“HELLO NEIGHBOR STEVE, I WOULD LIKE TO INVITE YOU TO BARBEQUE ON THE EVE OF THE BLOOD MOON. I FEEL WE GOT OFF TO A BAD START.”
“NEIGHBOR STEVE, DO YOU NOT WISH TO PARTAKE OF THE UNCLEAN FLESH-MEATS OF PIGS AND THE POLLUTED ESSENCES OF TOMATO? PERHAPS YOU ARE A CAROLINA STYLE MAN, NEIGHBOR STEVE?”
“PUT THE GUN AWAY NEIGHBOR STEVE, YOU KNOW I SHALL ONLY RISE AGAIN WITH THE DAWNING OF THE MOON. WE HAVE BEEN THROUGH THIS MANY TIMES.”
“LOOK AT THIS PICTURE MY SON DREW OF YOU AND CHILD TIMMY, YOUR SON. ARE THEY NOT THE PICTURE OF PACT-MATES? THIS COULD BE YOU AND ME, NEIGHBOR STEVE.”
“YOU MISSED THE UNHOLY NEXUS OF POWER THAT IS THE KEY TO MY CORPOREAL FORM, NEIGHBOR STEVE. YOU WILL NEED TO RELOAD NOW, SO I WILL GO INSIDE TO MY HELL-WIFE AND PUT YOU DOWN AS A SOLID ‘MAYBE’.“
I have the feeling that the families get along great except for Steve. Like, the wives are baking (questionable) brownies together, the kids are playing together, Antler Guy occasionally takes Son and Timmy to school (no car, just carries them in huge swinging strides through a nexus of ungoldly sights in a swirling netherworld shortcut. Sometimes they stop for McDonalds). Hell-wife gave them a potted Audrey Jr., Steve’s wife (who I now christen Sharon) gave them a begonia.
One time Steve tries throwing holy water but all Antler Guy does is thank him, saying that no, Antler Guy isn’t Catholic but it’s the thought that counts, he is so kind to water his creeping deathshade vines regardless.
For Christmas Antler Guy gives Steve a case of ammunition. To be funny/sarcastically mean Steve gets Antler Guy the world’s most hideous Christmas sweater, singing light-up reindeer included. He immediately regrets it because not only does Antler Guy love it and wears it for several months, it will never need batteries because Antler Guy powers it with his own eldritch aura.
When they come back from a holiday to Hawaii, Steve is horrified to find out Sharon bought them matching Hawaiian shirts. He is even more horrified that his wife means it that if he doesn’t wear it he will forever sleep on the couch.
I want to expand on this, since I see it’s still passing around and the ideas have grown in my brainmeats.
What drives Steve up the wall and down the other side is how… normal… everyone treats the Abominations. (Yes, that is their last name. No, it is not a joke. Son was asked his last name for the standardized testing at school, had a quick conference with Timmy, and decided that Son Abomination sounded good, “Since my dad calls your dad the Abomination anyway and we can paint it on your mailbox just like the Henderson’s did theirs!”. Antler Guy agreed and did a lovely rendition of it for the mailbox, with only a few glyphs of soul-rending terror added to keep up to snuff.)
The Great Plant Exchange went beautifully, though the Audrey Jr. (named Aubergine for the lovely shade of purple poison that drips from her fangs) is on a diet at the moment. She was in cahoots with the cat and the dog to get into the good people food and ate two frozen turkeys all herself. Now she’s restricted to the hallway table to answer the phone and the door. (Steve actually likes her, and keeps slipping her hotdogs when Sharon isn’t looking. Their door-to-door salesman rates have dropped dramatically since she changed abodes.) Hell-wife has almost gotten the begonia to bloom and say it’s first words.
The homeowner’s association just loves the Abominations. All paperwork stamped and dotted, in on time and in triplicate. Antler Guy likes filing, says it reminds him of his old job. There is a resident who spent 20 years as a lawyer and they have long, animated conversations about all sorts of things that make Steve swear to never need legal counsel.
Hell-wife joined the PTA and spearheaded a committee to fundraise in the fall with a haunted house. It was a county-wide hit, though the claims that a particularly rowdy group had been deliberately lost in a timeslip to the Outer Doors Of Chaos was firmly rebuffed. Most young people nowadays, it was agreed, just couldn’t appreciate flute music.
Antler Guy really does try to connect with Steve. The surprise birthday party was perhaps a bit much, given that most participants do not have the ability to suddenly materialize in front of the guest of honor to give them a hug. Sharon assured them that Steve normally screams on his birthday, and the remains of the cake were heartily enjoyed by all. (A plate was saved for Steve once he came down from the treehouse.)
After the Hawaii trip (which was a present for his birthday) and the Matching Shirt Ultimatum (which was Sharon’s attempt at patching things up with Antler Guy, he really was sad about the birthday screaming), Steve finally grabs his courage in both hands (plus the shotgun, which let’s face it is about as useful as a teddybear at the moment but it does comfort him) and confronts Antler Guy, about why such a group of……Abominations could possibly come to his quiet slice of suburban bliss.
“……BUT NEIGHBOR STEVE, WE HAVE ALWAYS BEEN HERE.”
“No no no, I read it in a book! Don’t you have to be invited or something?!”
“WELL YES, TO THE HUMAN WORLD. BUT THIS IS NOT THE HUMAN WORLD AS YOUR THREE-DIMENSIONAL BRAIN PERCEIVES IT.”
“What the hell does that mean?!!”
“DID YOU NOT KNOW, NEIGHBOR STEVE? LEGALLY SPEAKING, ALL OF THE VASTNESS OF HUMAN SUBURBIA IS, IN FACT, A PART OF HELL.”
“……..”
“THE FLAMINGOES ARE THE BOUNDARY MARKERS. IT WAS DECIDED THAT THE FLAMING SKULLS WERE TOO KITSCHY FOR MODERN TIMES.”
Reblogging cause I kind of want more of this….
Since you asked nicely ^_^
Antler Guy, as one may have noticed, is a calm sort of fellow. In the face of human atrocities he displays a curious Zen sort of state of mind. Timmy asks Son if he’d ever seen his dad angry, and Son hasn’t. (When asked, Timmy says that yeah his dad gets mad, but it’s like the Fitz-Simmon’s chihuahua down the street- mostly high-pitched noise and occasionally TV remote chewing. Sharon replaces the poor thing every 3 months or so.) When pressed (gently, at the monthly book club, and with many cups of tea and at least one daiquiri), Hellwife admits that this comes from serving many years at his old job.
After the revelation of the nature of his neighborhood, Steve has not been overtly mean to Antler Guy. Not yet in the realm of friends, but vastly better than before. No more holy water, no more shotgun blasts. (Still the occasional jumpscare, but Antler Guy really can’t help that part.) They even occasionally share news over the fence as Antler Guy trains the creeping deathshade vines in proper oral hygiene, and Steve waters his lawn (and occasionally slips a goldfish cracker to a deathshade vine that looks particularly adorable. Aubergine has trained him well.)
Which is how Antler Guy learns about the peeping tom that’s been plaguing the adjacent streets. Apparently the pervert has been getting bolder, and rattling doors. He almost broke into one apartment, whose occupants were a single mother and her daughter, Mildred. Millie, a shy girl who is a great horror fan and firm friends with Timmy and Son, had missed school because of it.
Steve knew because Sharon had told him, on her way to deliver a tuna casserole and a double batch of brownies to the pair. (Sharon has been dubbed the unoffical mob boss of the Mother’s Mafia. She is quite pleased with this title.) He tells her to wait, confers briefly with Aubergine, and sends her along with, “Only as a loan, you know, but Auby wants to stretch her roots and she’d probably like getting all ribboned and curled anyway. Little girls still do that, right?” She has strict orders to bite anyone that makes Millie or her mother cry. (Steve is dubbed the official neighborhood marshmallow for this. The bookclub buys him a jar of marshmallow fluff in commemoration.)
He turns to look at Antler Guy, and freezes, much as a chihuahua will when faced with a hungry hellhound.
Steven makes a very ungraceful exit when space starts bending around Antler Guy’s still, unmoving form.
When Steve sees a shadowy form in his back yard when he gets up to pee that night, there’s no hesitation. He grabs the shotgun from the cabinet and peeks out the back door window.
Just in time to see a nebulous form of soul-wrenching terror engulf the man reaching for the door handle. A sliver of moonlight reveals a very familiar eyesocket. After a moment (and a sincere prayer of thanks that he had already peed, cause otherwise he’d have done it then and there) Steve opens the door. The nebulous form freezes, reality bending around the edges.
