one important caught wind of the man stepping out on his wife, it was like it never happened. 

What enraged Henry about Cal and Eliza’s tryst was the fact that it occurred in their home. It was the fact that Eliza had allowed Cal to become close with the children. It was the idea that Edwin or Josephine might slip and mention their mother’s good friend who spent long weekends at Maplewood while their father was gone. It was the ramifications of a leader in the camera industry’s wife spreading her legs for a common artist. It was pride, more than anything. 

He knew for certain that something existed between the two when Eliza fell ill and Cal still came to Maplewood. He’d given the excuse of needing to refine the painting of the house - more detail in the cornices or better color matching to the stained glass windows - but that hadn’t kept him from making a stop to see her. The final nail in the coffin had been the sketches Cal had brought to show Eliza, hoping that they would lift her spirits - sketches of her, not a stitch of clothing to cover her body, sketches of the two of them together in positions he dreamed of during their ten years without contact. Sketches that included birthmarks that only Henry should know about on Eliza’s body. Sketches that fell out of his bag and that Henry found on the floor of the hallway outside Eliza’s room. 

The doctors said it was consumption, but the medical world would likely later redefine her condition as a type of lung disease, non-infectious, which was why no one else caught what was killing her. She may even have survived her illness given a few more weeks to recover. But those sketches became her true cause of death. Cal’s, too. 

Edwin and Josephine had been sent to stay with their governess at the townhome in the city while their mother was sick since no one knew that it wasn’t contagious. The staff had been pared down to just the housekeeper, who had gone into town to go shopping, so there was no one home to hear the gunshot that tore through Cal’s skull, and there was no one home to stop Henry from aiding Eliza’s death with a pillow over her face. 

Which led Henry to the decision that he needed to make. The way he saw it, he had three options. 

The first was to turn himself in for the murder of his wife and her lover. He would go to prison. His father’s company, his company, would be dragged through the mud, and Edwin and Josephine would likely never speak to him again, let alone have anything of his to carry on which was the whole point of their births. This was the option he gave the least amount of thought to. 

Option number two was to follow Eliza and Cal by swallowing a bullet of his own. In his eyes it was preferable to prison. There was even the possibility that when the three bodies were discovered, authorities would assume it was a murder-suicide committed by Cal. The children would grow up traumatized by the story of their parents’ murders, but Henry figured that would already be the case after losing their mother so young. The company would survive, and nothing of the estate would be liquified. Henry didn’t want to die, though, so he put that one out of his mind, too. 

That left the third and final option - disposing of Cal’s body before anyone returned, and passing Eliza’s murder off as a natural cause. Because he hadn’t shot her, there was no wound. It would be easy to say she’d died in her sleep. Cal had fallen in the center of an area rug, which meant that the mess was contained and would be simple enough to bundle up and drag into the cellar. The floorboards were removable, and there was plenty of space for a 5’11” corpse to never be found. 

Turning from the window pane and back to the gruesome scene in front of him, he made his choice. 

It wasn’t until both bodies had been dealt with that Henry noticed the easel in the corner of the room, Eliza’s half-finished portrait staring through him from an otherwise featureless face. 

–  –  –  

Maplewood Manor - October 30, 2023

You sat at the long elegant dining table going over the notes for your lecture and listening to the murmur of the crowd as people shuffled into the next room to take their seats. 

Sounds like a full house out there. 

As a member of the Society for the Restoration of Maplewood Manor, you were obligated to host one fundraising event that was open to the public a year, and whenever you could, you chose to do something that had a Halloween spin on it. Other members chose things like tea parties, dinner dances, or summer barbeques on the sprawling lawns. People from the area - and even some from further away - would purchase tickets, and then whoever was in charge of the event would round up sponsors to donate whatever was needed so that 100% of the profits could go back into the maintenance and repair of a two hundred year old estate. 

Maplewood had been in rough shape until the fifties, the deed falling into the township’s hands when the last owner had passed and there was no one looking to move in. It was turned temporarily into an art gallery, which had done severe damage to the walls and floors, not to mention the botched job that some electrician had done with the wiring of overhead lights. Eventually the property was purchased by a local university and that’s when the serious repair work had begun and the Society formed. Years later you would end up attending the college, which was how you got involved with the restoration, and though you’d graduated almost twenty years ago, you were still an active member. 

The event that you were hosting was entitled Unfinished Business: Ghosts Caught on Canvas. You’d decided to go with something that combined your interests and skills. You were an artist by trade, but your focus was very atypical. Though you did also create your own original works, you’d made your name in the art world by completing works that had been left incomplete by their creators’ deaths. Sometimes the families of the artists would commission you, other times you were contacted by museums, universities and private collectors. In a way, you felt like you were bringing closure to the people who hired you, and to the actual pieces of art themselves. Your lecture didn’t include any of the pieces that you’d worked on, all of the ones you’d chosen to highlight still unfinished and baring all of the sketchy lines and over-painted areas that showed how their artists were still unsure or undecided about how that portion of the piece would look when it was done. 

