#terrorism is fine it keeps the commies in line (!!??)

[tinaxfire]

ohhhh sri lankaaaaaa your love i cannot find you are soooo distantttt you are not one of mine

[water-hates-learning]

nobody knew (and nobody knows)

Crossover with The Magnus Archives podcast because this idea has been bothering me for a while now so I finally just wrote it. Whatever. Not my best work.

Mild spoilers for the end of S1 of The Magnus Archives. Takes place after episodes 39/40 of the podcast. Also contains headcanons, lots of swearing, and the implication that the main EW boys don’t follow the standard laws of time and space. Post The End EW time.

In other words, this is bullshit.

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"Case number zero-one-one—"

“Six-six-six.”

“Mr. Ritehill, please.”

“Whatever.”

“Statement of Thomas Ritehill, regarding an…unusual trip taken by himself and his companions in January 2007. Statement—” 

“And the shit in 2014.”

“[sigh] Regarding the trip in January 2007 as well as the disturbances on 31st December, 2014. Statement taken direct from subject, 14th November 2016. Interview conducted by Johnathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Before you begin—why are you just now giving a statement?”

“’Cause a bunch of shit went down and somebody needs to hear about it. M’friends don’t wanna talk about it. And if I have to sit on this bullshit by myself anymore I’ll explode.”

“Right. Erm. Statement begins.”

“…now?”

“Yes, now.”

“[mumbling]…can’ believe you’re using a damn tape recorder…what year is this…[sounds of container being unscrewed]”

“Mr. Ritehill—”

“Call me Tom, god. And let a man have his damn vodka. Holy shitake on a sled, lemme just. Fuck. Okay. So, back in 2007, the four of us were bored, right, and Tord—this is when that commie fuck still lived with us—Tord—”

“Full names, please.”

“Christ, okay. Tord Lesion said we should go to Hell. So we did. Just the tourist route, ya know, got to see our personal hells and shit. Won’t bore you with the details. So yeah, me, Tord Lesion, Edd Golding, and Matt Harvice took an elevator to Hell, had a good time, got some souvenirs, and came back. Whatever.

’Cept when we were leaving the…the devil holding the door for the exit said they’d see me in six months. And it was like, haha, mate, yeah, sure, whatever, funny joke. I didn’t mention it to the guys and I didn’t think about it again. Couple months later, Edd’s digging a hole in the back garden and comes up with this door all covered in symbols ‘n stuff. And we’re all a buncha dumbasses so we go down it. Deal with some Indiana Jones traps, beat off a killer mummy, find a mysterious treasure box—you know the drill. So Tord opens the box and then…I dunno. Everything went dark.

If you ask any of the other three, they’d probably just tell you that I was unconscious. They said there was nothin’ in the treasure chest but I’m pretty sure the jackasses kept it for themselves and didn’t tell me. Probably for the best; I just woulda spent it on alcohol.

Anyway, from my perspective, we fell down a hole. When Tord opened the box, the floor dropped out from underneath us and we fell into darkness. I couldn’t see or hear the others, I was just falling in darkness. Or maybe floating. I dunno. Kinda…felt like forever and no time at all. I know that doesn’t make sense but you lot probably hear shit like that all the time. So I’m floating there and it’s dark, pitch black, but I can still see my hands in front of my face, like there’s a light shining only on me but there isn’t a light. Kinda like how someone looks when they stand in front of a black backdrop; the background’s all dark but they’re, like, normally lit or whatever.

And I wasn’t really scared ‘cause it’s not the weirdest thing that’s happened to me. I was just kind of waiting for something to happen. Because something always happens.

Didn’t have to wait long.

I felt something slide its hands around my neck from behind, felt its fingers on my windpipe, its thumbs at the base of my skull. I kind of expected it to be cold, like icy or something. But they were hot, like someone with a fever, uncomfortable. Made my skin prickle. It said…something. Couldn’t tell you what it was now, only have the vaguest sensation of—of a voice, talking to me, right in my ear, hot breath on my skin. I kept thinking I could see it moving out of the corner of my eye but if I tried to turn my head to look, it would start squeezing my neck until it had cut off my air supply.

Sometimes I think I can remember that it had promised me things. Sometimes I think it might have said something about a fight or a war or something. A lot of the time I pretend the whole thing was because I was blackout drunk. But I know that last bit’s not true because I hadn’t been drinking that night. And I wasn’t too worried because, I mean, weird stuff happens to the four of us all the time, stuff that no one even remembers. We’ve been through…three? Zombie apocalypses now? Hell, Matt’s led one of them. All of us have died and come back to life. And—and the thing is, right, the thing is that no one else remembers it. I’m pretty sure there’s stuff that’s happened that we don’t even remember. Tord said somethin’ once about crossing time lines or some shit but I dunno about any of the string theory, philosophical bullshit.

