ghostly voices

In therapy, we talked about what our irrational fears might represent, and I wanted to write a bit about ghosts.

I’ve always been afraid of ghosts, always. I used to wake up crying and need to be reassured asleep by my parents. This usually happened after I’d taken true ghost story books out of the library. They’ve always been my favourite. There was a red book with a bloody cover at my primary school that I was afraid to even touch, and consequently took out and read four or five times.

If all fears are a fear of something else, then what is my fear of ghosts? I think for me, ghosts are about homes and memory. I grew up in a fairly volatile home, the kind of home where you learn to be sensitive to the atmosphere and tread carefully, and are aware of a nameless horror even when, as a child, you can’t put your finger on what is wrong. I think that feeling is present in many or most ghost tales. Most good ghost stories are on some level about real estate.

And then at the same time though, home has all these associations of family and safe and love. My relationship to ghost lit has always been paradoxical in the same way - an attraction to a thing that nevertheless often hurts me.

As I’ve aged, I’ve definitely had a lot of stuff going on about memory and nostalgia and regret, closet stuff, and perhaps this is why the ghost has returned to me as such a strong self image.

Still, i think the core experiences were being in those homes, and being frightened even though nothing was exactly wrong, and no one was telling me what was happening. Hmmm I think it’s telling thst the two houses I lived in as a child in my formative years were this incredible Victorian 4 story townhouse, all corridors and staircases and glass panels and tiles; and then my grandma’s house, which I’ve written about before, with its huge jungle of a garden, and it’s staircases and doors that led nowhere and hidden rooms. Ghosts are about family and about home, but also about houses - places rich with memory. And either of the houses i grew up in would have made fantastic settings for ghost tales.

Hey would it be scary if you were walking home really late at night and you hear a super distant and ghostly sounding disembodied voice with a Jamaican accent say “Rude Boy”
I think that would be pretty scary

anonymous asked:

Ok we're gonna need a LOT more stories about you and your sibling craziness - cmon there's gotta be a whole heap of family tales you can share?!?

One of the things you ought to know about me is that I LOVE talking about my siblings. So yes, I’d be delighted to share some more stories! It’ll probably be one at a time though because most of them need BACKSTORY and/or PERMISSION TO TELL ON THE INTERNET.

The Haunted Easter Bunny

So this was one of the rare times in my life when my step-siblings weren’t around. It was just my mom, my brother T and my sister H ( @believingfate) on Easter. We were probably…nine? Ten? Somewhere around there and my mom had just started teaching fourth grade so she wanted to make sure we kept up our good Family Vibes™ by having dinner together as much as possible.

So we’d just finished eating and my mom was like, “Hey, do you guys want to hear a story? A SPOOKY story?”

And we all knew my mom’s stories, they’re the best, so we were like “HELL YEAH,” but more like “Yes, please” because my mom and dad gave us manners, thanks. (Also, although my parents were divorced, I was pretty convinced that my dad would materialize out of thin air and chastise us for swearing even if we were at my mom’s lol).

So my mom started to tell us about these three kids who lived in a house like ours, went to a school like ours, and who had chocolate Easter bunny candy like ours. She did the voices and shook the furniture to show how the thunder shook the house and everything and we were l i v i n g .  .  .

In fear. We were living in fear as she described how the kids all went to bed and then, in the middle of the night, heard the front door open.

Creeeeeeaaaaaaaaak, my mom squeaked, drawing her fingernails over the wood table.

Tonight, I thought, we die.

Unfortunately, my mom didn’t realize that we were terrified, not just excited. She said, “They hear something heavy come up the stairs. Thump…thump…THUMP!” She shouted, flashing her hands at us. “Very faintly they can hear a ghostly voice. Where…is….my….head?” She pointed accusingly to the headless chocolate Easter bunny lying on the table and suddenly we knew.

I was glued to my seat, eyes wide, my sister H was staring at her plate like she’d be able to not hear the story if she stared hard enough, and my brother T was standing next to his chair rather than sitting in it. Because we’d just eaten the head of a chocolate Easter Bunny and this story was about three kids and holy shit there are three of us.

This isn’t a story, it’s a frickin’ prophecy, I thought.

“’It’s the Easter Bunny!’ the kids cry to each other,” my mom said, “’We ate his head and he wants it back!’ They hear the dreaded bunny hop up the last of the stairs and make its way to their room. Where….is….my…HEAD.” My mom reached behind her and rattled the cabinet. “He tried to open the door. They could hear him trying to turn the knob with his paws. Where is….my…HEAD.”

I wiped my eyes frantically because I was tough and not scared at all.

It was at this point my mom realized that we were terrified, probably because at least one of us (me) was starting to cry from fear. So she tried to stop being horrifying and lighten the story up because we were nine and her sound effects were really scary.

My mom quickly finished, “And he burst into the room, asking where his head was. ‘We ate it!’ the children cried. The ghost Easter bunny said, ‘Oh, okay!’ And disappeared, content that his chocolate head was where it was supposed to be!”

“Haha,” I said weakly and T and H followed suit. My mom was feeling pretty good about saving the story and making it funny, so she let us eat some more chocolate before doing the dishes. She went upstairs to get ready for bed, leaving us to it.