“Good. G’night then. Oh, and if Hellwife has an extra Audrey Jr. that needs a home, let me know. Millie likes Aubergine a lot but Augy’s just too big for the apartment. Dunno if they come in miniatures though.”
There are no more peeping reports. Millie brings back Aubergine and spends an entire afternoon teaching Steve the particulars of Augy’s new “hairstyle” (a gravity-defying mass of teased tendrils, ribbons, and barrettes) in between games of tag and hide-and-seek with Timmy and Son.
When Antler Guy and Hellwife present her and her mother Beatrice with a tiny Audrey Jr. (”pOOr ThinG Is a ruNT And wOn’T geT MorE Than A FooT taLL, BEa, aNd NeeDS a New FRiEnD”, assures Hellwife), both mother and child burst out crying. Millie names it Bella, after Bella Lugosi, and shows it to the excited group of boys (Steve and Augy included).
IT GOT SO MUCH BETTER!!!!
Life in a subdivision partly populated with eldritch and possibly magical (officially classified as “extra-dimensional”, for even when faced with the physics-defying nature of their new co-habitating citizens the government cannot bring itself to acknowledge them as “magic wielding hell-beasts”, as some high-ranking staff members initially suggested) goes on fairly normally.
Sure, there are a few hiccoughs. The creeping deathshade vines get a stern talking to about appropriate afternoon snacks (”NOT the Fitz-Simmon’s chihuahua, I don’t care how much he has it coming or what he excreted where, now spit it out!”), Aubergine sheds all her leaves at once and snowballs the house (but does helps sweep up afterwards), and moonrise is a good time to watch the night-gaunts fly by (but on moondark it’s best to stay inside, no matter how prettily they glow. They’re somewhat similar to fireflies, and don’t always check to see if their partner glows as well. It wouldn’t be as much of a problem if they didn’t dive mid-coitus and drop just above the ground.)
While the neighborhood in general is accepting of the Abominations, when things get to be a bit much they tend to come to Steve. Since meeting Beatrice and Millie (and the formation of the Terrifying Triad known as Millie, Son, and Timmy) Steve is the adult human male most comfortable dealing with Antler Guy on the whole street. (Sharon as U.M.B. is widely held to have, well, steel-whatever-the-hell-she-wants, and Timmy is known to run over to Antler Guy and ask for rides through “that wobbly grey place, you know, the one with the REALLY BIG alligators?”. Still, the courtesies must be observed.)
So when a writhing sparking ball of snarling terror and teeth takes up residence in the Manzo’s tool-shed, and when Animal Control refuses to come (the street is banned due to a run-in with the deathshade vines), Steve is called. Having heard the description, Steve brings Antler Guy.
When they get there, Mr. Manzo is forcibly holding the door shut. Unholy yowling is coming from inside. At a gesture from Antler Guy, Mr. Manzo leaps away, and the doors blast open.
A 150 pound ball of whimpering, flaming something hits Steve and knocks him on his ass. The whimpering, flaming something proceeds to slobber all over Steve, his shirt, his pants, and a decent portion of grass in between distressed yelps.
“GACK!”
“NEIGHBOR STEVE, ARE YOU IN DISTRESS?”
“GAAACKLEARGHSPLUH- DOWN boy, HEEL, that’s a good- Antler Guy, what is this?!”
“I BELIEVE IT IS A HELLHOUND, NEIGHBOR STEVE.”
“Good grief, I didn’t know they came this big and…..and….. Guy?”
“YES NEIGHBOR STEVE?”
“Is he supposed to be…..skinless?”
“YES NEIGHBOR STEVE. THIS VARIETY WAS BRED TO BE LAP DOGS. THEIR FLAME IS MOSTLY WITHOUT HEAT, AND THEY HAVE NO SKIN FOR THOSE WHO ARE ALLERGIC.”
“…….laPDOG?!”
“YES NEIGHBOR STEVE.” Antler Guy lays a hand on the hellhound, who tries to burrow further into Steve with little success. “HE APPEARS TO HAVE BEEN RECENTLY WEANED. IT WILL TAKE TIME FOR HIM TO GROW TO HIS FULL SIZE.”
“……”
“THE SMALL BREEDS GROW MORE SLOWLY.”
A vile hissing emanates from the shed. (Mr. Manzo has long since fled for the safety of his kitchen.) As Steve attempts to calm the frantic hell-puppy, Antler Guy investigates. He reaches one long hand in behind the riding lawnmower and….. winces.
“NEIGHBOR STEVE?”
“Yeah- I’m right here, uh, doggie, not going anywhere- Guy?”
“I APPEAR TO HAVE AN…. ATTACHMENT.”
Steve is awed at the tiny ball of white fluff attached to one long, thin finger. He didn’t know that Antler Guy’s fingers COULD be bitten, much less by a tiny kitten.
Which is how Steve and Sharon got Clifford (”Aww c’mon Sharon, how could I pass that one up?”), and Antler Guy and Hellwife get Fluffy (”NEIGHBOR STEVE ASSURES ME IT IS A TRADITIONAL TITLE.”)
This might be the most amazing thing that ever crossed my tumblr dash
OMIGOSH I’m in love.
I LOVE EVERY BIT OF THIS
This is like the stoplight post. It is Tumblr legend, and I feel I must reblog it for those fortunate few who get to experience it for the first time.
We need more of Antler Guy and Neighbour Steve
So one day Son comes home from school and goes straight to his room without speaking. Hell Wife and Sharon confer over tea and scones, and it’s revealed that Timmy is also shut away in his room.
Neither mother can get a word out of the boys, and after a quick word with Steve (who is busy trying to train Clifford to stop slobbering on his shoes), the mothers go to Antler Guy for advise, since he has a good relationship with both boys.
Antler Guy listens attentively to the women. “I WILL TAKE CARE OF THIS. THE TWO OF YOU SHOULD ATTEND YOUR BOOK CLUB.”
Sharon is dubious, but Hell Wife assures her that Antler will fix things.
When the women are gone, Antler Guy waves his long, spindly fingers, and the two boys appear before him. Both look sullen and teary eyed. Antler Guy observes them silently. “They pushed Timmy,” Son explains in a small voice. “I told them to leave him alone but… They called me…” Antler waits silently. “Freak,” Timmy supplies in a whisper. Antler Guy looks between the two boys, then lifts one in each vine-writhed arm.
He takes the two boys to the ether, showing them various hellish sights including a homunculous type creature that has a cold and sprays acid every time it sneezes, a cat that’s twice the height of Antler and picks Timmy up by the neck like a kitten.
Both boys have a great time and return home in high spirits. Steve goes out into the garden to find out what happened. (He’s been defeated by Clifford and decides he’ll just get new shows and hide them).
“I MUST LEAVE FOR AN HOUR OR TWO,” Antler Guy tell Steve after a brief explanation.
Steve looks puzzled. “It’s getting pretty late, Guy,” he points out.
Antler Guy merely inclines his head and stalks into the night in long, surprisingly graceful strides.
The next day, Steve listens to Timmy babbling about how the boys who had been mean to him and Son the previous day had left them alone. Timmy stops and looks baffled. “Actually, any time we looked at them they ran away.”
Steve has suspicions of where Antler Guy had gone on his late night stroll.
(Ohmigosh, someone added, I’m so excited! :D)
Time passes, as time does (which for Earth is generally somewhat faster than The Dimension That Smells Of Shrimp, and slower That One Wibbley Place With Murderous Flying Potato Crisps- Timmy was allowed to select human-dialect names, and Antler Guy refuses to change them. He says they are far more pleasant than the terms he used to use.)
Fluffy remains on the small side. This in no way impedes her rule of the neighborhood. In order of preference, her resting places include the top of Antler Guy’s head, Hellwife’s ample lap, and wherever else she damn well pleases. (The deathshade vines have a healthy respect for her, all of Clifford’s six-foot-plus frame is terrified of her, and she actively conspires with Aubergine. The prior pets of Steve and Sharon, Mr. Paws- a mild mannered netutered tom of advanced years- and Puggles- his nearly as elderly pug cohort- are ignored with royal disdain. Which suits them fine, they’d much rather be made much of by Aubergine, and relax in the gentle, soothing warmth of Clifford’s flames.)
Within short order, her routine is established. The neighborhood, and neighbors, know better than to mess with the White Puffball of Doom (one of Timmy’s better efforts) on her daily patrols. In return, her rule is moderately benevolent.