All I know for sure is, that night, in the black that wasn’t dark, with this thing’s hands around my neck, a demon crawled inside me.

A demon crawled inside me and it lives there and it’s so. Fuckin’ angry. Or maybe I’m angry. I don’t know for sure anymore, it’s been too long.

But—[container unscrews, long pause]—mm, anyway. The thing with its hands on my throat somehow—it somehow pries my mouth open. Gets its fingers between my teeth and wrenches my jaw apart so hard it aches. And then there’s this…this purple thing. It looks darker than the black but it’s purple and maybe that’s just because it’s beyond human comprehension or some shit. Hell if I know. It got closer and closer and for the first time in there I was scared. I was fucking scared and I thought—I don’t know what I thought, all I remember for sure is this—this blinding panic. This kind of raw, mind-numbing terror that made my heart beat so hard it hurt and it was hard to breathe and all I could hear was this rushing sound in my ears as this—this cloudy purple thing got closer and closer. I tried to get away but I couldn’t move, I could only sit there and watch.

And it—it…it just…”

“Mr. Ri—sorry. Tom. Do you need a break? We can take a moment to—”

“No. If I don’t…if I don’t say it now—if I leave this room—I’m not comin’ back. And I gotta get this out. [a deep breath, let out slowly] Just…remembering it now…it still scares the shit outta me.

So this cloud thing…it…crawls inside my mouth. And I can feel it. It tastes like…like how ash smells? Or maybe like someone filled my mouth with ash. And embers. Because it was hot and it didn’t exactly burn, it was just—like that moment when you drink some coffee and it’s still hot but not so hot you burn your tongue but still hot enough you gotta sip it. You know what I mean?

And I can feel it s-sort of wr-wriggling…wriggling and squirming to get inside me and I’m t-trying to push it out with my tongue or—or close my mouth or something. Anything to keep this thing out. B-but it keeps flopping around and pushing itself inside my and I’m—I’m ch-choking on it, gagging, and I think I was crying and trying to scream and this thing—[gagging sound]”

“Tom—”

“N-no, no, stop, shut up, let me just—finish. Okay? Don’t! Don’t fuckin’ touch me! I’m fine! Just let me give my damn statement and get out of this place. It smells like death in here.”

“I…I apologize. Please continue.”

“It went down my throat. I could feel it sliding down my throat, feel it under the fingers of that thing that still held my mouth open. It was lighter than candyfloss but I felt it like I’d swallowed a chunk of bread without chewing it enough. It was gross and it was horrible and it was terrifying and I don’t think I’d wish it on anyone. Even that bastard Tord.

And then it was just…done. The hands were gone, the cloud thing was gone, and I was laying on the couch in our sitting room, gasping at the ceiling. Edd was the only one in there, watching the telly. Said he was too tired to carry to my room and then laughed at me for passing out. Maybe I shoulda said something then, should have told him what had just happened, what I’d seen. But I didn’t. Instead I ran to the bathroom and threw up. And it just never came up again, never had a reason to say anything. I kept getting distracted by things.

I didn’t know what had happened until the end of December, in 2014.

You remember that year? It was really wet. Kept raining but we hardly got any snow. Freezing cold but just…no snow, not really, nothing that really stuck.

Anyway, Edd had been on the roof fixing the satellite dish during a rainstorm. He ended up having another dick measuring contest with one of our neighbors, Eduardo. Um, I dunno his last name, actually. Var…something. Var…there was an “L” in there somewhere. Sorry. Can’t remember. Eduardo had this, like, “alien” satellite or something and I guess it was radioactive or whatever. Anyway, he and Edd both ended up with superpowers for 24 hours and I can see by the look on your face that you think I’m takin’ the piss and I swear to fuck I am not. You can look up the incident report yourself, probably. But I bet the coppers only wrote something about property damage due to gang violence or some bullshit. Might be pictures our there somewhere but I dunno how to find them. I’m afraid I’d see myself if I did.

So Eduardo punched me, like, three blocks. Should have killed me. Instead it just…it felt like something clicked into place. And I remembered that demon that had shoved its way down my throat. It was like it had been waiting for this.

It hurt, that first time.