To your surprise, the event sold out in under a week when normally tickets for these events would still be available at the door. You were glad that you’d been able to contribute something so beneficial to the restoration society. But an even bigger surprise came in the form of one of the attendees on your guest list - Marcus Pike. 

You smiled to yourself as you recalled the message you’d sent him as soon as you saw that he had purchased a ticket. This really you? You’d sent it along with a screenshot showing his RSVP, and within seconds he had responded. Do you know any other Marcus Pikes? It had made you roll your eyes and snort, but at the same time it filled you with excitement. You hadn’t seen much of Marcus in the past few years while he was in Texas, and hadn’t spent a Halloween with him since the year after the two of you graduated college. 

Which sucks, because he’s so much fun around this time. And… and I miss him. 

Though you’d remained as close as you could from so many states away, nothing beat the few times you’d visited one another when he had time off from work. But none of those visits had been in the month of October. Another smile climbed your cheeks - along with a splash of heat - as you thought back to the first Halloween you spent with him, and the night that the two of you met. You and Kelly, your roommate, were hosting a costume party, and you were meeting her new boyfriend for the first time. Though their relationship wouldn’t last, you had formed a friendship with the cute guy from 2E who showed up in an impromptu sheet-ghost getup that would at times border on something more but never truly solidified into anything official. You’d kissed a few times, even slept together once, and more than a few of both of your friends had assumed that you would end up together. 

But then Marcus had moved south to start his career, and the will they won’t they question seemed to be answered with a won’t. And then he met and married Erin, and even when the marriage quickly came apart, you never really considered that the two of you would shift gears. 

And then there was Teresa. 

You wrinkled your nose at the thought of the woman and the bullshit that you knew she put Marcus through. In a way, you were glad that they hadn’t worked out, because you didn’t think you could stomach being nice to someone who had toyed with your best friend the way that she had. But at the same time, you felt for him, because you knew that when Marcus went in on a relationship, he went all in. He fell hard, which made it hard for himself to get back up sometimes. Moving back East to D.C. was good for him in that regard, and selfishly, it was good for you, too, because him being only two hours away meant that more regular visits were back on the table. 

Your phone chimed on the table next to your notes, and you couldn’t help the way your face broke into a grin as you read the text displayed on the screen. Just got here. Place looks great, can’t wait to hear your lecture! Another text bubble popped up that made you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. And to seeing you. 

Before you could respond, Xander, one of the grad students who was part of the restoration society, poked his head into the room where you sat to let you know that you were all set to start. 

“Thanks, X.” You smiled at him and gathered your note cards before heading into the next room. 

Thanking everyone for coming - and honing in on Marcus as you said it - you launched right into your presentation. 

“Real quick, before I start, how many of you all have been on a supposed haunted tour? Of a house or a city or graveyard?” You paused to let people respond, counting the raised hands in the room. About half of them were in the air. Not surprised. You smirked. “Now keep your hand up if you actually saw a ghost on any of those tours.” A ripple of laughter went through the room as every hand dropped back down. “That’s what I thought. Now, show of hands, how many of you really truly believe in ghosts?” 

This time, only a few people put their hands up. Again, not surprised. But you acted surprised anyway. “Really? Almost everyone in here has paid money to go on a ghost tour, but only four of you actually believe in ghosts?” 

That got another round of chuckles, Marcus’ hitting your ear over the rest. “Well, don’t worry. I’m not asking you to believe in ghosts tonight. The word belief implies that I’m expecting you to put your blind faith in something without being able to prove that it’s true. But I have proof. Solid, physical proof of ghosts that exist here in our world. So I’m not asking you to believe. I’m telling you that ghosts are real. And now I’m going to show them to you.” 

You could feel the rush of anticipation in the room, everyone going from joking and laughing to scooting forward in their seats at your promises. For the next hour and a half, you went over the selected works, pointing things out and connecting each piece with its artist, sharing facts and stories about them when they were relevant or entertaining. 

“You can still see the sketches underneath, right here. In this corner of the image. It’s almost as though the artist hadn’t decided yet - should the wings be unfurled or folded? The pencil lines here and here would indicate that originally they were open, spread wide. But from the beginnings of the brushstrokes over here it seems like maybe he was considering a different pose. And we’ll never know which way it was intended to be, or if the wings would even still be there in the final piece. So in a way, the painting itself is haunted, full of the ghosts of the artist’s original intentions.”

