[ Storm; A Raging Storm Outside, Where Sender Insists Receiver Stays In ] (to Wally From Home; Right

[ storm; a raging storm outside, where sender insists receiver stays in ] (to wally from home; right i get the muse for the one that can't move, but at least home can shut its doors and protect him from the thing in the woods--)

Like a thunderclap to a small dog, Wally cannot stop moving.

Usually, Wally liked storms. He liked the low sound of thunder and the blinding light of lightning, even if the boom between air & between atoms sometimes startled him, his focus was one of awe enraptured. Rain pattering on the world like a hundred thousand marbles, evidence of reality, evidence of stability, evidence of the world changing in different; wonderful ways. Usually, Wally liked to watch and wait for a storm to pass. Usually, he’d sit — mostly quiet, aside from occasional murmurs to Home — and draw in his little spot perhaps on the porch or next to a window. Usually, it does not rain at night.

He feels as though he is forgetting something important. A thread tugged at the ridges of the seam, like bewilderment, like torture. A thousand miles of downpour. A thousand miles of fiber weaving unto fiber weaving unto-

He feels as though he is forgetting something important. What was it again?

— It makes him antsy. An actor forgetting his lines from just off-stage, he peers out from the spaces he can to watch the dark rain, how he can barely see it at all. Home’s insistence upon keeping him in does not help, and abruptly the entire house feels sinister by sheer virtue of what was being kept away ( inability to tell the difference between locked out, and locked in )

Home was not the problem. Wally was.

He feels as though he is forgetting something very very important. If he looked closely enough, maybe he could see it between the floorboards, like a shivering, terrible, oil slick black hand guiding a prop, like a snake writhing just loud enough to hear it, hear the hiss when he stepped on the right panels. Like being caught in a bad dream, Wally cannot shed the feeling that something bad is about to happen.

When Wally is afraid of something, he likes to remind himself that it can’t hurt him. He does not know what he is afraid of. Maybe that’s what he’s forgetting.

“ What’s wrong, Home? “ he asks, sat in his rocking chair after wandering up and down the halls as though seeking a breach in the wallpaper itself, in the plaster. The nerves don’t leave him, and he’s just a few minutes away from getting up again. “ I always draw outside. Why can't I go...? "

An inquiry that loiters on the edges of the anxiety that pervades, that Home is trying to protect him from, that Wally does not understand, was not meant to understand.

If he stared closely enough at the gaps between the floorboards, maybe he could see it. See what Home was trying to keep out. A basement that does not exist.

He does not want to see, but he has to know.

Are they skeptical of supernatural phenomena or do they believe in them? (Kim)

HALLOWEEN QUESTIONS // always accepting!

Kim is definitely somebody who I think hasn’t really believed in the supernatural past age 13. 

In the past, when he was much younger, he believed in not the religious kind of supernatural, but the more human. He believed in ghosts. He believed in weird unexplained things that had no logical cause and never would, he believed that things and people lived in the Pale, he believed the pale itself was an almost living non-entity. He believed in the past coming back to play tricks on you or teach you lessons, never werewolves, never vampires, and only ever sometimes did he believe in Gods. 

Her Innocence like a dream on a broken tape reel that he slowly stopped replaying. Her Innocence like a dream on a broken reel that he knows many people can’t stop.

But after 13, after 14, he became an impossible sell. It was in large part because of the bullying he’d endured, and admitting you believed in ghosts was the same ammunition to them as saying you believed in Santa Claus when by that time you were old enough to know what kissing somebody when you were drunk was like and recognize the economic disarray you were all in. He never believed in the supernatural, but he believed in things that didn’t always make sense; because in a world where nonexistence bubbles at the edges of your reality, there’s bound to be things without answers, that didn't line up with how you thought reality worked. There’s bound to be questions left in dead air and never going back.

After the revolution, after so many wars, after so many captains lost in that great fog, how couldn’t there be some ghosts left in Revachol by sheer virtue of their magnitude?

He thinks, these days, that it was how he was coping with death as well as childhood ignorance. He’s still uncomfortable with the idea that when you die, you’re gone, and nothing remains but the body. He knows, in all likelihood of the world they're living in, it’s the truth, but he still tries to untangle the maybe-there maybe-not souls of his fallen brethren when it is they do fall, and fall often. Parts of him still with the fibers of a ghost’s coat under it’s nails, parts of him still believing in something a little more.

But he’s tried to stop entirely. Dedicates himself to the logical, and while never above his own curiosity and the potential of things, Kim is a skeptic. The world kicked the belief out of him, and the disillusionment has been setting in his entire life. He does not believe in ghosts anymore. He does not believe in Gods. He believes in himself, and he believes in the RCM, and he believes in what he can do here and now as he’s alive rather than a thousand years of looking back at what he couldn’t change, because a glance can trap him, just a glance.

Give him fact. Give him something to hold onto with both hands. Give him something, something that makes sense.  He does not believe in the fictions of humanity half out of their minds for the entire rest of time.

But with enough evidence, anything can change. With enough persistence, with enough dedication. When things stop being ghost stories, and start being metrics you can read.

Less supernatural than science, even when science seems supernatural.

mostly-experimental de stuff from the past few months

Trainer cards: Cheren

get your own!

‘  who the fuck do you think you are?  ’ / ghostface jkabnjknd

“ A journalist. “ Danny’s answer is clean and practiced, hair trimmed short and gelled into position like a real celebrity, practiced every word in the mirror and in the car on the way to work and in a thousand different moments. This, to say, he knew how to handle people like Jamie, and you could feel it. the smooth ringmaster with naught but leather bands to keep the lion at bay and yet still they puppetted the beast like a marionette rather than a horror show awaiting its opportunity, one never granted. you had to be good, of course, really good at that to get anywhere and not get caught.

he walks in with a small crowd of others, cameramen and news anchors and not-from-here reporters, all there for the same reason. Something weird happened, and weird means a good story, and anywhere there was a good story, the vultures came.

It just so happened that there’d been a lot of blood involved. It sounded like a horror movie on the back of school grounds. Danny was almost excited to see it. And right off the bat, he could tell that Jamie had something to hide.

Like a shark smelling blood, like a shark breathing it in.

“ Or, technically, I’m a photographer if you prefer the proper term, sir. Sorry about all the ruckus, news doesn’t wait for anyone. “ he pauses in front of Jamie as his brethren goes by, as if a sacrifice on the very words he’d just spoken but the importance of respect taking a bigger priority than being there now. a bandaged finger fiddles on the knob of an expensive looking camera held in his grasp, antsy, but regardless he offers the man a small apologetic smile and a handshake. “ Jed Olsen, by the way. You’re the principal here, right? Fowler? Can’t blame you for being pissed when a gaggle of wannabe journalists comes stomping through your school. I’m not the head of my group, but I can at least apologize and introduce myself "

there’s the sound of somebody calling back from the group something about getting over it and to come on Olsen, just within earshot, but Danny shoots them a glance that shows more disrespect than you might initially expect out of features like his, before his eyes go back to Jamie and the expression softens back into what it was before, if a little more sympathetic on the behalf of his ruder allies.