So we did the dishes and we wanted to watch a movie to forget the Horrors™. Mom still wasn’t back downstairs, so I was nominated to go upstairs to get her. The reason why I was nominated was because my mom was a frickin’ bat and never turned on the lights in the house because she could see in the dark. So, as the least afraid of the dark (or rather the least willing to show it), I was sent up the stairs.

I looked into her dark room and didn’t see her. I could kind of make out something white in the middle of the room though and thought it could be her pajamas. “Mom?”


I stepped into the room. “Mom?”

From the depths of darkness came a sound. “OoooOOOOooOOOOoOOOH!”

“NO!” I shouted reflexively. The white thing wasn’t my mom–it was a ghost!

IT’S THE HAUNTED EASTER BUNNY, I thought and panicked. I screamed. T and H were halfway up the stairs to see what was taking so long and they screamed

Then we were ALL screaming and running around the landing. T tried to shove himself into the laundry hamper, H ran halfway down the stairs and then back up again. I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, gibbering.


My siblings started pounding on the bathroom door. “Let us in! Let us in!”

I held onto the doorknob for dear life. If I open the door, the headless bunny will get me too, I thought. Goodbye, T and H.

In that instant, I was ready to let my siblings die, I swear.

No, I thought, no. I need to save them. Dad will ask questions if they die here. I have to open the door.

I let them in, still screaming, and we slammed the door shut, locking it and sobbing. H jumped into the bathtub and T slammed his back against the door and I stood on the toilet so that I’d have the height advantage when the giant bunny broke in.

From insider her dark ass room, my mom began to laugh.

“It’s just me,” she said. We could hear her walk onto the landing. “Kids? You’re laughing, right?”

We were not laughing. My mom felt terrible.

The San Antonio Railway Ghost Children - Texas’ most famous ghost story, arguably, is that of the ghost children that supposedly haunt a San Antonio railway track. An intersection of roadway and rail road track, which is located near the San Juan Mission, is the scene of this mysterious tale. As the tale goes, in the 1930′s, a school bus filled with children stalled on the rail road track. Tragedy struck, when an oncoming train crashed into the bus, killing all of the children and bus driver. Legend says that any car that stops in the same area, will be pushed by unseen hands over the train track until they reach safety. People believe the ghosts of the children haunt the area to protect people from another misfortune like the one that cost them their lives. Many curious people have driven to the area in an attempt to see if the famous legend is true; there have even been numerous reports of tiny fingerprints being left imprinted on the car and claims of ghostly children’s voices and laughter being heard in the area.

Still Got Time

Still Got Time was released on March 24, 2017. 

Zayn is the featured artist. Additional artist is PartyNextDoor. 

The song is the lead single from Zayn’s second album, yet to be released. It was produced by Frank Dukes (who recently produced Lorde’s Green Light, and has worked with Rihanna and Drake) and Murda Beatz (who produced No Frauds for Nicki Minaj, Drake, and Lil Wayne). 

In this post, I will be referring to times from this video:

I admit I’m not used to writing about dance or R&B music, and if I make any glaring mistakes, please message me!

This song is part of the slew of Caribbean-inspired tropical house or Jamaican dancehall music that have drifted in and out of pop charts recently, often collaborations between artists and producers, whose engineering of bass lines and percussion is a significant portion of the songwriting. 

These songs might sound tropical, and fresh, and sunny, but their pedigree is firmly rooted in Motown R&B. And the looming figure in contemporary R&B and dance whose influence and sound are inescapable is Michael Jackson

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anonymous asked:

God I really LOVE your prompts!! Would you write one about the "I Love you" scene in TFP but where John hast to say/ admit it? It would make me soooo happy. :-))

John wakes, head throbbing, and breathes in the pungent smell of chlorine. His eyes open at the awful familiarity of it. The Pool.

He looks around frantically, and sees Sherlock slumped against the wall, groaning and rubbing the back of his head.


Sherlock starts, his eyes widening as he takes in John. “Are you al-”

A dialing tone. Five pips. And then, a ghostly voice echoing off the tiles:

“Hello. My name is Jim Moriarty. Welcome to The Final Problem.”

Sherlock looks very pale, and John wants nothing more than to run to him.

“That’s… that’s not possible,” Sherlock says. His eyes scan the place, searching.

And John’s blood turns cold. “Sherlock-”

Sherlock stops, and his eyes follow John’s. The red light dances on his chest.

And then, the voice of Jim Moriarty again, distorted and filled with static, the words sounding wrong and edited, spliced together: “Fill in the blanks, Johnny boy!”

A new voice: “You need to get it out.”

John must make some sort of noise, because Sherlock is staring at him, stricken. He prays and prays that the recording won’t continue but-

“My- my best friend. Sh-Sherlock Holmes. Is Dead.”

Sherlock’s eyes are beginning to fill up, and John wants to scream; he doesn’t want- Sherlock can’t hear him like this- this isn’t-

The tape jumps. And John knows each word off by heart.

“The stuff that you wanted to say… but didn’t say it.”


“Stop it,” Sherlock says, abruptly. “Would you just- this is cruel. Stop it.”

The tape continues: “Say it now.”

And Sherlock’s reaction breaks John’s heart. His face is still showing his fury, but he’s undeniably holding his breath, as if hoping against hope, waiting to hear-

But John already knows he has let him down. His past wrecked voice fills the pool. “No. Sorry, I can’t.”