You finished up your talk by briefly explaining how you did your job - how you tried to immerse yourself in the mindset of the artist by gaining access to their journals, letters, photographs or any information about their life at the time that they were working on the piece, and then do your best to match the different styles and color palettes to complete the picture. Wrapping it up by thanking everyone again, you let people know that refreshments were available in the dining room and that you’d be available for any questions for about a half hour. Most people made their way in for snacks, but a few lingered for your informal Q & A. You gave them your undivided attention, which was difficult knowing that Marcus was hovering just beyond the small group that had formed around you and the six easels behind you. 

But there was no urgency, no rush to finish up and spend time with him, because he had four days off and was planning to spend three of them catching up with you. When you were finally done and the last person had thanked you for your time, you turned to Marcus and blew out a huff. “Well that went well I think.” 

He grinned wide, the expression lighting up his eyes. “You think?” Without warning, he moved in to wrap you in a hug, arms winding around you and giving a brief, tight squeeze. “You did great.” 

Returning the hug, you laughed. “Thanks, Marcus.” The scent of his cologne hit your nose and you had to stop yourself from burrowing into his neck to inhale again. Instead, you pulled back to see the smile he was still wearing. “I’m so glad you could make it. Been a while since we’ve been in this building, huh?” 

Marcus glanced around the room and nodded. “It has. Brings back a lot of memories.” He looked back at you and winked. “Good ones.” 

It does. 

Marcus hadn’t been in the restoration society with you while you were in school, but there were a number of campus activities that happened at Maplewood Manor, so you’d both been in the old mansion plenty of times before that night. 

You kissed me in the parlor room junior year. Doesn’t get better than that, Marcus. 

You wondered if that was the memory that came to mind for him, but before you could get too caught up in that thought, he spoke again. “Not to rush you out of here or anything, but I’m starving. You ready to go grab dinner? On the way here I noticed that Michael’s Diner is still open and I’ve been thinking about those disco fries since then.” 

Your eyes widened. “Of course Michael’s is still open, that place is an institution, Marcus. And yes, I’m also very hungry. Let me just check in with Xander and the other student volunteers to  see if they need anything before we head out.” 

“Sounds good. I’ll be here.” 

Verifying that Xander had everything he needed to close up once the remaining guests had cleared out, you thanked the kid and rejoined Marcus. “Alright, all set. Let’s go pig out like we used to.” 

–  –  –  

You’d made it halfway through your meal and most of the way through listening to Marcus tell you about his latest case when your phone rang. Reaching to silence it, you noticed Xander’s name on the I.D. “Sorry, I need to…” You trailed off pointing at your phone and showing him the screen. “Xander probably forgot his key or something.” 

Marcus held up both hands, palms facing you. “Of course, go ahead. No need to apologize.” 

Nodding, you answered. “Xander? Everything o-” 

“You need to get back here. Now.” 

The young man’s voice was thin and shaky and it made your stomach drop. Something was wrong, very wrong. It wasn’t just a forgotten key or a lock he couldn’t figure out, and the fear in his voice made your stomach drop. Your expression must have given you away because Marcus’ eyebrows pinched together in concern as he sat across from you. 

“What happened, X? You okay?” Your pulse pounded in your brain as you asked. 

What could have happened? I haven’t been gone that long. 

“There’s… someone…” He gasped a breath and swallowed, saying your name. “I called the police already, they’re on their way and I’m across the street at the security booth, but… There’s a body - a dead body in one of the bedrooms upstairs. I… I was doing a sweep before I closed up and…” 

“Oh, shit.” You breathed the two words out, ice flooding your veins as the concern on Marcus’ face went full-blown. “Oh, shit, Xander. I…” 

“There’s… s-something else, too.” You heard him swallow again. “When I came back downstairs there was… You only had six paintings in your lecture, right?” 

Blinking quickly, you nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “Yeah, why? Is one missing?” 

“No. No, nothing’s missing. It’s… there are seven now.” He paused. “Where… how are there seven now?” 

“Okay, X. Alright, sit tight until the police show up.” At the mention of the police, Marcus shifted into law enforcement mode, eyes laser focused and hands already moving to pull his wallet out and drop cash on the table. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay?” 

How the fuck… a dead body? What the… how? When did that happen, I was up there earlier in the day and then the door to the staircase was locked and- 

“Hey.” You looked up at Marcus as you both stood from the table. He shook his head. “What’s going on?” 

“Xander said he… Marcus, there’s a body. At Maplewood. Someone was killed, and… and there’s another painting that I didn’t bring with me now. I… I don’t-” 

“Alright.” He reached for your biceps, taking a deep breath and letting it out to try to get you to do the same. “Okay. Leave your car here. I’ll drive. Let’s go.” 

You nodded and tried to calm yourself down, the task made easier by the fact that Marcus was with you, and then you let him steer you out of the diner and into his car.