When your body’s stretching and your muscles are tearing and your skin is warping and your bones are snapping and cracking and breaking into new shapes. It hurts like a son of a bitch. I wanted to die. But mostly I was just angry. I was so fucking angry.

Don’t remember much while I was…changed. Flashes of stuff; tearing through building, smashing cars, attacking Eduardo and Edd. I think I might have ate someone. I try not to think about it.

Eduardo hit me with something, some kind of energy beam, I dunno. Sent me flying and ripped that smoke right out of me. I remember it flying away, remember the feeling of it ripping out of my throat and tearing off into the night.

But whatever it had done was kind of…stuck to me, I guess. I can still turn into a monster. Almost did when Tord showed his damn commie face again and blew our house up. You can look that up too. 27 Durden Lane. Nothing but a crater now.

[a pause, sounds of container unscrewing, another pause, the thud of a fist hitting the table]

And the only fuckin’ reason I’m telling you people this is because—fuck it, you probably already think I’m insane—there’s some kind of big…bad thing on the way. Fuck if I know. Just. I just…feel it. Can smell it. Or something. Taste it like some dry fuckin’ rum in the back of my mouth. Maybe the world’s ending for real this time. Maybe everyone will actually remember it. I don’t know.

But this place fucking stinks like a bunch of rotten bodies, like that musty attic stench with dead bugs everywhere. And you don’t believe a damn word I’m saying because you think I’m just a drunk. Ha. I can’t even get drunk anymore.

Whatever. Believe what you want. We went to Hell and I’ve got demon powers. The end.”

“…right. Um. Is the whole…demon powers the reason why your eyes are like…that?”

“What? No. This is just ‘cause my mum’s a bowling ball. They’re hollow. See?”

“O-oh my god. State—statement ends.”

[click]

“I will admit I am…extremely skeptical of Mister—of Tom’s statement. It sound positively ludicrous, the delusions of a schizophrenic at their worst, I’d even hazard. I’d disregard his statement entirely if not for the visceral reactions he showed to some of his own words—though that only proves that he believes they’re true.

But his eyes…Christ, I’ve never seen anything like that. He could obviously see but they were just. Black pits in his head. Gone. He stuck his fingers in them. Not the worst thing I’ve seen, all things considered, but one of the most…disturbing? Uncomfortable, may be the better word.

Tim was able to find a police report on the incident at 27 Durden Lane on 13th March, 2016. It was written off as an accident but with some additional digging he managed to find…more. The rubble and blast patterns look more like they were caused by external explosions. Tim says it looks like a bomb went off. Or several bombs. The neighbor’s house—the residence of one Eduardo Varela, Markus Barnes, and Jonathan Rees—also sustained serious damage. Jonathan Rees reportedly died at the scene due to serious injury.

Martin managed to dig up a few photos from the incident in 2014. Most of them aren’t the best quality and it’s hard to tell what’s happening except for bright flashes of green. But one very clearly depicts a monstrous shape, as big as a building it looks like, with horns on its head. It’s hard to tell in the photograph but it appears to be purple. There was a reported explosion in a local park around the date Tom Ritehill claims he transformed into a monster, and there is a crater there from the police report. But that’s all the evidence we can find to support his…stories.

We tried to get into contact with Eddward Golding and Matthew Harvice but neither of them were very forthcoming. Edd Golding declined to comment altogether and Matt Harvice was…he was difficult to talk to. It was as if he kept losing his train of thought. I doubt he would make for a reliable source.

There was also an attempt to contact the individual Tord Lesion but none of the information we were able to find was up to date. The only thing Tim managed to scrounge up was an old wanted poster,  several months out of date, with Tord Lesion’s image on it. He appears to be in a military style uniform with a shotgun. If Tom Ritehill’s claims that Tord is starting a personal army are to be believed, then I suppose this would be a reason to trust his word. Maybe.

[sigh] I suppose we could investigate these claims more in the future. Though I am very much inclined to ignore them.

End recording.”

[click]

“Supplemental.

It just occurred to me that it’s been very nearly four months since the incident with Jane Prentiss. This place has been scrubbed within an inch of its life, nearly burned with chemicals, steamed so badly that it made my eyes water with the lingering chemical smell when I finally came back from leave. It’s been so thoroughly cleaned that a blind dog trying to sniff his way out would have run into the walls.

And yet…and yet Thomas claimed he could…he could smell the death. He said…dead bugs. Specifically dead bugs. And decay. And I can’t…stop thinking about those tunnels…and what could still be down there.

…end supplemental.”