John is shaking his head. “Sherlock, I…” But he doesn’t know, has never known how to finish that sentence.

Sherlock blinks and some tears fall, and John feels sick.

Suddenly, they are plunged into red light. Moriarty’s voice returns. A count down.


Sherlock is shaking. The aim of the sniper is still on him. “John, I- I’m sorry.”


“What are you apologising for, you idiot? We need to think, we can-”


“John. It’s okay.”


What? Of course, it’s not okay, how can you just sit there and think that, that- tell me what to do.”


“I- I think- I think there must be a- a release code. Some…”


“Some what? A word, a number? Think, Sherlock.”

But, oh John Watson, he berates himself. You already know.

Fill in the blanks, Johnny boy.


The stuff you wanted to say.


But didn’t say it.


Say it now.

“I loved him!”

The words are wrenched out, as if something has been scooped out of his very chest. They echo and rebound off the walls, and once they’re out, John can’t stop himself, like something has finally been freed: “Alright? Is that what you needed to hear? That’s what I was going to say. I loved him. I loved him.”

Sherlock is still shaking. “Why- why would they want you to say that?” he whispers. As if it’s a lie. As if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

John’s throat closes up. “Because it’s- it’s true, Sherlock.” He pushes past the tears. “It’s- it’s always been true.”

John swallows and looks Sherlock right in the eye. “I love you,” he says, and it feels like the only sure thing in the universe.

The lights flicker to normal. Sherlock is staring at him. Staring and crying, his lip trembling, desperately trying to speak but he can’t quite get the words out.

A new voice, sharp and crystal clear.

“I applaud the spectacle,” says the woman known as Mary Morstan.

I took a bit of creative licence with this scene, so I hope it still fits the bill for you! ;) <3

I’m taking ficlet prompts. <3

Nobody (Part 12)

(this is how I imagined the photos would be tacked on the walls)

Plot:  Reader has been held prisoner by Hydra and is discovered by Nat and Bucky.  Post CA:CW (Bucky’s on the team, no one hates each other) Slight AU

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of torture and gore

Words: 1873 

A/N: Just a note that the story takes place in 2016 because that’s when I first started writing.  Hope you like this part.  Feedback is always welcome!

Reader’s POV

You fell down the rabbit hole.

Information swirled around you in a haze, overwhelming your senses, invading your mind.  Your face was frozen in time in black and white photographs tacked on boards around the room.  Eerily, they seemed to take on a life of their own, as if the photos began to move and change, playing out the captured instances of torture on an endless loop. The memories of these moments resurfaced, filling in the blanks and missing the edges of each scene.  Here was the moment they’d shocked you just before your flesh sizzled and burned like bacon in a frying pan.  There, captured in perfect clarity, was the instant your organs slid off the table and, frozen in mid-air, hurdled to the lab floor.  Black pools of blood peppered the background in the majority of photos, spattering the walls, staining the floors.

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Send me a symbol for a horror-inspired starter

☠   Our muses are going ghost hunting together
☮   One of our muses is infected with a mysterious virus (effects are up to the mun)
☯   Our muses are survivors after a nuclear holocaust
Ω   Our muses are survivors after a zombie apocalypse
♤   One of our muses is a ghost and the other just moved into their house
♣   One of our muses is a werewolf, and it’s a full moon
♡   One of our muses is a vampire
♢   Our muses have just created a monster in a lab  
⚜  Our muses are lost in the woods when they hear ghostly voices/singing
★   Our muses get stuck in an abandoned building
☆   Our muses are being chased by a masked killer
☾   One of our muses is a masked killer and the other is their victim
☼  One of our muses has the other chained up
☀   Our muses are at sea when something stirs underneath the water
☹   Our muses are babysitting late at night and they get spooked
¢    Our muses find a spellbook and decide to test it out
☚   Our muses play with a Ouija board
☝    Our muses find a possessed item

Best Thugisa Lines

Nagisa: “What’s up, sluts! Guess who just got outta prison!”

Makoto & Haru: “Nagisa?”

Nagisa: “Yeah~”


Makoto: “Nagisa, he just called you a loser”

Nagisa: “Ayo, homebody look like shark-week I ain’t messin’ with that”


Haru: “It all feels like a dream…”

Makoto: “It wasn’t a dream! We got arrested for trespassing. We went to Jail!”

Nagisa: ”Nah man, we went to holding. There a big~ difference”

Haru: “Whatever…”

Makoto: “No whatever, we only got out because Nagisa’s friend paid bail”

Nagisa: “Oh Yeah~. Now we owe Easter Dave a favor, that is not a position you wanna be in”


Nagisa: “Ayo, waduup Jaws”

Rin: “Shut up, and why are you naked?”

Nagisa: “I’m Naked?”


Nagisa: “Look. All I’m sayin’ is we’ve done all the work. The least you could do is; is go down to 7/11 and get us some slushies and a carton of cigarettes”

Miho: “Nagisa. If I get out of this chair I guarantee, you’ll end up in one with wheels”

Nagisa: “Okay. I’ll admit, I’m a little threatened. Dang”


Nagisa: “Oh, Hey it’s Gou. How many guys d’you pair up in head on the way here. Also come help with the pool”

Gou: Nine. And F**k That”

Nagisa: “What is it with all these people and wrecking ma game today”


Makoto: “They’re so fast!”