-- -- --

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tags: @something-tofightfor @littlemisspascal @mishasminion360 @nyctophiliiiiaaa @alraedesigns @practicalghost @tanzthompson @amb11@harriedandharassed @woodlandmouth @thescarletfang  @trickstersp8 @princessxkenobi @imtryingmybeskar @haylzcyon@wildmoonflower @mswarriorbabe80 @theredwritingwitch @silverstarsandsuns  @pedro-pedrito-pascalito @jedi-in-crocs @hannahkatharine @anoverwhelmingdin @chiyo13 @myloveistoolittle @spishsstuff @Noisynightmarepoetry

[pavukvaleria]

Goodnight! My name is Valeria and I'm starting this blog to hopefully share art and stories regarding my Vampire: The Masquerade V3 campaign. I've been running it for a year and a half so there's quite a lot of content piled up and waiting to be posted.

The campaign is called Portland Postmortem (PPM for short) and it's set in Portland, Oregon in 2015. It's a story about forging your own path amidst those who are stuck in the past. "Postmortem" refers to the Victorian fashion of photographing dead relatives posed as if they were still alive. This is a metaphor for vampires still keeping their outdated traditions, fearing their ancestors and never trying to keep up with the times even though their old ways often lead to tragedy and conflict. And there's time travel.

I'm looking forward to detailing our chronicle here and I hope the retelling is at least a little bit as engaging as the actual game

[haveyouseenthishorrormovie]

SUMMARY: A postmortem photographer arrives in a haunted village in the aftermath of the First World War.

[missmcspooks]

The Torture and Murder of Hanja Piller

In 1962, a Hungarian doctor who was infested with rage, jealousy, and insecurities, committed one of the cruelest crimes you could imagine against his own wife.

Geza de Kaplany was a Hungarian born doctor who emigrated to the United States in the early 1950s. He was raised in a very wealthy family, and had a father who was physically abusive. So abusive that Geza lost sight in one of his eyes during a beating. Geza ended up attending University of Szeged to study medicine, and graduated with honors in 1951. He originally practiced in Budapest as a cardiologist, but had problems with officials in the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, and fled Hungary. He then visited England and Denmark and wrote a book called “Doctor In Revolt,” about his experiences in Hungary as a freedom fighter. He then decided to settle in Boston to continue his practice, but found out that his degree wasn’t recognized. He ended up retraining as an anesthesiologist and interned at a hospital in Milwaukee from August 1957 to August 1958. Afterwards he attended Harvard and taught anesthesiology at Yale. Then he decided to move to San Jose, California, and worked at San Jose Hospital. 

In June of 196, he met his wife, Hanja Piller, who was also from Hungary. She was 25 and a former model, a beauty queen, and a showgirl at Bimbo’s 365 Club. They had a very spicy relationship and ended up marrying in August. However, just a few weeks after their wedding, Geza was informed by a friend that his new wife has been having an affair. 

He came up with a plan to destroy her beauty and on the evening of August 28th, 1962, he carried out his plan. He tied her up to their bed and put on loud music to muffle her screams, and started to disfigure her face and body with a scalpel. He then poured a mixture of hydrochloric, sulfuric and nitric acid into the cuts, causing her to suffer third degree corrosive burns over most of the front of her body. After three hours, the police were called. Some sources say he called the police himself, while other sources claim the neighbors called the police due to the noise. When the police arrived, he explained to them that his plan was not to kill her, but to simply destroy her beauty. Sadly, Hanja spent 33 days in the hospital before she died of her injuries. Her body was so badly burned, that when paramedics tried to handle her body, they burned their hands. 

His trial took place on January 9th, 1963, and was originally charged with attempted murder, but was later changed to murder by torture after his wife died. He pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity, and his lawyer claimed that he had multiple personality disorder and stated that this crime wasn’t committed by him, but instead it was his alter ego, “Pierre de la Roche.” The prosecutors brought a witness to the stand, an old lover of Geza’s who said otherwise. He was declared legally sane, but medically insane. He was sentenced to life in prison, and the jury assumed that he would be considered a special interest prisoner, and wouldn’t be allowed out. Unfortunately, they were wrong. 

In 1975, he was paroled in a controversial decision marked by accusations that postmortem photographs of his victim were removed from his file by the chairman of the California state parole authority for men, prior to review of his case by the parole board. Therefore, the ability to be paroled while under the sentence of life imprisonment was removed. The parole board allowed him to travel to Taiwan in November of 1975, to work as a medical missionary doctor serving poor patients in a Catholic hospital in Lutsao. He left the United States before his prosecutors and the general public knew he had been paroled. Negative public reaction followed. Geza worked at the Lutsao clinic for the next four years, and eventually remarried. He became tired of the constant parole checks, and left Taiwan in late 1979 and went off the grid. When California corrections officials discovered he was missing, a warrant was issued for his arrest. However, a 2002 investigation indicated that California officials were made aware of his whereabouts several times over the next few years, and once even contacted him to warn him, as required by law, about an anonymous threat on his life, yet failed to take the steps to extradite him. 