So when she goes missing, literally no one has any idea where she has gone.
It starts with Antler Guy striding through the neighborhood, making a peculiar call somewhat akin to a humpback whale with a headcold. When that produces no results, he starts asking. Very earnestly. Very. Earnestly. He even folds himself up enough to take tea with Mrs. Giotto, the resident cat lady. He emerges with a delightful recipe for snickerdoodles, but no information.
Steve knows something is wrong when he starts getting texts at work. By the end of shift, he’s inundated with calls, texts, voicemails, and a singing telegram sent by one particularly frazzled neighbor, whose message was only “HELP.” His boss is not pleased.
He almost expects it when Antler Guy materializes as soon as he shuts his car door. He still almost craps himself.
“Hi Guy, what’s up-”
“FLUFFY. FLUFFY IS MISSING.”
“Really? Have you tried looking in Mr. Manz-”
“YES. TWICE.”
“Oh, ok, well, let’s try-”
“NeIGhbor SteVE!”
“Hellwife?”
“FLuffY Is MissINg!”
“Well yes, Guy just told me-”
“STEVE!”
“Sharon?!”
They decide to move the confabulation into Sharon’s kitchen. (A quick phone call to Beatrice assures that a) the sleepover of the Triad is going smoothly, b) the news of Fluffy’s disappearance hasn’t made it there yet, and c) it won’t until further news is secured.) Sharon has called on her information network to no avail, Hellwife has questioned every plant in a five block radius, and Antler Guy is distraught. Apparently he cannot feel Fluffy, which means she is either dead or out of his range. (”AND SHE WOULD NOT BE SO UNCARING AS TO NOT RETURN HOME IF DEAD, SHE IS A VERY LOVING MAMMAL.”)
Steve is quiet. Steve is thinking. Steve….has an idea.
“Guy?”
“YES?”
“Exactly what constitutes your range?”
“ALL OF THE ENVIRONS OF HELL, NEIGHBOR STEVE.”
“So……when we run out of flamingos, right?”
Clifford is supplied with a squeaky sorta-looks-like-a-mouse-don’t-ask-so-many-questions toy belonging to Fluffy. The direction he doesn’t want to go is the way they head. They decide that cramming Antler Guy into Steve’s Prius would be unhelpful, sunroof or not, so up on Antler Guy’s shoulders Steve goes. (Steve has always wanted to try it, in his heart of hearts. Its everything Timmy described and more.)
They set out, following the cringing hellhound. Even cringing and following the scent of the Feared Fluffy Thing, Clifford has some speed. (It helps that both Steve and Sharon explained the situation, via Aubergine.) In the space of perhaps an hour and a half, they hit the end of Antler Guy’s range.
Literally. If Steve hadn’t had a deathgrip on Antler Guy’s horn’s he’d have gone flying.
“NEIGHBOR STEVE, I CAN GO NO FARTHER.”
“Ugh, kinda got that Guy….”
Steve slithers off and looks at Antler Guy. He’s pushing at the air like there’s a forcefield. (There isn’t. Steve checks, just to be safe.) So, after a short conversation with Clifford, Antler Guy waits next to the last flamingo as Steve rides his big, red, skinless flaming dog onwards. (Steve had wanted to try this since he first read the Clifford books.) (Well, something close to it anyway.)
It is a measure of the surrealness of his day to day life that he isn’t surprised by the gate guarded by gun-toting gentlemen. Nor by the flurry of activity he and his dog raise by jumping it. A short, balding fellow in a Very Important Labcoat comes out of the concrete building and gives shrill orders to “apprehend that vile extra-planar sympathizer and his hideous creature”. As Clifford starts drooling green flames as he snarls, no one seems particularly interested in following his orders.
Luckily, a man riding a walking nightmare and then a hellhound garners attention. Specifically, a shitton to social media attention (and no few memes). And the government, unsurprisingly, monitors the areas inhabited by its extra-planar citizens very closely. So before the standoff gets beyond the tense stage and into the itchy trigger finger stage, a swarm of black SUV’s hit the scene.
Steve sits serene upon his noble steed as the wave of black suits descend. In record time the labcoat is escorted away, the guards are pacified, and an ominously growling cat carrier is presented to Steve. Clifford lets out a tremulous “BOOF?”, to which the carrier “Mrowls?”. Steve opens the carrier (the guards, as one, flinch- some of their compatriots are still in medical from trying to get the damn thing IN the carrier), and Fluffy walks out, dignified as the queen she is. She kneads Clifford’s head (without claws, for once), and settles in.
They make a strange parade returning, the dog and the biggest, shiniest, and most ominous of the SUV’s. (Strangely, all pictures taken of the cavalcade go mysteriously missing.) Antler Guy doesn’t care- as soon as he’s in range, Fluffy jumps to his head and purrs ferociously.
When the suits try to talk to him, he brushes them off, preferring to murmur in hair-raising tongues to his cat, who is still purring fit to split and is trying to groom his antlers. Steve sighs.
“What do you guys need? They’ll be busy for a while.”
“Well Mr. Anderson, we would like to offer our condolences at this unfortunate occurrence, and tender our assurances that it will never happen again.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We would also like to ascertain Mr……?”
“Antler Guy Abomination.”
“……Beg pardon?”
“Antler Guy Abomination. That’s what my son named him.”
“……”
“Technically he named him Antler Guy when he first saw him.”
“…………..”
“Abomination came later, when Son needed a name for that standardized testing stuff.”
“…..your son attends school with his offspring?”
“Yep. They’re at a sleepover right now. Sharon’s probably baking brownies with Hellwife. They’re both stress bakers.”
The suits have a whispered conference. Two short phone calls later, the suit with the shiniest pair of sunglasses has an offer for Steve.
Steve’s official title is Extra-Planar Liaison. Sharon calls it Neighbor Herding. Steve doesn’t care about the title. He gets twice his previous salary plus full benefits to ensure the smoothness of Antler Guy’s “integration in the fabric of human society”, which means all the things he was doing, plus field trips into other planes of reality. (Fluffy is fond of the gigantic mother cat; Clifford tries to eat the homunculi’s acid snot and regrets it immediately).
(Written for http://lkludwig.tumblr.com/, who won a contest and a choice- an original short story or to be written into Antler Guy. This was the choice!)
It started, innocently enough, with Timmy’s birthday party.
Steve, armed with the wealth garnered by his new job, not
only rented a bouncy house beloved by the Terrifying Triad, Auberguine, and
Steve himself, he finally upgraded the family phones. (His and Sharon’s anyway.
Timmy’s phone was lost to a scintillating puddle of mud and bones. Steve
shrugged, taught the acidic glop how to play Bejeweled, and cut the service
when they got home. The glop got better reception on it’s own.)
Upon gentle (i.e. at the monthly review meeting there were
pointed questions and a very well put together powerpoint given by a pair of
sunglasses that owned a luxurious handlebar mustache) prompting from his new
employers, Steve’s next task was to “show our new extraplanar neighbors in
a positive light to the greater population.”
Steve decided this was an excellent time to make an
Instagram account.
His first post, of Antler Guy delicately cutting his slice
of cake with his fingertips, nearly broke the notifications on Steve’s phone.
His second one, a short video of the Triad sneaking up on Antler Guy to smear
bright purple frosting on his face, did break the notifications. (Steve
restarted and adjusted his settings. Thank god he’d put the thing on silent.)
Antler Guy took the new development in stride, indulging
Steve in his posing and carrying the “selfie stick” Steve insisted
they bring on their excursions. His favorite part was scrolling through the
notifications (well, watching Steve scroll since his fingertips a) couldn’t
control the touchscreen and b) made the screen itself shimmer with rainbow
colors), seeing those who “followed” him.
“NEIGHBOR STEVE, I HAVE NOT HAD SO MANY FOLLOW MY LEAD
SINCE I CAME TO THE UPPER WORLD. THIS INSTANT-GRAM IS QUITE AMUSING.”
“Yeah, it is fun. Even the trolls are kinda
funny.”
“TROLLS? I DID NOT KNOW THE TROLLS HAD MIGRATED TO THE
INTERNET AS WELL.”
“…..as well as….? You know what, nevermind, I don’t
wanna know.”
Antler Guy even made friends over the social platform,
including one particularly nice lady in Pennsylvania,
an artist by the name of LK. He told Steve that some of her work reminded him
of home, especially the photo album and her husband’s sculptures. He purchased
one through Steve, “TO SEND TO COUSIN %&*@^^@, ZIR BOY LOOKS JUST LIKE
IT.”