Nagisa: “Rin’s pullin’ ahead though. I think. I Rin the jet plane

firing out unicorns or the gun with my mother’s face”


Makoto: “C’mon Haru, you can do me. It, it. You can do it”

Nagisa: “I heard that one”

Makoto: “Shut up! You’re High as Balls”

Nagisa: “Ha, yeah I am”


Nagisa: “Hey yo, you tell that story how Haru lost that race”

Makoto: “Nagisa! He’s right there!”

Nagisa: “Nah, Nah. Homebody’s pulling a rain man right now he can’t hear me. Check this, Check this. *Ghostly Voice* Haru~ we’re not getting a Season two~”

Haru: *Ignores*

Nagisa: “See!”


Rei: “-and my stop is coming up in 3.34 seconds, so you you’d make the pitch, real quick”

Nagisa: “Alright, so swim Team, right?”

*Bell goes Rei leaves*

Nagisa: “Hey, wait. I was actually gonna ask you what size colour you wear, c’mon let me get them digits baby”


Rei: “I am now going to walk away. Do not follow”

Nagisa: “I hate it when you leave but I love~ watchin’ you go”


Makoto: “Why don’t you just be yourself, and tell him how you feel”

Nagisa: “Thanks for the lesson, Boy Meets World. How’s your repressed love-life doin’?”

Makoto: “I don’t know Nagisa, How’s your mother’s drinking problem?”

Nagisa: “Below the belt Makoto”


Nagisa: “Hold it Mister. I’mma have to pull you over for excceding recommended Hotness”

Rei: “Why are you here?”


Nagisa: “Why he touchin’ ma man? Where he goin’ with ma man!”


Nagisa: “So all I gotta do is Kill all these other guys, and you give me a scholarship for ma painting”

Bear: “Ooh, boo, boo, boo. That’s pretty much it, but they can’t prove you did it”

Nagisa: “Can’t prove nothin’ if they all dead”

Bear: “That’s not quite the same thing”

Nagisa: “Okay, so which are you, are the most annoying”

Student 1: “These thug antics, are not welcome in a school environment”

Nagisa: “Hey, we got a volunteer”

*Back to Coach and Nagisa*

“Yeah it didn’t work out… For them”


Makoto: “Hey Nagisa. Did you catch Breaking bad last night?”

Nagisa: “Nah man, I lived that shit”

Makoto: “Hey Nagisa. Did you see Teen Wolf last night?”

Nagisa: “You know I did. Derek Looking Fine~”

Makoto: “Hell Yes, son”

Nagisa: “Please don’t do that”


Nagisa: “C’mon let’s wrap this up. I don’t like being alone up here”

Makoto: “Why? ‘Cause if this was a horror movie you’d die first?”

Nagisa: “Why~?”

Makoto: “Y’know…”



Makoto: “This job sucks~”

Nagisa: “You sucks!”
Makoto: “Oh, eat me”


Nagisa: “-and now it’s time to play Japan’s favourite game-show: ‘IS MAKOTO AN IDIOT!”


Nagisa: “Hey, here’s your Bitch board.”

Rei: “Kick Board

Nagisa: “Fairy Floater”

Rei: “Nagisa”

Nagisa: “Sissy swimmer”

Rei: “Nagisa!”

Nagisa: “Fine, Fine. Crybaby kickboard”

Rei: “That was a stretch”

Nagisa: “Look! It can’t all be ‘A’ material, Okay!”


Nagisa: “Haru and Makoto? Dead? Let me tell you somethin’. Those two are literally impossible to kill. To prove a theory, I one time tried to just straight-up shoot ‘em with a real-ass gun. The bullet missed, ricocheted off a frying pan on the wall, and broke open a cabinet full o’ bottles which I then tripped on and fell over. Hurt my pride more than anything… 'cept my tailbone, which I bruised. Did you know that the scientific term for “tailbone” is “coccyx”? Hehe… that’s funny. Anyway, I don’t remember why I was talking about this - they’re probably fine”


Nagisa: “Hey! Tweedledee & Tweedledumb-ass”


Makoto: “Don’t worry guys, It’s probably just a typo”

Nagisa: “Yeah, like Haru would know the difference”


Haru: “Hey, Nagisa, I think I see the Police over there”

Nagisa: “Aaah~!”


Nagisa: “It’s fine baby, if you get scared you can hold my hand”

Rei: “I am not, frightened!”

Nagisa: “Yeah, and Makoto’s love life it’s pathetic”

Makoto: “It’s true…”

Haru: “What?”

Nagisa: “Exaclty”


Nagisa: “Now, Let’s make like Scooby Doo and find some clues”

Makoto: “Hey Nagisa, that rhythmed”

Nagisa: Shut up, Makoto”


Nagisa: “Alright, Shaggy and Scooby, you take the sinks. I’ll check the cabinets and Velma; you get the spooky lookin’ fridge”


Nagisa: “…Because only Velma would say ‘Dubious Device’. Velma gets the spooky fridge”

Makoto: “Who are you Nagisa, Freddy?”

Nagisa: “Bitch, I’m Daphne”


Nagisa: “You’re so cut when you never shut up. Now shut up and open the fidge”

Makoto: “Nagisa, how many time have it told you street-sharks don’t exist”

Nagisa: “Then explain Rin”

Makoto: “Fair Point”


Nagisa: “He [Rei] can do everything but swim. Like the opposite of Haru. Nega-Haru!”