[end of tape]

[juniperhillpatient]

Could you write Richie introduces Beverly to comic books? Obviously a friendship thing

Thank you for the prompt ❤️❤️❤️ I’m sorry it’s so late. I spent forever editing it and then Tumblr reloaded & I had to re-edit. Save stuff on Microsoft Word always, I guess.

 Anyway, this was so fun to write. Richie & Bev’s friendship is so important. I based this off the book partially because I’m currently re-reading and that’s where my mindset is and partially because I wanted to reference this really cool fifties horror comic anthology I have, so this is set in the fifties like the book. It’s just a fun little one-shot though so I think if you’ve only watched the movies this will (hopefully) be just fine!

Anyway, I really hope you enjoy  ❤️❤️❤️

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“You cheated!”

“Did not.”

“Richie, come on, you distracted me by pointing to the window and stole one of my cards.” The two of them were sitting in Richie’s kitchen, a bowl of chopped melon and two cups of juice as well as an array of card games between them on the table.

“But I tawt I taw a putty cat!” Richie protested, waving his arms wildly. Then, in his normal voice. “Come on Bev, I wouldn’t cheat. I saw a cat out in the yard and because I am a good friend who points out cute animals, I wanted you to see it too.” He paused and rolled his eyes with an air of over-the-top drama and spoke in his most sarcastic voice. “I’m sooo sorry for being a considerate friend, Beverly, truly, sooo sorry.”

Beverly couldn’t help but giggle, but she stood her ground all the same. “First of all, it’s wet and gross out there so if there was a cat it wouldn’t have been cute it would have looked like a rat. Second of all, Richie, I would’ve won if you hadn’t done that and we both know it.”

Beverly recognized a spark in Richie’s eye that told her yes, he had stolen the card and would admit to doing so but not until after some decent banter. It was a lazy sort of afternoon, and this was not the first time the two of them had fallen into amiable arguing. There was a light rain pattering against the window. Maggie Tozier was sitting in the living room reading a novel by Beverly Cleary & Went Tozier was away working at the dentist’s office. 

Beverly appreciated spending time at Richie’s, and her willingness to play along with his shtick was her way of thanking him for inviting her over. Neither of them would ever in a million years bring up the fact that he’d been staring at the yellowing bruise on her cheek the previous afternoon when the losers were playing in the barrens, or that he’d obviously overheard her confiding to Eddie, as the two of them sat quietly off to the side, that she didn’t want to go home. Richie thought privately that Beverly had told Eddie this because she thought Eddie might understand such a feeling. Richie, however, never would have shared such an insight with anyone.

“Why I never,” Richie said, taking on the voice and demeanor of an overtly proper British person. “How dare you accuse me of such blasphemy!”

“Beep beep Richie,” Bev said, rolling her eyes. “What is that voice even supposed to be?”

“It’s a British guy,” Richie said in dramatic outrage. “I know you know what a British accent sounds like, Bev. Come on, give me something!”

“A British accent is more like this, Richie. Listen,” she made her voice much higher and did her best impression of a British accent. “Jolly oh, jolly oh good sir, oh yes indeed.”

“That’s terrible!” Richie groaned, falling back in his seat dramatically and throwing his arm over his face in disgust. They spent the next twenty minutes or so arguing over what a British accent sounded like and doing horrible impressions. The notion of playing any more games, it seemed, was gone. Beverly hadn’t expected card playing to last long anyway. Any kind of activity that required lasting attention was unlikely to be of great success with Richie. Richie had suggested they go to the movies when he called her up in the morning, there was a good monster picture showing at the Aladdin, but neither of them had any money. So, instead, they were spending the afternoon at Richie’s, to which Beverly had no objection. The Toziers’ place felt the way a home should. She thought Richie knew that she felt that way, and that’s why he often invited her over on days like today when the other losers were busy (Bill with speech therapy, Mike with housework, Ben with summer reading) or didn’t want to come out in the rain (Stan and Eddie).

“Alright you two,” Mrs. Tozier, whom Beverly liked a lot, interrupted just as Richie was halfway through a stream of truly profane words in an embarrassingly bad British accent.

“Sorry, Mrs. Tozier,” Beverly said in a hurry.

“Yeah, sorry, Mom,” Richie said.

“That’s okay. Just keep it down a little, alright?”

“Sure, of course, Mom,” Richie said.

“And keep that trashy language out of your mouth,” Mrs. Tozier told her son. “Especially around a lady.”