“Just like that? But that looks human. Well, minus the
horns and the snarling.”
“YES. AMADEUS HAS MUCH OF HIS PREVIOUS LIFE.”
“……you lost me there, buddy. Previous life?”
“BEFORE HE WAS….. ADOPTED.”
“Wait, adopted? You guys adopt, what, human kids?”
“…….IN A SENSE.”
“Still lost here, buddy.”
“….I BELIEVE I HEAR MY HELLWIFE CALLING.”
“What, I don’t hear-”
“GOODNIGHT, NEIGHBOR STEVE.”
Never before had Steve seen Antler Guy run from him.
(Usually it was the other way around.) Sharon
didn’t believe him, until hours turned into days without a sign of Antler Guy.
Hellwife wouldn’t say anything no matter the daiquiris, she just looked at
Steve and sighed sadly. Son didn’t know anything either. He played quietly with
Timmy and Augy, sniffling occasionally. Even Millie practicing her zombie
makeup on Steve didn’t help. Finally, he murmured the reason to the Triad, who
took it to Steve with wide-eyed solemnity.
His father wouldn’t look at him.
“Guy, open the door.”
“Guy, I’m sorry I asked, please open the door.”
“……”
“Dammit, you can be mad at me but please, don’t let my
mistake mess it up with Son. He’s a great kid and he doesn’t understand that
it’s my fault not his, he needs his dad-”
“I AM NOT HIS FATHER.”
“You are in every way that cou-”
“I DO NOT DESERVE TO BE HIS FATHER.”
“Wha-?”
“HIS PATERNAL BEING MURDERED HIM AS AN INFANT AND WAS
IN TURN MURDERED.”
“…..holy….fu-”
“THEY CAME TO MY JURISDICTION. THE…..FATHER…..STILL
HELD ONTO THE SOUL OF THE CHILD HE HAD KILLED. I REMOVED HIS TOUCH FROM
HIM.”
“Good. Bastard deserved the worst you could throw at
him-”
“I KEPT HIM.”
“What?”
“I KEPT THE CHILD.”
“….So? He’s a cute kid, you guys are great
parents-”
“I SHOULD NOT HAVE KEPT HIM.”
“What the hell Guy?! That’s your Son!”
“HE WAS PURE.”
“…..and you lost me again….”
“HE WAS PURE. A PURE SOUL. HE DID NOT BELONG THERE.
NOT…. THERE. BUT I WAS WEAK, AND I WANTED……”
“….come on Guy, you can do it, I’ve got you.”
“…I…I WANTED…..A…..CHILD. A-AND WE
CANNOT….B-BREED ONE SO I….I CHANGED H-HIM AND K-KEPT H-H-HIM
FROM…..”
“Come on Guy, I’m here for you.”
“…..I KEPT HIM F-FROM HEAVEN.”
Nightmare eldritch abominations can cry. Its rare, so they
don’t keep Kleenex. (Steve never cared much for that shirt anyway.)
“Now you listen here. You are a damn fine father.
Hellwife is a damn fine mother. And Son is a damn fine kid. I doubt Heaven
would be as good for him as you two are.”
“…BUT-”
“No buts, buddy. I listen to Sharon, and she listens to everything. You
didn’t come here just for the green lawns and the flocking plastic flamingos,
did you?”
“…….NO.”
“Why’d you come here?”
“…….NEIGHBOR STEVE-”
“Why. Did. You. Come. Here.”
“….BECAUSE HE DESERVES BETTER.”
“Better than?”
“BETTER THAN….THERE. HE…. DESERVES THE CHANCES
HE….. SHOULD HAVE HAD. TO BE….HUMAN.”
“And you’re giving that to him. He goes to school, he
has friends, he takes spelling tests for pity’s sake! Yeah, he’s a little
different, but he has that chance. You’re giving him that chance. And you
shouldn’t beat yourself up for giving it to him.”
“…….”
“He loves you, Antler Guy. And he needs to know why his
father won’t look at him.”
“…….PLEASE, WOULD YOU….SEND THEM OVER?”
“Sure thing buddy.”
Sharon
bakes no less than 5 separate types of custard and Steve spends an extra hour
reading to Timmy that night. The next morning, Hellwife hugs Steve so hard he
squeaks. Twice. Son calls an emergency meeting of the Triad, and absconds with
two of the custards. They emerge later (Hellwife, Bea, and Sharon having drunk
several cups of coffee and polished off two more of the custards and a tray of
Hellwife’s cheesecake brownies) and immediately begin a game of tag.
Antler Guy also hugs Steve. They both sniffle a little.
(Also, thanks to this lovely user who’s post and resulting willingness to answer questions helped make this update what it is. Told you guys I read what you write ^_^)
~~~~~
For on who quite literally oversaw Hell, and lived there, Antler Guy has a hard time lying. (There is little point in it, really, the truth hurts far more.) When asked why he closets himself with the Terrifying Triad, Fluffy, and Steve’s home computer, he almost gains enough facial expression to be shifty.
Almost.
Steve doesn’t press too hard. The origins of Son are still new and a tender area, one that he’s unwilling to accidentally tromp on, and he figures that Guy will spill when the time is right. Patience. Patience is key. And trust. And patience.
He lasts almost a week before he caves and checks the browsing history on Timmy’s account.
His eyebrows start climbing at “HOW TO ASSIST SMALL HUMANS”, and don’t stop until they hit hairline with “animals to help at hospitals”. Its not something he’s ever considered before, but the more he thinks about it, the more he likes it. And it would be good PR for Antler Guy.
(The suits would like more progress than an Instagram account.)
(……the suits will not like this.)
(……….)
(Steve starts making calls that same day. Sharon gets an excited text from him, and makes much more effective calls.)
~
“NEIGHBOR STEVE, I AM UNSURE.”
“C’mon Guy, we talked about this. We got Fluffy and Clifford registered and Hellwife made them matching vests and everything!”
“I DO NOT FEAR FOR FLUFFY. SHE IS A FINE MAMMALIAN AMBASSADOR. I HAVE NOTICED THAT HUMAN YOUNG OFTEN FIND ME ………INTIMIDATING.”
“I think you’ll be surprised, Guy.” is all Steve will say on the subject.
And he is. Due to height concerns, the first part of the visit to the Shriner’s hospital near their area of suburbia is held outside. Clifford is a big hit- he lays down still as can be as the kids (and nurses, because they can) climb all over him. Those steady enough enjoy a ride get their fill as he lopes along the strip of grass, his passengers held perfectly steady and whooping all the way. Sharon stays with Clifford and shows a rapt audience how a gigantic dog (past 8 feet tall and creeping on 9) will beg for treats. Drool is involved. A lot of drool.
Steve and Antler Guy push on. The first stop is the children’s cancer ward. Antler Guy is hesitant, but the greeting stops him in his tracks. Every child there is smiling at him- and every Monster Under The Bed is smiling too. (Those of them that have faces, anyway. The mass of tetrahedrons glitters in a friendly fashion.)
The hospital’s Director of Extra-planar Concerns smiles too. She adjusts her clipboard, and scritches Fluffy’s head when she wraps around her ankles.
“At this hospital, we believe in helping our patients to the best of our ability. And our Monster Helper program allows beings who no longer fit in their old jobs to have gainful employment. All of our monsters here are certified Eaters of Bad Dreams, and have been known to form close bonds with their assigned child. Some even leave with the patient once their illness has been cured.” She patted Antler Guy’s arm and pointed towards a large chair suitable for his frame. “Why not get acquainted?”
Antler Guy immediately descends into chittering conversation with the assembled monsters, gravely introducing himself to each and every child, listening to their stories and boasts about how their Monster is a lot more scary than him, but with time he can learn to be scarier. A tiny girl with a terrifying amount of IV lines and no hair pats his long hands gently, under the careful eye of her ever-watchful Monster (being mostly a mass of eyes with a long, long, long purple tongue).
Fluffy is the center of her own social whirl, purring magnificently despite the occasional hair-pulling so children who hadn’t seen their own pets in far too long could hold something soft, and warm, and good. (Fluffy Monsters are something of a rarity, and sometimes are too busy for communal pettings.)
Steve, having no special power going for him and only the standard human kit, plays round after round of Go Fish with a shy young boy missing an arm. His Monster, a tentacled starfish thing, assists him while playing it’s own hand and holding cards for the tetrahedron, who’s human child is too tired to participate, but looks on none-the-less and calls out the tetrahedron’s choices in a whispy voice.