In 2002, he was located by reporters at 75 in his home in Germany. Two years prior, he had become a naturalized German citizen, making it impossible to extradite him for the parole violation.

[pwlanier]

Old silver photograph of a child, postmortem circa 1900.

Painful testimony.

Mounted in its frame from the same period.

Good state of conservation with nice patina.

Old School Bazaar

[artwithoutblood]

the favourite poet. 1.2k words. cw for gore, death, and mentions of alcohol. a short aeron piece

The last thought you had was of Lawrence Alma Tadema’s The Favourite Poet. In this moment, you are the woman sprawled on the stone, head on a pillow, limbs thrown weakly in annoyance. She is bored of listening to her friend read poetry from a scroll whose length cannot be determined. The only difference is that you’re listening to the hums of another along to lost Parisian melodies, and your limp stature is not from boredom. It is from the way your body has been strung, each limb positioned for proper work in your rigor mortis. If you could feel it, you know it would be agonizing.

Underneath your cadaver is metal. The lights in the room are low, save for the ones which illuminate your body like a stage. Next to your head is a copy of The Favourite Poet on an easel as a reference. On a cart next to you sits a tape measurer and bolts of coral fabric. The only living soul in the room is a man decorated in red. You are unsure if the crimson is from the finite fluids from your body or from someone else entirely.

You both can and cannot feel the cuts. Nerves die faster than the stars when the sun rises again. Perhaps you can hear the blade that slices into your skin, or perhaps you can feel the vibrations and the movement of muscle. You understand it is happening, but there is no way to protest. He has already sewn your mouth shut, to replicate the woman in The Favourite Poet, silent in her observation of the woman who shares her space.

A funeral would be much better than this. A funeral would be much better than having him delicately pull each organ from your stomach, handling it fondly, putting it in a box to burn or preserve later depending on the mood, sewing up each hole in your body whether it was a pre-death wound or a postmortem incision, painting your skin with something too heavy to be daily makeup, dressing you in a dress just like the woman’s, skewering your body with rods and ropes both in and outside your skin and-

Even being buried in water would be much better than this. He is not your mortician, and your body is not a cadaver. Instead, it is a base for him to play with, to destroy and repair with needles and thread. It is now his to bend and shape.

He’s waiting for some paint around the wound on your right knee to dry. For a second, you can remember him smashing your legs in with a baseball bat, forcing you to fall to your knees, burdening the skin with asphalt. The thought disappears as fast as it came.­ From here, though, you can see him as he taps the back of a pen against his cheek. The head of your body may be lying horizontally, face to the ceiling, but he had made the switch early in the process. The sockets in your head are now filled with glass eyes, and the eyes which you have worn all your life now sit in their own glass jar.

He keeps a book of every piece of art in his gallery. You can read the entry he is writing for you, but you are unsure if you can process it in your state of decomposition. It starts with your name and a Polaroid.

You don’t remember him carrying a camera and taking a photograph of you.

The page reads like an obituary. It is an about of your life: your age, your occupation, your interests, your favorite food, your favorite song, your favorite season, your thoughts on the afterlife,  what love tastes like to you, your location (though it’s not a city or a country. It’s 4138LE), your secrets, your regrets, the people you’ve loved and the people you’ve lost-

Your favorite painting. The Favourite Poet. You realize that these were all questions he had asked you on your first date. He finishes the last sentence and places his pen behind his ear. The ink dries quickly, and with a hum, he seems satisfied. His fingers creep over to the top corner, and he flips through the pages. For a few moments, you think that you might recognize some of the men and women with photographs like yours.

He sets the book on a countertop, seated next to half a dozen jars of paintbrushes waiting to be properly rinsed. Instead, he reaches for a small notepad, scribbled with numbers scratched over dozens of times. They look like measurements.

You recall your first meeting with him. You had run into him at a bar. He was sitting on a barstool, chatting up the bartender as she did her work. You could tell that they had known each other for a while, and you were to timid to interrupt their conversation. Even when his eyes were on her with upmost attention, you couldn’t help but shake the feeling of being watched. Eventually, he turned to you with a smile.

“Sorry, I can’t help myself sometimes,” he apologized, fingers tapping against the bar top. As compensation for making you wait, he offered to buy you the drink. You accepted, as long as he wouldn’t tamper with it. He swore on a dead lover’s life and laughed. You couldn’t help but stare at the geometric tattoos on his skin, which seemed to burn, wanting to be heard. Something about him mesmerized you, glued you to the spot on the floor between the hustle of the other patrons and the quiet of him. Eventually, you came to sit right next to him. You didn’t notice the disappointed glimmer in the bartender’s eyes.