Haru: “The sunken depths of the screeching horde-“

Makoto: “Cut it out! He’s had enough!”


Might do Haru next.

Sea Emperor script:

*Player enters the giant precursor prison within the lava zone. Upon stepping into the main corridor, a voice will play.*

???: What?…How…How can this be? You are not one of my captors, are you?

Your presence is…vastly different than them.

You are a creature I have yet to have met before…

Your language is…very…very different, yet I sense similarities with that and the aliens I have met…that have taken me here…

I…do you understand me? I know you cannot talk to me, but…I wish to see you.

Please, come to my prison…It is just in front of you…Just walk forward, and you will find me.

*Player enters the aquarium.*

Sea Emperor: *gasp*…You…you are not one of them…I see.


Comparing the leviathan’s call with that of other indigenous species has enabled a partial translation. Transferring voice control now.

Will you… play with me?

A game played alone… cannot be won. Those that took my freedom played to live… forever. Such games can only be lost.

I want to play a game we both… can win. It is your move.
The leviathan is communicating again. Translating…

I… like the way you play. I will take my move. I make a sacrifice… of trust.

I trust you with a request. I show my hand. Before you lie my young. My end is their freedom.

Those that held us here had ways of giving freedom at their whim. I ask you do the same for my young.

You have what you need to coerce or be kind. The others tried to take their prize. How will you play?

In this small move, you have gained my trust. It is my move again.

The aliens from before tried to force this information from me. To you I give it willingly, and in a way you will understand.

I would make this move myself, but the others played their game too hard.

Do not try to win. Merely play.

PDA: Translating leviathan call…

My young will swim for shallow waters. I will remain.

I enjoyed this game, even as I grow tired of it. My end is now.

Perhaps next I will play as an ocean current, carrying seeds to new land… or a creature so small it sees the gaps between the grains of sand.        

Made with SoundCloud
Creepypasta #1102: A Performance Review Of The Monster Who Lives In My Closet

Length: Short

Name: Caliban
Job Title: Closet Monster
Review Period: 2016
Reviewer: Me

Physical Appearance:

Caliban presents the ideal embodiment of my deepest childhood fears and paranoias. His full-body scales are oiled to perfection; his stench is intolerably rancid; his eyes glow a healthy red; and his fangs are sharpened according to standard. I have, however, noted my concern with the worn-down appearance of his formerly-ferocious claws. This indicates that he was responsible for carving the regrettable hole in the closet door. Once these occupational hazards are addressed, I am confident Caliban will be in compliance with all confinement regulations.

Grade: Meets Expectations


Despite his cramped quarters in my small closet, Caliban has demonstrated an excellent ability to make that modest space sound much larger than it is, perfectly mimicking the vast echoing chasms I most fear. His thundering moans and high-pitched shrieks competently simulate the bewailing cries of repressed demons. Improvement is needed in his plaintive, persistent whispers— while, ideally, I feel they ought to resemble the ghostly voice of my missing daughter, I often hear instead the yowls of my childhood cat, who disappeared inside that closet years ago.

Grade: Satisfactory


Caliban has recently become highly unpredictable in his patterns of appearance and concealment. In past years, he has displayed superior judgement of the difference between my solitary nighttime vulnerability and the protections of daylight. He has also understood the necessity for monsters to remain in closets and uphold the façade of being merely fantasy. But in 2016, he consistently demonstrated poor discernment regarding when to make his presence known. His aggressive rattling of the closet doorknob when the police stopped by to question me resulted in a formal reprimand.

Grade: Poor


While his desire for innovation was admirable, his biggest project of 2016 — to finally emerge from the closet, surrender me, and introduce himself to a new victim — was sloppily executed. He did not observe safety protocols meant to protect others from knowledge of his existence. Nor did he successfully implement measures to prevent unintended broaching of the damaged closet doors. As a result of his delusional desire to make a connection with another human besides myself, my daughter was lured towards the hole into the door, and was tragically lost inside the dark closet netherworld. This regrettable event also resulted in a formal reprimand, and such blatant oversight in precautionary measures will be addressed in 2017.

Grade: Poor


Caliban’s haunting skills are highly proficient. Furthermore, has previously expressed comprehension of the obligation he has to remain concealed from the outside world. But after being so tightly constrained in that small enclosure for three decades, it is perhaps understandable that his performance would become erratic, and he would struggle to live up to his full potential as a terrifying closet monster.


I am confident that with increased discipline — including sharper whips, tighter restraints, and an increased dosage of medications — Caliban can be successfully hidden away for many years to come.

Credits to: cold__cocoon

Ley-Lines, Cross Roads, & the Urban Witch

Ley-Lines, known to some as ‘Fairy-Paths,’ are straight tracks etched across ancient landscapes, whose power – while somewhat dormant in many places – can still be tapped into today. These lines of energy, created by the footsteps of thousands of people for thousands of years, are aligned with countless sacred sites, such as stone circles, churches, burial mounds and the like.

The origin of the term Ley-Line refers to the ancient straight tracks that run across parts of the UK – often marked by megaliths and even Roman roads – but the theory of ancient geographical lines or grids of energy is not at all exclusive to the UK; many cultures across the globe have stories of powerful, geographical lines of significance, often going hand-in-hand with tales of Creation and even of ghosts and the Fae.