It becomes a regular stop. They set up a family day, where each family gets to meet the Abominations and see what their children were so excited about. Antler Guy and Hellwife are the epitome of grace and kindness. Timmy and Millie lead a massive game of tag with Auberguine as It, and Son gets to cut the cake.
(The donations that come from the Instagram posts made that day are staggering– three months operating costs in the first hour. The Director of Extra-planar Concerns can be seen weeping in the embrace of a dew-clawed lizard, also weeping.)
Two months (and many moments spent at the hospital, both bitter and sweet) later, the smoking letter arrives on Antler Guy’s doorstep.
It really was too good to last.
The whole street knows something is wrong the day It arrives.
A glowing ball of impossible light floats down the street. To look directly at It is impossible; a glance out of the corner of the eye is almost managable, but still useless. A melody just beyond the edge of hearing follows It, but no one tries to get closer. Some residual memory hiding deep in the hindbrain warns that to approach is to burn, lit up within by the purity of one’s soul trying to rejoin the source before it’s time.
The eldritch of the street do not sense It until It is there, an implacable, unstoppable force. Most hide. Miss Cravandish- the gorgon that teaches Physical Education at the middle school, currently on maternal leave until her eggs hatch- drops a pot full of her prized daffodil bulbs. Peabody scoops up his Pomeranian in all sixteen arms and runs, flat out, for home. He ignores the pain when his shoes slide off his tentacles and the asphalt burns his squishy skin.
No one dares warn the Abominations, or Steve and Sharon. It is only due to great good luck that both families were out that day- the kids at school, Sharon coordinating a bake sale to fundraise for more inclusive programming at the After School program, Hellwife shopping, and Steve and Antler Guy checking on a recent addition to the Shriner’s Ward- a tiny baby girl riddled with tumors. Her Monster was a living floofy rug that hummed gently. It had good news for them- her vitals were improving, the tumors seemed to be shrinking. The ride home was joyful; Antler Guy grinned the whole way, waving at passing cars from the sunroof of the Prius, Fluffy in the back seat. (Clifford had stayed home. He was currently cowering behind Mr. Manzo’s shed with Mr. Manzo as It passed.)
His joy ended the moment they turned onto the street and saw the unearthly light in front of his home.
“NEIGHBOR STEVE. STOP THE CAR.”
“What the fuck is tha-”
“STOP. THE. CAR.”
What happened next was hard to see, and hear. Steve, when trying to explain to Sharon later that night, mostly remembers a liquid feeling in his ears and a tightness in his eyes. He was pretty sure Antler Guy approached It, but he couldn’t be certain. Neighbors said Steve screamed and Antler Guy shouted something, and It left. But It left behind Steve, passed out in the concerned embrace of the deathshade vines, and Antler Guy, holding a gently smoking envelope, laid out flat on his own doorstep.
Sharon comes home to this moments after It leaves. Later, most folk agree that it was best this way. Her concern is surpassed only by her rage when she learns what happened. Almost immediately she grasps the situation from neighbors coming to check. 911 is deemed useless, as are the Suits. Sharon makes only two calls- one to Beatrice, to warn her and ask that she pick up the children and bring the boys home (Beatrice agrees, and wishes her good hunting), and one to Hellwife.
Moments after the second call is made, reality warps and Hellwife appears, kicking aside a pile of Wal-mart bags that appeared with her. Where Sharon is fiery rage tightly held, Hellwife is icy calculation spilled everywhere- the whole street shivers when she delicately picks the envelope out of her unconscious husband’s long fingers. On a balmy summer day, the decorative thermometer on Mrs. Giotto’s porch drops 30 degrees as she reads it carefully. Twice. And folds it neatly.
“ThEY. HavE. NO. RIGHT.”
Clifford, who was nosing his master and gently licking him to rouse him, immediately starts howling. Fluffy pauses her grooming of Antler Guy’s brow ridges to yowl with him.
~~~
The menfolk eventually rouse. No lasting harm is done, but a family meeting is called. Beatrice and Millie are included at Hellwife’s insistence (“You aRE Kin Of My Son, AnD sO
mY kIN.
yOu ArE famILy.
PlEase, StAY.” They do.)
To put it simply, and without the complicated and unutterable by human tongue language involved, the letter delivered by It is two things- a cease-and-desist order for Antler Guy to stop interfering with the business of Heaven, and a summons for one human soul, male, to be returned to Heaven.
Antler Guy had been doing a bit more than just visiting at the hospital. He had been strengthening the children and the ill, a breath at a time, and some had lived who should have died and gone to the Heavens. He had also deliberately misfiled the paperwork of Son’s mortal life, and it had taken this long to solve the mix-up.
The Heavens wanted Son, and they wanted punishment for Antler Guy’s crimes.
There is a hierarchy to Hell, and to Heaven. Hell is, very simply, Not Heaven. There are some very pleasant places that would not swear to Heaven, and so are regarded as Hell. Earth was left as a neutral area, one where both sides could leverage influence to see who, finally, Wins. No direct action can be taken by either side.
Officially, that’s all there is. Heaven, Earth, and Hell.
Unofficially…
~~~
“Do yOu KnOW yOur LinEs, neIghBor SteVe?”
“Yes ma’am!”
“NEIGHBOR STEVE, BEATRICE, SHARON, YOU DO NOT HAVE TO-”
“HUSH husBand. They are Sure, As aRE we All.”
“BUT I DO NOT DESERVE-”
“Enough.” Everyone- Triad, associated parents, Antler Guy, even the plants and the pets- shivered in the parking lot. Hellwife normally was… nondescript. Not nearly as terrifying at first glance as Antler Guy could be. But the last week, she had started to gather an invisible force to herself (not a literal force, Steve had quietly asked one day.) An air of regal power surrounded her now. A very large and insistent air of regal power. “I Am Your WiFe, HusBanD, And I WiLL deCIdE WhAt yoU DeServe.”
She tenderly scritched around the base of his horns as he sat in the middle of the circle of friends and family (and some vines carefully grown and shed under Hellwife’s specific instruction. Aubergine and Bella refused to be left behind.) Antler Guy quieted under his wife’s gentle claws. The moon shone pale on his polished skull as the hour inched closer to 2 AM.
“ArE You reADy, mY Son? TimmY? MilliE?”
“yes mama.”
“Yes Miss Hellwife.”
“Yes Missus Hellwife.”
The bright parking lot lights grew strangely dim.
“ThEn Let Us Begin.”
~~~
Unofficially, there’s Denny’s.
~~~
Hellwife held out the envelope outside of their circle, and began to Speak. (For the sake of human brains, she had carefully applied her own sort of runes on all participating non-eldritch creatures, including Fluffy. Even cats have their limits.) It glowed, burning itself up into strangely-scented smoke that drifted out into a pool, one that glowed in the same way that It had glowed.
It did not appear, for that was not It’s function. But two other Things drew themselves out of the mist, Things that triggered pain, and fear, and the agonizing knowledge that you deserved this, you deserved whatever They did to you because you are impure, imperfect, not worthy of such Light–
“Enough.”
They…flinched.
“I did not Call for such lackeys. Either send a proper representative, or I will consider the matter closed.”
They roiled uncertainly.
“Do not try my patience.”
They converged on the pool. Steve could feel that liquid sensation in his ears again, only the squiggles Hellwife had carefully drawn kept it from being painful. He had a mighty desire for a Q-tip, though.
Something Else flowed out of the pool. It was not an It, nor a They. This one radiated something else. This one had Power, the kind that would squish a lesser being with no regard, Power that pressed at the mind to be obeyed.
This… was a Boss.
Again, the liquid feeling, only mixed with…derision? If water could hold a snort, that’s what the Boss would radiate. Steve decided a baseball bat would be a better choice.
“Better. A proper Witness.”
Quizzical waterslosh?
“Steve, if you’ll get started?”
“Oh, I, uh, I do so swear…”
Sharon grabbed his right hand, Beatrice his left. In the small circle they made were Antler Guy, the Triad in his lap. Fluffy rode Clifford’s head as he lit the vine circle that surrounded them all, Aubergine and Bella forming a living one within it.
“-of my own free will-”
Hellwife stood between them and the Boss at the edge of the circle, staring at the Boss and it’s increasing distressed They.
“-pledge my son-”
The Boss quivered.
“-as I pledge my son-”
“-as I pledge my daughter-”
The Boss billowed menacingly. Hellwife narrowed her eyes.