This is when he asked you all about yourself. You only got a name from him. You know now that anything he said before was probably a lie. When he said he was an artist, you expected an oil painter and not the multimedia art of flesh, blood, and fabric.

You said you were feeling sleepy. He offered to walk you out and to the bus stop. For a moment, you were relieved that he wasn’t some creep offering to drive you himself. He rewarded that relief with fresh air in a new hole in your stomach. In your shoulder. In your chest. In your leg.

Here, your body is pulled apart like the Vitruvian Man, chest prepared for a vivisection that allows for the skin to peel like flower petals. You are an artist’s work in progress. Who you were is forever stored in a book that only he has access to. Your family and friends will never know what happened, where you went, what has become of your body as it is prepared to be displayed alongside other fashioned corpses. You are his secret. Instead of being the favorite poet, you are the favorite muse, only becoming more beautiful with each second you are supposed to be rotting.

The rot will never come. You will lay on stone, head on a pillow, listening to the wordless rambles of another corpse who you will never know.

[l8in]

The behind the scenes details of Neuralink's grisly monkey experiments just keep getting worse.

Now, a followup investigation by Wired reveals that a Neuralink implant "deformed and ruptured" the brain of one female macaque, after an experiment caused severe cerebral swelling.

The trials, conducted at the California National Primate Research Center (CNPRC) at UC Davis by Neuralink scientists, had left the seven-year-old monkey with "severe neurological defects."

After noting the severity of its brain swelling, the researchers realized that the primate was terminal. But instead of easing its suffering, the scientist overseeing the experiment insisted the monkey be kept alive another day.

Its final 24 hours were torturous. Per documents obtained by Wired, the monkey seized and vomited, lost control of her right leg, and shook uncontrollably. It also appeared to have trouble breathing, scratching at its throat and gasping for air.

A postmortem revealed the extent of the damage. Leaked adhesive from the implant had inflamed the part of the brain that secretes cerebrospinal fluid. The effects were so severe that the rear of the monkey's brain protruded from its skull, though how the cavity was created is unclear.

But as bad as all this sounds, we may still not even know the half of it, as the photos that document the trials are being kept secret, Wired adds.

Ethics groups like the Physicians Committee, which sued UC Davis, have been pressing for the release of hundreds of photos documenting Neuralink's grisly brain implant experiments. As a public institution, the committee argues, UC Davis has an obligation to transparency. So far, this has been to no avail.

Questions about whether animals should be made to suffer for research that could one day benefit humans often haunt biomedical research.

It's a thorny issue, but it does sound as though UC Davis and Neuralink — like many of Musk's ventures — has pushed norms to the brink and leveraged aggressive tactics to keep the research quiet. For example, even though the brain rupturing incident with the macaque was acknowledged as a violation of the US Animal Welfare Act by federal regulators, Wired says the CNPRC preempted being legally implicated by self-reporting the violation.

"If you want to split hairs," an anonymous former Neuralink employee told Wired, "the implant itself did not cause death. We sacrificed her to end her suffering."

This only scratches the surface of the legal tricks being used to withhold the potentially damning photos. We won't wade too far into the weeds here, but the most important argument used by UC Davis is that the public is simply unequipped to properly interpret the photographs.

By extension, the institution claims that backlash caused by the content of the photos would not only endanger the scientists, but discourage them from taking such photos in the first place.

But this issue is bigger than Elon Musk's Neuralink, UC Davis, or the CNPRC. They're undoubtedly not the only bodies out there conducting questionable tests on animals, and the Physicians Committee has vehemently argued that the public has a right to know the nature of any animal testing funded by taxpayers.

That certainly doesn't exonerate Neuralink from wrongdoing, however, and its publicity — and that of its eccentric owner — quite rightly invites further scrutiny, its opponents argue.

"Disclosure of the footage is particularly important because Neuralink actively misleads the public about, and downplays the gruesome nature of, the experiments," an attorney representing the Physicians Committee in the lawsuit told Wired.

Nevertheless, the negative press hasn't deterred Neuralink going ahead with human trials — though the outcome of the Physician Committee's lawsuit may cast a long shadow over those experiments.

[myhauntedsalem]

Victorian Death Customs and Superstitions

During the 19th century into the early 20th century both Americans and European had similar, sometimes odd, customs that were practiced after a loved one died.

One custom many today find “creepy” was Postmortem Photography also known as memorial portraiture. This practice involved taking a photograph of the recently deceased.

This practice was common for the middle class for it was a way for families to remember their deceased loved ones. With the invention of daguerreotype in 1839, these photos became an affordable alternative to the more expensive painted portraits that the wealthy commissioned.