Many theories as to the origin of such lines exist, for instance in many tribes across Australia, the ‘song lines’ (as they are known here) were formed during the Creation Story. In Britain it is believed that they are merely powerful tracks created by the thousands of people who have passed over them in order to get to and from sacred sites. Each culture has its own understanding which fits their spiritual perception of the land.

The ‘crossroads’ – points at which two or more Leys meet – are seen as places of incredible power, and are often marked (in the UK) with groves of hawthorn or pine. If you were to find yourself at a Ley-Line crossroad, you may perceive a sudden rush of energy, an excitement of the senses, or even ghostly figures or voices. These are locations where the Veil is thinnest, and as such it is not uncommon for these areas to be marked with unusual natural formations, such as weirdly twisted or knotted trees, strange shapes or faces in the fields and hills, and even sightings of strange and extinct beasts.

There are infinite possibilities for magick when it comes to working with Ley-Lines, including boosting your spells and rituals, supplying an abundance of energy for you to use in healing/empowering/charging/cursing, creating a medium in which you can become closer to the earth and its energies, etc. …But where does the Urban Magickian come into all of this? What of those witches and the like who don’t have the privilege of living near stone circles, centuries-old churches or ancient burial mounds? Well, you’re in luck! Because Ley-Lines are not exclusive to ancient landscapes; it is said that the mere treading of a path by enough people can create a line of power, and as such, train tracks, highways, busy intersections and that old underground bar with the sigils on the bathroom wall can all be places of power. Get creative.

There are many ways to locate Ley-Lines, but by far the easiest is to utilise a map and either a pendulum or just plain old intuition:

• Begin by finding a good, detailed map of your area. Print it out and, with pen or pencil, mark out all the important sites, such as churches and graveyards. If your township is relatively newly developed, these sites will probably not be built on geographical Leys, but they will likely be markings on what i have termed ‘Urban Leys,’ or ‘Urban Ley-Lines;’ grids or paths of power created, as stated above, by the treading of man and beast, and you may also have a hand in creating and strengthening these lines as you cast magick along them in your travels.
Some places you may wish to mark on your map, alongside those where you feel the Veil is thinnest, include:
- Groves of old trees
- Entrancing hills or plains
- Fairy rings
- Old beaten tracks through the woods
- Ghost hot-spots
- Or the field with that one goat you swear can read your mind… 🐐👀

(If you don’t know your area all that well, you may need to do some intuitive surveying of the land/city).

• On your map, find a site that feels intuitively promising, you may wish to choose the city cemetery, a misty grove of pines, an old tree that’s grown in a warped or strange formation, or any other place you feel has an intense liminal energy, (there was a post going around claiming that the inside of any Target is a liminal space, so why not start there?).

• Once you’ve located your starting place, go there with a pendulum or any other method you use to sense energy (or whatever magickal paradigm you work with, ‘energy’ being the most common one). If you’re using a pendulum, stand still at your chosen site and let your pendulum reveal to you which direction the Urban-Ley flows, (if indeed you have found one). if not using a pendulum, intuit the direction in whichever way works for you.

• Follow the newly discovered path! Let your feet and your intuition (or pendulum) guide you along the way. You may find you stumble upon old or liminal buildings, trees, bodies of water or other such features that you didn’t even know existed! Just remember, Leys flow in straight lines, so try to draw it up like grids or unbending paths on your map, otherwise it’ll become one big squiggly mess. I also suggest that you keep your maps folded up in your grimoire or magickal journal, for easy access while on the go.

A few more things to keep in mind:

- In some cultures, for instance the Australian Aboriginals, certain Lines will only flow in one direction, and it is seen as sacrilege to walk them in the opposite direction to which they flow (A good example of this is Uluru, in which the story-line runs down the rock face. This is why it was incredibly distressing for the Australian Aboriginals of the Northern Territory when white people started climbing up the rock). So it might be worth keeping that in mind while treading these paths. I would recommend also doing some research into the cultures who have lived in your area since before white people settled there, to ensure – if you do stumble upon an ancient Ley – that you’re not appropriating anyone else’s culture.

- If you find a certain Ley-Line crossroad that you feel is particularly powerful, and you’d like to use it in your Craft, you could take a leaf out of the Celts’ book and build a structure there with which to tap into, or channel, the Ley energy. Think of it like acupuncture, but instead of needles you could build little mini stone circles, hang wind chimes or amulets from trees, carve sigils into trees or fences, hammer a consecrated stake into the earth, etc. As i said before, get creative!

- In Ireland (where the Leys are known as ‘Fairy Paths’), it is believed that fairies maintain the upkeep of these tracks, and on certain days of the year, such as May Eve or Hallowe’en, they use them to navigate to and from their celebrations. As such, it is strongly advised that you avoid fairy paths on these days, lest you fall prey to these tricky creatures. If your practice incorporates fairies, you may want to keep that in mind!

- As Ley-Lines are sources of a seemingly infinite amount of living energy (yes, living, as they find their source in the earth, which is very much alive) it is not uncommon to find spirits using this abundance of energy to support their form on the physical plain. So if you’re easily spooked, best to tread these paths in the daylight. :p

  All in all, i hope this inspires many a witch to go out and discover the Urban-Leys in their area, and to find yet another avenue in which to explore their own power and that of the earth’s.