Beverly, who had been squealing with laughter before Mrs. Tozier entered the room, felt her cheeks flush. Richie’s mom, she thought, got what being a mom was about. She always had snacks, though usually healthy ones due to her husband’s dental profession, and often said nothing when Beverly would stay over late into the night on days when the thought of going home made her too sick to handle and she just needed to listen to Richie talk about nothing and make stupid noises for hours.

“Come on, let’s do something else,” Beverly said, putting the cards away as Mrs. Tozier left the room.

“Yeah,” Richie said standing. “I’ll show you my new ‘Weird Love’ comic!”

“Your -what now?” Beverly asked, intrigued.

“My new Weird Love comic. It’s a great one. It’s all about this girl who’s in love with a man who acts in a circus as a clown. She really likes him, except she’s embarrassed because she’s dating a clown.”

“I’m sorry what? What the heck are ‘Weird Love’ comics anyway?” Beverly asked.

“Oh, you’re kidding me!” Richie cried. “You’ve never read a ‘Weird Love’ comic? They’re great. They’re horror comics but about romance. Like, people who fall in love with monsters.”

Beverly shivered. “Who would want to fall in love with a monster? Or a clown? Yuck.”

As Beverly followed Richie out of the kitchen and upstairs to his room, thoughts of another clown, a distinctly unlovable clown, clouded her mind. She shoved such thought way as she and Richie entered his room. On the floor were toy soldiers he and Mike had set up in lines facing each other in preparation for battle, a jigsaw puzzle he had been working on with Stan, and a Mad Libs story he and Bill had been filling in with increasingly dirty words.

“Check it out,” he told her, grabbing a comic with a clown and a pretty lady on the cover from his dresser and flopping onto his belly on his messy bed.

Beverly followed suit, laying on her belly next to him and looking over his shoulder at the comic.

Years later, Beverly would remember the comic book clown, who was called Ben, and his creepy makeup and how it had delighted her child’s mind. Sitting in a much nicer and fancier home than she could have dreamed of at twelve years old, Beverly Hanscom would put her feet up on the coffee looking across to where Richie sat, looking off into the distance, being much quieter than she was used to. As the sounds of Bill and Mike’s argument about who would win in a bike race despite both of them being too old, and, on that particular occasion too drunk, to participate in such a race, she would remember that rainy afternoon and ask Richie about it. She would ask him if he ever thought it was kind of amazing how much they loved those silly horror comics at the time, considering everything they had been going through. “Nah,” Richie would respond in a quiet voice. “We were kids. Kids aren’t as easy to rattle as adults.”

Adult Richie would be right. As the two children read the comic together, flipping the pages eagerly as they became acquainted with Janie, a respectable and pretty woman, and Ben the clown, they giggled and gasped in equal measure. Neither of them brought up the real clown, the one that was stalking their every move and taunting them with things they didn’t like to think about like the soft way Beverly’s dad would sometimes ask “are you still my little girl, Bevvie?” or the way that werewolf had been wearing a jacket with Richie’s name on it and maybe he was the monster and it was him and his bad and secret (dirty) feelings causing all this pain.

Instead, they read the comic and laughed and Beverly asked Richie if she could borrow it so she could read it again. 

“I don’t think so, I wanna show it to Eddie. He goes nuts over these things. Loves 'em more than I do. And he hasn’t seen this one yet.” He paused and rolled off the bed onto the floor. He dug under his bed for a moment and produced two more comics, also with 'Weird Love’ printed on the covers in weird, gooey looking letters. “Here though, you can borrow these. This one,” he tossed her a comic with a woman screaming in terror on the cover. “Is about a woman who’s going crazy, but the guy who loves her has no clue. And this one,” he tossed her a comic with a man standing in front of a group of serious-looking people, “is about a woman who falls for a commie.” He said 'commie’ like a dirty word, soft and reverent. Beverly giggled.

“Thanks, Richie!” she said with a grin.

“Well, you’re gonna have to let me know what you think of them,” he said. “I’ve already read those ones like a billion times.”

“You have no idea how much a billion is you dummy,” Beverly said.

Richie stuck his tongue out at her and she proceeded to whop him in the face with a pillow.

The rest of the afternoon the two of them watched television and argued over whether the girl in the comic, Janie, had been crazy for being in love with that clown or if maybe that circus clown had some odd charm about him after all.

Another thing Beverly would remember, years later as the losers sat together in Ben and Beverly’s house, visiting as they did every few months, would be how very happy they had been. Even with everything going on and their lives in danger, they’d laughed so much that afternoon.