Many also felt they helped with the grieving process. By far, most of these photos were of infants or children. These portraits sometimes were the only photograph the family had of their deceased loved ones.

Another common practice was wakes or waking. This custom was to keep a close watch over the deceased until they were buried. Most wakes lasted 3 to 4 days in order to provide out of town relatives time to travel in for the funeral.

Wakes originated from the practice that was considered a safeguard. Time was allowed to pass before the deceased were buried in order to make sure they were really dead and not just in a coma.

A practice related to the one above was “the fear of being buried alive.”

Coffin makers in this era addressed this issue by designing warning systems. One of these was a bell on the grave that was attached by a chain inside the coffin. The expression, “saved by the bell” evolved out of this practice. Another post that focuses upon this topic is located here.

Grave Robbery was common in this period—mostly because the medical profession needed fresh corpses for their dissecting classes. Young doctors often robbed graves.

The fear that a loved one’s corpse might be robbed led to many family’s “bricking-over” graves in order to insure their security.

Other often practiced customs that surrounded death and burial in the Victorian age included:

Curtains were drawn and clocks were stopped at the time of death.

Mirrors were covered in crape or veiling to prevent the deceased spirit from becoming trapped in these looking glasses.

A wreath of laurel, boxwood or yew with black ribbons was hung on doors to announce or alert those who passed by that there had been a death in the home—this was to insure the proper respect was shown.

The use of candles and flowers were used to mask any unpleasant odors in the room where body was displayed—this was before the practice of embalming became common.

During this era the dead where carried out of a home feet first to prevent the deceased from looking back—which might lure other family members to follow them into death.

Family photos were placed facedown to prevent close relatives or friends of the deceased from being possessed by the dead person’s spirit.

Lavish meals were often served after internments.

The color black was used to denote someone was in mourning. While the color white was used for the funeral of a child—including white gloves, white ostrich plumes and white coffins.

In cemeteries, the majority of the graves had the deceased laid out with their heads to the west and their feet to the east. This custom can be traced back to Pagan sun worshippers but is more often associated with the Christian belief that the final summons to Judgement comes from the east.

There are many superstitions that surround death. During the Victorian Era many of these beliefs were off putting to say the least.

Europeans and Americans during this era believed it was bad luck to meet a funeral procession head on. If one saw one approaching, it was recommended they turn around. If this could not be done it was said this person should hold on to a button until this funeral cortege passed.

If a clap of thunder was heard it meant the deceased had reached heaven or if a raindrop fell on a funeral procession it meant the departed would go to heaven.

If the deceased had led a good life, flowers would bloom on their grave, but if they had been evil only weeds would grow on their grave.

If a person smelled roses and there were none around, it meant someone was going to die.

If a person saw himself or herself in a dream, their death would surely follow. In another post the result of a dream like this that Abraham Lincoln had is shared.

If a sparrow lands on a piano, someone in the home is going to die. Or if a picture falls off the wall, someone close to them will die.

Never wear anything new to a funeral, especially shoes.

If a person heard three knocks and no one is there, it usually meant someone close to them had died. This superstition is known as “the three knocks of death.”

A single snowdrop in a garden foretells death as well as the hoot of an owl. If a bird pecks at or crashes into a person’s window there has been a death.

Large drops of rain warned that there had just been a death.

If a person spills salt, they should throw a pinch over their shoulder, to prevent death.

If it rains on an open grave it means another family member will die within the year.

One should never speak ill of the dead because they will come back to haunt that person or at least will bring them misfortune.

[kryjjovnik]

This photograph depicts a cadaveric spasm in a drowning victim grasping grass from the river bank. Also known as postmortem spasm, this is the instantaneous rigor cataleptic rigidity —a rare form of muscular stiffening that occurs at the very moment of death and persists into rigor mortis. Nevertheless the condition itself is not part of rigor mortis, which is characterized by a progressive rigidity of the deceased body due to biomechanical changes in muscles occurring 10-12 hours after death. It is a persistent occurrence when it happens, and the individual will continue to hold that pose from death until putrefaction allows for decay of the affected limb. However, cadaveric spasm can be seen in archaeological remains if the affected limb is buried. While the cause is still unknown, it’s generally associated with violent or traumatic deaths and intense emotion. It’s mostly seen in victims who have ended their lives.

[magstorrn]

if nothing else maybe the honours degree was worth it just to get the opportunity to write 4000 words about postmortem photographs of bushrangers and to force the marker to read it

[reapersbarge]

Case Number 658-K5: the Murder of Kaz Brekker

written for @grishaversebigbang​ spring 2022 mini bang!

wc: 4.3k

rating: m

materialki i could not live without: @zemenipearls​ (x) @kavinskysdick​ (x) @kayadraws​ (x)

tw: discussions of slavery/kidnapping, graphic depictions of injuries, canon typical violence and murder, not ravka friendly

pairings: kaz brekker/nina zenik, background jesper fahey/inej ghafa & adrik zhabin/leoni hilli

a/n: part one is written in the form of reports/documents/interviews, while part two is written in a narrative form. below the cut is the first report. formatting is best on ao3!