- Brigitte

In and Out- Newt Scamander x Reader

In and Out
Request: Hey, I was wondering if you could do an imagine where newt and the reader are in Hogwarts and she is being bullied by classmates and starts having a panic attack and after the bullies leave newt comes and comforts her? Could she please be in ravenclaw? Thanks

A/n: I am not in any way, shape or form romanticizing panic attacks. I’ve had them before and there is nothing good about them, this is simply a piece to help me cope with it AND possibly help others feel comfort.

Warnings: Panic attacks, angst, bullying in terms of physical and emotional harassment, also I would like to just say that the bullies’ names are purely fictional, and if your name is one of these, I apologize. They were just random names to go with the story, and I didn’t mean to offend anyone. Also, the characters who bully do not represent the house as a whole (as all houses are equally wonderful in their own ways).

*If you or someone else is being bullied or harassed, do not be afraid to speak up or seek help from an adult or trusted peer. Also, panic or anxiety attacks do not at all make you a freak, I am here if you need to ever talk about something*

You once again quietly meandered the halls, taking the longer route back to your dormitory. The air was crisp and fresh as it was hinted with the scent of clipped grass and flowers of a springtime meadow as you entered the stony exterior hallway, however, this was not the reason as to why you chose to take such an elaborate route. This choice was more for your own safety as opposed to enjoying simple leisure or taking a stroll throughout the outdoor courtyards. You felt safe, content, and secure in your surroundings. With your books pressed tightly into your chest and a quill tucked to where it peeped slightly out of your bag, you continued walking, escaping to your own thoughts. However, your imaginary world in your head was shattered with the thundering footsteps that were now rapidly trailing behind you. Your heartrate increased, and your self-esteem plummeted for the third time that day.

“Oi Y/n, thought you could slip past us? Well nice attempt there. You’d think for a Ravenclaw you’d be less of an idiot but then again, when have you ever proven that you actually own a brain?” spat Victoria, the sixth year girl that had been choosing you as her target for the past few months. Unfortunately, she was not alone, as her small posse consisted of Ernest the hulking Slytherin notorious for sabotaging other people’s projects and Corra the not-so-sweet Ravenclaw whom you had the pleasure of seeing every day in your very own common room, along with Victoria herself.

Victoria and her group often liked to tease you or harass you in the hallways, and you had many scars, both physical and emotional, to show for it. Every time it happened, it was when you least expected it. Your emotions were toyed with and abused, rattled and bruised. Words came out like a dragons fire, as her insults were harsh and enough to burn and violate you to your core. Each was a horrid blade dripping with her seething rage, and each brought decay to your self-esteem and composure.

You were distracted by Victoria’s ghostly white sneer and piercing eyes scanning your soul, and you didn’t notice Ernest swooping in behind you to restrain your arms, causing your books to scatter. You felt like bird strangled in a net with nowhere to go but to accept your deathly fate. Your arms were pinned, your heart was bursting with fear, and your eyes threatened to release a flow of tears. Your breathing shifted, becoming more hesitant and irregular as if you were choking on air as the walls closed around behind you. This feeling of increased fear was all too familiar to you. Everything from the state of sudden discomfort of panic to the loss of breath and grasp of air was a hellish experience that you have often had to endure countless times.

Shaking, you tried to stand as your knees were close to buckling. Words were lost and scattered in your brain while Corra laughed manically with Victoria.

“Aw, scared little girl? It must me a touch, tragic world out there for a freak of nature,” mocked Corra as her tone was laced with toxic attitude. You looked for an escape to anywhere but your current situation. You wanted to kick and scream, but your brain wasn’t cooperating with your desired actions.

“S-S-Stop,” you tried to desperately whisper out, but this only tightened the grip on your arms, giving Ernest a sense of delight at your torture.

“Y/n, Y/n, Y/n. It’s foolish of you to even bother. No one likes you here, you should honestly give up. No one would, miss you if you never showed your face here again. Everybody hates you. We do, your so-called “friends” do. But then again, why would anyone want to waste their time with you? You’re nothing but a filthy and pathetic excuse for a person anyways,” Victoria spoke with her toxic tongue, only pausing to drag her manicured nails across your face, creating faint scratches reddened with irritation and blood to arise. You whimpered slightly, though it sounded more like a worried yelp instead.

Ernest kicked you from behind while still clutching you, however this action caused you to sink to the floor in pain, as the impact from his bulky and forceful strength sucked whatever strength you had left. Victoria and Corra swarmed around you, like rabid dogs preparing to devour their kill. Their shadows drowned you, and your breathing hitched as you felt a wave of heated sweat start to form in a layer across your skin. By now their insults became blurred in your mind, as your thumping heart rang in your ears whilst heaving your chest erratically. Though surrounded, you felt alone. You wanted to run and to scream and to disappear but you couldn’t. You couldn’t breathe properly as each time you tried, you only found yourself trapped more in an endless cycle of suffocation.

“Well this has been fun, but I am famished, we’ll continue this little session later. Don’t you forget this Y/n, you filthy, worthless, horrendous tramp. I’m ashamed to be in a house with someone as disappointing as you. Enjoy the dirty floor, it’s where you belong anyways,” Victoria angrily seethed, however, most of her speech was only registered as a few words, as your mind was still clogged with negative thoughts, swirling around in your head like a storm in the middle of the ocean on high tide. Victoria gave a slight nod and Ernest released you, snickering and cackling off with the two female devils.