“-AS I PLEDGE MY SON-”
The Boss screamed. Hellwife smiled. And stage-whispered.
“-aS I PleDGe My Son-”
The Boss screamed again, and They threw themselves at the barrier of hellfire, fed on wood freely given, reinforced by living flesh. Hellwife smiled.
“““-as we pledge to eachother-”””
And spoke.
“As witnessed by Heaven, Hell, and Earth, our children are pledged Betrothed. Their souls belong to each other, and none other.”
They were looking worse for the wear, Their light dulled and curls of smoke flickering over Them. The Boss was pissed, and the tickle of water in the ears became a torrent, one so angry that words were almost visible.
HE WHO FELL IS MINE.
The force behind the words was direct, and nigh unavoidable for one who had touched Heaven, much less one who fell from it. Antler Guy shook, and tried to stand. The kids, the adults, the plants- even Clifford held him down. Fluffy stood on his head, hissing softly.
Hellwife bared her teeth in a grin that had nothing at all of goodwill in it. She delicately stepped outside of the circle and spread her arms. The aura of regal power bloomed.
The Boss yelped.
“I Invoke my right as Wife to Fight for my Husband. The winner may keep Him.”
The Boss tried it’s best to rally the troops, even call for help- a wave of her delicate claws and the misty gate dimmed in brightness. No help would come from there.
“And since I never Fell…” She stepped forward. The forces of Heaven cringed.
“…you will fight me Fair.”
The mortals kept their heads down, as she had warned them to. A shield of leaves from Aubergine hid the sight and some of the sound as Bella sang her best rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody. Sharon joined for some of the duets.
“Who’s First?”
~~~
The victory feast in the diner was somewhat confusing for the servers, but justly deserved for the family. (A side door was opened for Clifford and Auberguine, who just couldn’t fit in the restaurant.)
(Hellwife occasionally hiccups slightly glowing mist. Beatrice folds her a birthday crown, and Bella waves the indigestible bits of holiness out the side door. Sharon hugs her, Steve orders her favorite birthday cake-flavored shake. The kids are smiling, and her husband’s claws entwine with her own.)
im scrEAMING IT KEEPS GETTING BETTER
There are consequences to all things.
Happily, most of them are benign. Sure, the Spirit of Dennys asks for a barrel of maple syrup- the really real squeezed-from-actual-woodflesh kind. (Hellwife has a cousin in Vermont.) (Well, a cousin who IS Vermont, but still.)
The hiccups last a few days, but any lingering odor is neatly covered by the thoughtful gift of a Febreeze spritzer, courtesy of Beatrice. It turned them a lovely shade of puce.
The Trio are, if anything, even more inseparable. Antler Guy assures all parties that any true telepathy would not develop until consummation of the Betrothal. (A consummation that would never necessarily have to happen- the Betrothal could not be broken, true, but Son would be perfectly happy living in sin, and modern human conventions were much different from what they used to be.) (This was carefully explained to the two pre-teens and the equivalent-in-eldritch-years-no-really-he’s-in-his 30′s???. Timmy made a face, Millie nodded solemnly, and Son blushed all the way down to his feeder roots.)
However, emotional bleed-over was to be expected. When Timmy lost his homework, the others were anxious. When Son broke a major branch during P.E., Timmy and Millie both felt phantom pain. When Bella finally learned how to use Timmy’s old skateboard to move freely about the apartment, using tendrils to pull herself along and singing the Spiderman theme song, the boys couldn’t stop smiling (especially when they saw Millie’s recording of it).
The Suits have an honest to goodness conniption fit when the next scheduled meeting rolls around. Sunglasses were snapped, mustaches ruffled, and pants pleats uncaringly wrinkled in the uproar. When asked why he had not reported it earlier, Steve tells them “it was a family thing, no need to involve anyone, it was handled.” When asked how, he tells them nothing more than “lady stood by her rights, trust me, if I knew more I probably wouldn’t be here. She’s scary when she’s pissed.” Hellwife’s file gets several new pages from this, mostly filled with question marks.
There are no reprisals from Heaven. (”Of coURse nOt, NeighBOr sTeVE, iT Was HandLEd iN A leGal MannER. I fOllOwEd tHeIr Rules To tHe LettEr, anD Not An inCh mOre.”) The street breathes easier, and the Mother’s Mafia authorizes a Congratulations themed series of covert food deliveries. (They aren’t sure what they’re congratulating, but it certainly requires baked goods and casseroles at We-Won-Homecoming-levels.) The eldritch neighbors show their solidarity as well. Miss Cravandish offers Sharon to be brood-Godmother. She accepts, much to Steve’s eternal delight (”make them an offer they can’t refuse do you get it honey-”). The lovely gargoyle couple make a tiny statue of Antler Guy, complete with a teensy Fluffy for his head. Peabody dedicates his next cycle to Hellwife, and excretes a stunning pearl necklace one globule at a time. (She knits him a silk sweater for himself and a matching one for his Pomeranian, Brutus.)
Hellwife’s role is downplayed, at her insistence. “i hAvE lIvEd in The pUbLic Eye, anD I preFEr mY maRRIed Life. I Am Happy. TrulY.” Some of it can’t be hidden, but she hides in plain sight again, in the shadow of her husband’s open manner. The rhythm of their lives calm somewhat, and the outside world forgets.
Mostly.
My god, can I have more?
Antler Guy refuses to stop his hospital visits, and the trend of tiny miracles continues. Not enough to be noticeable to the world at large (for he is not the only eldritch being in a new life, and others with fewer….restraints have been making huge strides in human medicine), but enough that he feels…. good. The neighborhood settles into itself- a little odd around the edges, but not unwelcoming.
And then, into the vacant house behind Steve and Sharon, comes a middle-management systems analyst named Ri’Lethiel.
Ri’Lethiel is not his legal name. His parents named him Robert, but several teenage rebellions later he alighted upon the occult scene, and took the name Ri’Lethiel. He never really left the occult scene; when the eldritch came into mainstream life he watched, waited, and traded information.
Antler Guy and his family are very high profile- even the Suits can only creatively edit their presence so far. And the Suits cannot edit what they cannot find. The Dark Web is darker than one may expect and some corners are under strange patronage indeed. The particular website that Ri’Lethiel frequents, updates, and is a long-standing moderator of is dedicated to the tracking and research of powerful eldritch. Some members treat it as an odd form of bird-watching or celebrity tracking. Others have different reasons to follow them.
There is nothing out of the ordinary about him. Antler Guy senses no ill-will, Hellwife does not feel unease. Sharon’s network trips no alarms and Steve… is Steve. While Ri’Lethiel is not incredibly outgoing he is not the surliest neighbor in the area by any means. He blends in to neighborhood life for several months, almost a half a year.
He is…..average. Forgettable.
He does not wish to be so for much longer.
~~~
The day the children go missing is the day that Beatrice graduates.
(Steve, in a moment of inspiration all his own, cites the expanded family ties created by the Betrothal as an excellent reason to bring Beatrice in on the government payroll. The look on her face when he told her her new salary and the sort of benefits it entailed should she accept is forever one of the best moments of Steve’s life. She chose to quit her previous job and finish the degrees she had paused when Millie was born, via online courses at a local junior college.)
She does not walk, nor attends the ceremony. Sharon, in an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, has a horrible case of the stomach flu. Hellwife, being immune to human diseases, is tending her at the Abomination’s house so as not to infect the rest of the family. Steve, fretting over his wife, is forced to attend the monthly Suit meeting with a glorious set of nerves and no little anger. (The Suits did not feel as though a mere sick wife was good reason to postpone. Sharon is already planning her rebuttal once food stays mostly in place.) Antler Guy, who presented Beatrice with a truly glorious bouquet of mostly-native-to-this-plane-of-existence flowers as a mass apology and congratulations, has his own meetings to go to.
This leaves Beatrice in care of the Triad. It is also their last day of school, and a grand party was planned for. The Mother’s Mafia catered the event and a sea of casseroles and other homemade goodies covered the tables. (All known allergies are accounted for, and tables are clearly marked by contagion.) (There will be no repeat of little Spg’lck’s unfortunate inflation-via-cumin-powder. The janitors have politely requested greater vigilance, for his slime is very difficult to remove from the ceiling.)
The party (planned long in advance by the sub-commanders of the MM) is a grand success. Three tired, happy children climb into the middle seat of Sharon’s minivan (on loan from said worthy, while Beatrice’s sedan is in the shop), while Beatrice helps a pregnant Mafia member load her car with food and toddlers.