Office of the Royal Medical Examiner

Os Alta, Ravka

Autopsy Report

Medical Examiner: Sophie de Roos Case Number: 658-K5 Examination Performed: 13/11, 11:00

Type of Death: Violent–dead at scene Location Found: Woods behind blacksmith’s shop at edge of Os Alta (see Report 1-A, #658-K5 for details), 12/11, 18:05 Time of Death: 11/11 0:00-3:00, approximate Cause of Death: Subdural hematoma from blunt force trauma with undetermined weapon Manner of Death: Homicide Decedent: Unknown

Description of Body

State: Decedent found clothed (see Evidence #658-15ME)

Sex: Male

Hair: Brown

Eyes: Brown

Age: 20-24, approximate

Height: 180 cm

Weight: 77 kg

Marks and Wounds

Skull fractures along the crown, front, and back; fragmented in several areas. Lack of coagulation suggests some blows done postmortem.

Right wrist fractured.

Tattoo of indeterminable shape done in black ink (see Supplemental Notes #658-1ME for photographs) on outer right forearm.

Jagged cut wounds to outer right forearm, disfiguring above mentioned tattoo; possibly defensive.

Left arm missing.

Thin, vertical scar through right eyebrow.

Thin, vertical scar through right side of mouth.

Right knee shattered; evidence of preexisting trauma due to scarring and bone malformation.

Signed: Sophie de Roos, 13/11

Office of the Royal Medical Examiner

Os Alta, Ravka

Supplemental Notes

#658-1ME

Case Number: 658-K5

Medical Examiner: Sophie de Roos

Notes: Attached are photographs taken of decedent’s tattoo; shape is indeterminable upon first examination. Reattaching the skin where cut has produced a slightly clearer picture. Feathers are apparent at the top near the elbow, possibly indicating a bird. Tattoo appears fully healed and slightly faded, suggesting it is older. Recommending an expert be sought for further examination.

Signed: Sophie de Roos, 13/11

[sapphireshorelines]

Only one photograph gives away what one might imagine to be the true spirit of cartographers. In this image, eight members of the Commission, like the eight doctors in Rembrandt’s The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp, are standing around a long table—not so different from those on which pathologists cut up cadavers—scrutinizing a map, and holding cartographic dissection instruments. The photo is an almost exact copy of the Rembrandt painting: the head surgeon, with the authority conferred by the scalpel, poised above the patient; the patient, dead, irremediably passive, at the mercy of the specialist’s diagnosis; the apprentices, who are looking in any and every direction except toward the patient, listening—some in stupefaction, others in consternation, and others absentmindedly—to the master’s pronouncements. And so too are the cartographers leaning over the map; the country, like the cadaver, awaits a postmortem diagnosis.

In essence, an anatomist and a cartographer do the same thing: trace vaguely arbitrary frontiers on a body whose nature it is to resist determined borders, definitions, and precise limits.

The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp by Rembrandt, 1632

Sidewalks by Valeria Luiselli

[radioconstructed]

Why did you choose to keep Al as your name?

⌖ HANFDUL of reasons! I’ll give you a list!

⌖ Because WHY NOT! It’s... my name. I like my name! Always have! IT SLAPS!

⌖ I didn’t change my name when I DIED, and death is the most significant change that I’ve ever undergone! (It’s the most significant change I ever WILL undergo!) My name is part of ~wHo I am~!

⌖ My family gave it to me :) it’s what they (and all my premortem friends) know me as. If those in Heaven still have me on the family tree & in their photo albums, that’s the name next to my photograph.

⌖ My name is tied to my ENTIRE legacy, premortem and postmortem, professional and quasi-professional -- as a radio host, as radio, as a political insurrectionist, as a freelance contractor, as an entertainer, et cetera. I’ve been around for over a century. It’s a long legacy. Sinners recognize my name.

⌖ Any name that’s definitively Not ‘Alastor’ requires explanation that I am, in fact, the same person. I don’t want conversations about my work to get SIDETRACKED by a discussion (or more irritatingly, a debate) over ALYONA FKA ALASTOR RADIODEMON. Keep your attention on the entertainment!

⌖ There are women named Stevie and Timothy and Gene. Butch lesbians have been doing the gender-neutral/masculine nickname thing for ages. SO WHAT if a gal goes by Al?

⌖ The amount of co-authorial credit I’ve received for academic research is UNREAL! HAHA!