You dragged your convulsing body towards the wall, struggling to even make the slight trip of movement. Trembling, you brought your hand to your chest as if trying to contain the empty black hole that was swelling in your heart. Words like this were spoken frequently, and you would have thought that you would have been used to it by now. The world melted and swirled around as you began to become detached from it. Your mind screamed and plagued you with panic as your throat tightened and your skin became clammy again. Down the rabbit hole you fell, but into a deep, darkened hole that didn’t allow you to escape the perils of your mind.

“Y/n?” spoke a muffled and distant voice. Tears spiked at your eyes like silver daggers while this ghostly voice floated towards you.

“Y/n? Why…on…floor…doing…Y/n?” you tried to make out, but your head was wallowing too far into the murky depths of despair to the point of being unable to understand what was going on. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, and couldn’t take it anymore. Your lungs and chest constricted as your body rattled with quakes and sobs, and a dark shadow casted over your form.

You tore your eyes from being frozen on the ground to be met with piercing eyes and constellations of freckles. You hadn’t noticed when Newt Scamander had walked into the hallway, but that didn’t mean you were going to push him away.

His eyes were wide with concern and a hint of fear, as he had just walked upon your broken state. The two of you had been with one another for years, and by now, Newt was very aware of incidents like this. When Victoria and her posse had tormented you by stealing your notebook and reading aloud from it in the great hall, Newt rushed to your side after and simply held your hand while whispering to you. You weren’t even friends at the time, which would be hard to believe since the two of you are incredibly close now, often seen in the library in deep conversation or holding one another under the trees by the lake, hands intertwined and his lips pressed into your hair. The beautiful person he had his heart stolen by now laid in a pool of tears like a broken porcelain doll in the rain.

However, he knew what was happening. While others viewed you as some sort of “mental nutcase” at times like this, he looked at you with gentle compassion and gentleness. You were like some of his beasts, sent into a state of tightened panic when frightened or under mass amounts of stress. He saw you now, slumped against the wall of the corridor hall, and he slowly crouched down to his knees.

“Y/n, darling, I need you to look at me okay. I need you to look at me and breathe with me. I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. Breathe with me love, I know you can do it. Ready darling, in and out, in and out, in and out.” He spoke with a hushed voice while his hands found yours and clasped them soothingly. His thumbs ran over your knuckles, gently massaging reassurance through them. He wanted you to feel safe. He needed you to feel safe.

“N-Newt I-I-I can’t do i-it…” you tried to say, but you were silenced once again by shaking and unsteady breaths. You ran your hands throughout your locks of hair rapidly.

“Darling, it’s okay. Remember love, in and out, with me darling.”

His tone was nowhere near angry or frustrated, but was instead saturated with love and care. Your breathing slowed slightly as you began to follow his rhythm.

In and out, in and out. One, two three, and in and out.

Newt kept his gaze on you as your breathing and posture slowly returned back to its usual state. Your panic faded away for now, and Newt cautiously looked over you to make sure that you were comfortable. By now he had you cradled in his arms, and neither of you cared that you were both out in the open hallway.

“I-I’m sorry I couldn’t come in time to p-protect you from Victoria, darling. I’m so sorry, and now you’re hurt,” he murmured as tears tried to form once again in his eyes.

“Newt, it’s not your fault, I’ll talk to one of the professors again to get them to stop, but I don’t know what would have happened if you didn’t come when you did. Thank you,” you whispered back, being entirely honest. He pressed a sweet kiss to your cheek while slipping in a small, ‘I love you’

He helped you and loved you when you needed it. He didn’t yell at you or try and fix you for being destroyed. Newt cared about you and would do anything and everything to make sure that you were anything but uncomfortable.

You reached up and kissed him once more, thanking the lovely boy for being so gentle and caring, and for viewing you as the person you are, and not as someone different. He loved and respected you for who you were, and he would always be there to hold and help you when you needed it most.


Nevada Ramirez & Crybaby // Poor Baby

Per request HERE, re: One of Nevada’s men hurting Crybaby.
Referencing back to THIS tale.

Originally posted by sarahgracej

Okay this is actually pretty dark considering what I usually write so that’s a warning, and there’s violence as in Nevada pummels someone to a bloody pulp, but that’s pretty predictable considering the request.

Nevada had been out of town for about a week now, had planned on it being another before he’d get back.

They knew. 
Caroline knew they knew.

She got dumped out of their dingy car by her apartment, the one they all knew Nevada paid for, late at night after the nice old ladies turned off their hearing aids and the dogs had all been brought in for the night. Delicately, sniffling still, she trotted up the stone steps and slid her key into the door.

They hadn’t even robbed her.
Just tore her down.

Once making it through the heavy double doors and hearing the lock click behind her; poor Caroline cried, moreso than her little Crybaby heart had ever done before. Oh, she wept, so broken there was no strength to muster sound. Silently, she slid up the staircase, hands wringing nervously through the material of her cotton kimono. With shaking fingers, she managed to force the key into the knob.

As soon as she was in, she slammed that door shut.
The lock; the slip chain; the dead bolt.

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