The squeal of tires and the terrified screams of her children turn heads. Her own wordless cry incites panic.
Her purse is found two blocks down the road, with her phone and wallet inside, tossed from the car at speed. The police are called; Hellwife and Sharon are called immediately, but cannot leave the sick room. Antler Guy is unreachable and a bored voice (later a jobless voice, once his superiors get a hold of his sunglasses) tells the frantic Beatrice that Steve “will be notified of her call once his meeting is over.”
Hours later her car is found. Locked inside is Millie, badly bruised and chloroformed in a hot, airless car. Timmy and Son are nowhere to be found, but a pale patch of sap is splattered against a window, and Timmy’s sneaker is left on the floor.
Steve joins her in the hospital, pale and shaking, and they wait for Millie to wake up.
Hospitals are their own sort of crossroads. Loaded with the struggle
for one more breath, the despair of those too late, and the calm
acceptance of people who have good reason to court the Reaper, the
potential for exploitation by those of ill intent is high in the Days
After reunification. There are guardians in place and wards kept running
smooth- not all divine, and certainly not all of Heaven. A peace is
kept by sheer force of will of those who work there.
This peace
was preserved in the face of Suits (repelled by gimlet-eyed nurses and a
few of the upper ward gargoyles recruited as muscle), media frenzy (a
cordon of security guards, including Siegfried the auroch minotaur), and
the vanguard of the Mother’s Mafia (a quick conference call to Sharon
and they scatter, some to organize who was a possible witness, some to
canvas the neighborhood, some to coordinate logistics and supplies.)
(Though the general is weakened she is not without strength, and this is
what she can do well. This is what she tells herself as she crumbles in
private call to Steve, wrapped in Hellwife’s arms as she fights not to
vomit again. She isn’t sure who is shaking worse, herself, Hellwife, or
Steve’s hands as he holds the phone.)
In the face of Beatrice’s
grief, the peace is uneasy. It lightens a little when Steve arrives,
because he is a past master of acting as ambassador to those beyond,
whether beyond human understanding or beyond the depths of grief. His
hope, too, lies in Millie’s tiny limp hands, and this is something that
he can do, for her, for Beatrice, for Timmy, for Son. He can sort
through pleasantries and accept a dinner tray. He can gently encourage
Beatrice to eat a little, and listen to the doctors while watching the
nurses. And he can hold back the terrible gnawing fear because this,
this is something that he can do. He can do this. He can.
Beatrice
is not lost. This is not her first time, watching the rise and fall of
her daughter’s chest, willing it to continue. Millie’s father nearly
killed her, beating Beatrice into early labor. The first month of
Millie’s life was spent in an incubator with her mother watching,
watching. They were all alone, her and Millie, until an awkward, goofy
man brought a huge house-trained cabbage just to keep her daughter safe,
until the leader of the neighborhood stay-at-home spouses absorbed her
into their web, until a family of Halloween decoration rejects that her
mother would have run screaming from were the kindest beings she ever
met. (Steve told her what Antler Guy had done to the peeping tom. She
admits to herself that she considered asking him to visit Millie’s
father in a similar way.)
Even now she watched how these people-
her new family- drew together, holding each other up through their own
overwhelming pain to help hold her too. She spared a moment to be
grateful that at least Millie was here, not lost and possibly hurt,
before returning to her thoughts. She had given a thorough report to the
police, of course, and combed through every bit that she could remember
with obsessive detail. She simply could not remember. This is
suspicious, in itself. Beatrice does not forget small detail. Her life
has taught her that the tiniest change can be incredibly significant:
Millie’s untimely birth started with a dangerous silence she reacted to
too late. So she knows when the children have a secret, often before
Sharon. She knew the day before Miss Cravandish’s eggs hatched, just
from the way the peeping changed tone. She watches, and she hides in
plain sight. An unwed black mother is not always seen and she uses this
to her advantage, another weapon in an unkind world.
As Steve
sleeps under a thin blanket with exhaustion etched in deep under his
eyes, Beatrice thinks. She thinks about all the snippets she has picked
up from Hellwife, the frantic research into eldritch protections that
she did when Millie first became friends with Son, the feeling in the
air when she walks through a ward-line. She thinks about her daughter,
the way she smiles, how happy the boys make her, how their lives have
changed so much.
She thinks about how she has never seen a birthmark on her daughter’s bicep before.
~~~
Steve
makes a call to the Suits when Millie wakes up. Not to ask for help but
merely to inform them that yes, she is awake and no, she will not
answer any questions from Suits or police. The hospital administration
tries half-heartedly to keep Millie for observation, but other than a
reluctance to talk she is in perfect health. Her mother insists on going
home, for recuperation in a friendly environment. No one sees the fist
in her pocket, or the wad of Kleenex wrapped with precision around a
dark-brown smear.
The car ride is uneventful- Steve drives while
mother and daughter cuddle in the back, and whisper. They turn onto a
ghost-street- no one is out, not even at midmorning. There are signs of
life, though, and care- the pets have been fed and watered, Auberguine’s
leaves are neatly bundled for the composting pickup. Bella’s skateboard
is propped against the Abomination’s porch, next to a fresh delivery of
soup and casserole. (Bella herself is currently curled up deep in the
depths of Auberguine, having cried herself to sleep. Mr. Paws and
Puggles keep her company.) Fluffy and Clifford are asleep in the front
yard, having spent most of the night searching for scents with the help
of Mr. Manzo, Peabody, and Brutus.
Hellwife welcomes them home
with open arms and ushers them into her home. An oilslick bubble keeps
Sharon’s sickness from spreading to the human contingent. In a nest of
blankets and a sad-looking bucket rests Sharon, looking worse than the
projectile vomiting episode that triggered her quarantine. Hellwife
settles in next to her, taking comfort as much as she gives it. Steve
starts for his wife, and is stopped by Beatrice.
“Wait Steve. We need to talk.”
The
smear on the tissue, carefully tasted by Hellwife, is some sort of
suppressant. At her request, Hellwife checks both mother and child for
magical interference. Hellwife’s brow-twigs furrow.
“tHEre Is SomeThIng, BuT iT hiDEs. SliThery WretChed thinG-”
“But there is something, right? Something that is designed to make you not look?” Beatrice’s eyes gleam.
“YeS….bUT
I CannoT caTch it. mY HusbaND is BeTTer at SucH TWisTy casTiNG.”
Hellwife sighs, and she droops. “i worRy thAT i CannOt rEacH Him, noR
fEEl Son. ThIs tasTes Of ConSPiRaCy.”
No one looks surprised.
Steve looks almost as sickly as his wife, who has regained some color
from sheer rage. Beatrice holds Millie in her lap, eyes faraway and
thinking. Millie tugs on her mother’s shirt, and whispers in her ear.
Beatrice nods.
“Millie can find them.”
~~~
The neighborhood is quiet, but eyes are watching.
The
bond between the children allows Millie to zero in on the boys’
position with relative ease. (It does not help the feeling of conspiracy
to find them so close to home.) Information flies through phones warded
against wire-tapping and via Hellwife’s Interhouse Begonia Mail system-
who lives there, what do we know about him, recent movements- reports
are sparse. No one in the neighborhood offers to call the police, not
even the retired cop Mr. B. Clive on the corner. Police couldn’t help.
But
these, these are the people in the neighborhood. These are the Manzos,
the Hendersons, the Fitz-Simmons, Mrs. Giotto, Mr. Clive, and all the
other humans that have accepted and welcomed the Abominations (even if
somewhat reluctantly, at first), that paved the way for other eldritch
to come and have a home, a community. And that community, made of grumpy
ex-cops and the gorgon hatchlings that he baby-sits, of timid gardeners
and tentacle-kin, will not tolerate what was done to three innocent
children, what may still be happening to two of them.
As the sun
sets, they gather. A solid line of beings surrounds the house. Fences
are bridged with hands and arms, but no one touches the fence or grounds
of Robert’s lot. Dead center in the front, in an arc that goes into the
street, is Hellwife, and Beatrice, and Steve. (Millie is in the
Anderson home, behind layers of Auberguine and the very protective pets.
Sharon is still in her bubble, but her subcommanders keep her supplied
with information and warm soup.) An old man steps up, and unfolds a very
long letter. This is Mr. Krupnik, the elderly lawyer friend of Antler
Guy, and the current elected representative of the Home Owners
Association of the area.
Midway through the reading of grievances,
the house begins to creak. A few paragraphs more and it sways
alarmingly. With the words “lein for non-payment of fines” it shrieks
like a dying thing, and spits out three beings in a flood of house
furnishings and occult paraphernalia. The two small shapes are plucked
from the flood by their parents.
The third watches in
pants-shitting terror as the father of one of the boys, no longer held
in check by the possible murder of his child and in no mood for the
blackmail “Ri’Lethiel” had attempted, materializes in front of him. Mr.
Krupnik clears his throat, hands Antler Guy the letter gravely, and lets
his fellow member of the HOA finish the eviction in his own special
way.
~~~
By unanimous consent the empty house is sold to
Beatrice, who pays in full (for the Suits kept their word, and her
savings account is plump) and remodels extensively. The fences
separating the three properties are removed- it is less three families
in three houses, and more one family with extensive yardage. The grounds
are, by neighborhood agreement, an unofficial playground supervised by
Auberguine and deathshade vines. (Auberguine at her adult size cannot be
contained in a house, but monitoring a playground of screaming children
keeps her occupied and happy. The deathshade vines like eating the shed
goldfish crackers, and stealing the occasional pacifier.) The
Abomination’s home is invite-only for safety concerns, as it obeys
mortal physics only loosely. The Anderson’s home is wide-open, a
community hub of interaction and information. Beatrice’s home is the
quiet place, the still pool in an often-turbulent extended family. But
it is their family, one that they have made. And whether quiet or
raucous, together or far-flung, it remains their family, their
neighborhood, their community.
And they embrace it, and defend it, and hold it open for others seeking home.
Look, I don’t believe in God, but I will not disrespect the Good Gentlemen of the Hills. That’s just common sense.
Between this and the Icelanders with their elves I do not understand what is going on above the 50th parallel.
My general rule of thumb: you don’t have to believe in everything, but don’t fuck with it, just in case.
^^^ that part
This is truer than true. Especially the Irish part.
Let me tell you what I know about this after living here for nearly thirty years.
This is a modern European country, the home of hot net startups, of Internet giants and (in some places, some very few places) the fastest broadband on Earth. People here live in this century, HARD.
Yet they get nervous about walking up that one hill close to their home after dark, because, you know… stuff happens there.
I know this because Peter and I live next to One Of Those Hills. There are people in our locality who wouldn’t go up our tiny country road on a dark night for love or money. What they make of us being so close to it for so long without harm coming to us, I have no idea. For all I know, it’s ascribed to us being writers (i.e. sort of bards) or mad folk (also in some kind of positive relationship with the Dangerous Side: don’t forget that the root word of “silly”, which used to be English for “crazy”, is the Old English _saelig_, “holy”…) or otherwise somehow weirdly exempt.
And you know what? I’m never going to ask. Because one does not discuss such things. Lest people from outside get the wrong idea about us, about normal modern Irish people living in normal modern Ireland.
You hear about this in whispers, though, in the pub, late at night, when all the tourists have gone to bed or gone away and no one but the locals are around. That hill. That curve in the road. That cold feeling you get in that one place. There is a deep understanding that there is something here older than us, that doesn’t care about us particularly, that (when we obtrude on it) is as willing to kick us in the slats as to let us pass by unmolested.
So you greet the magpies, singly or otherwise. You let stones in the middle of fields be. You apologize to the hawthorn bush when you’re pruning it. If you see something peculiar that cannot be otherwise explained, you are polite to it and pass onward about your business without further comment. And you don’t go on about it afterwards. Because it’s… unwise. Not that you personally know any examples of people who’ve screwed it up, of course. But you don’t meddle, and you learn when to look the other way, not to see, not to hear. Some things have just been here (for various values of “here” and various values of “been”) a lot longer than you have, and will be here still after you’re gone. That’s the way of it. When you hear the story about the idiots who for a prank chainsawed the centuries-old fairy tree a couple of counties over, you say – if asked by a neighbor – exactly what they’re probably thinking: “Poor fuckers. They’re doomed.” And if asked by anybody else you shake your head and say something anodyne about Kids These Days. (While thinking DOOMED all over again, because there are some particularly self-destructive ways to increase entropy.)
Meanwhile, in Iceland: the county council that carelessly knocked a known elf rock off a hillside when repairing a road has had to go dig the rock up from where it got buried during construction, because that road has had the most impossible damn stuff happen to it since that you ever heard of. Doubtless some nice person (maybe they’ll send out for the Priest of Thor or some such) will come along and do a little propitiatory sacrifice of some kind to the alfar, belatedly begging their pardon for the inconvenience.
They’re building the alfar a new temple, too.
Atlantic islands. Faerie: we haz it.
The Southwest is like this in some ways. You don’t go traveling along the highways at night with an empty car seat. Because an empty car seat is an invitation. You stick your luggage, your laptop bag, whatever you got in that seat. Else something best left undiscussed and unnamed (because to discuss it by name is to go ‘AY WE’RE TALKING BOUT YA WE’RE HERE AND ALSO IGNORANT OF WHAT YOU’RE CAPABLE OF’ at the top of your damn lungs at them) will jump in to the car, after which you’re gonna have a bad time.
If you’re out in the woods, you keep constant, consistent count of your party and make sure you know everyone well enough that you can ID them by face alone, lest something imitating a person get at you. They like to insert themselves in the party and just observe before they strike. It’s a game to them. In general you don’t fuck with the weird, you ignore the lights in the sky (no, this isn’t a god damn night vale reference, yes I’m serious) and the woods, you lock up at night and you don’t answer the door for love or money. Whatever or whoever’s knocking ain’t your buddy.
^ So much good advice in this post right here
I live in the south and… you just… don’t go into the woods or fields at night.
Don’t go near big trees in the night
If you live on a farm, don’t look outside the windows at night
I have broken all these rules.
I’ve seen some shit.
If it sounds like your mom, but you didn’t realize your mom is home…. it’s not your mom. Promise.
One walked onto the porch once. Wasn’t fun. But they’re not super keen on guns. Typically bolt when they see one.
You think it’s the neighbor kids.
It’s not the neighbor kids.
Might sound like coyotes but you never really /see/ the coyotes but then wow that one cow was reaaaaaally fucked up this morning. The next night when you hear another one screaming you just turn the tv up a little more. Maybe fire a gun in the air but you don’t go after it. If it is coyotes then it’s probably a pack and you seriously don’t want to fuck with that and if it’s the other thing you seriously REALLY don’t want to fuck with that.
So in the south, especially near the mountains, you just go straight from your car to inside your house, draw your curtains and watch tv.
If you see lights in the fields just fucking leave it alone.
Eyes forward. Don’t be fucking stupid. Mind your own business. Call your neighbors and tell them to bring the cats in. There’s coyotes out. Some of them know. Most of them don’t.
Other than that everything’s a ghost and they died in the civil war. Literally all of everything else is just the civil war. We used to smell old perfume and pipe tobacco in the weeks leading up to the battle anniversaries.
Shit’s wild and I sound fucking crazy but I swear to god it’s true.
Every time this post comes around, it’s my favorite to open up the notes and read the stories. Probably shouldn’t have since I’m sleeping alone tonight, but you know, it’s fine. 😂
Austrian girl here who has lived in Ireland for 5+ years. This shit is LEGIT. I’ve seen it with my own two Catholic eyes.
Sure, visit during the day. That’s alright as long as you’re respectful. But you couldn’t PAY ME ENOUGH to go there at night. These are also the last places where you wanna start littering.
I grew up in southwest Pennsylvania which is a weird mixture of American cultures and environments. I was in the heavily forested mountains (northern Appalachia) but had lots and lots of corn fields and cow pastures. Like the Smoky Mountains and fields of Kansas combined. And being so cut off from a lot of the world, we had our fair share of ghost stories.
We had ‘witches’ in the mountains (more like ghost-women who will snatch you up by making you wander in a daze around the forest like the Blair Witch before killing you or letting you back out into society but you’re… different). Or devils in springs or abandoned wells (don’t look too long into one or something will follow you).
But we also had the cornfield demons. I’ve witnessed this many times. You’ll be in the passenger seat looking out the window and see red glowing eyes in the cornfield. No light shining in that direction. Just two red dots a few inches apart faintly glowing in a pitch black cornfield. They’re not the glow of deer eyes in the headlights. More like the embers of a dying fire. Sometimes, as you drive away, you’ll look out the back window or side mirror and you can see the eyes have moved to the edge of the corn field, still watching you. If you bring it up with the driver, they’ll call you paranoid, but grip the wheel a bit tighter and driver a little faster.
I was walking to a friend’s house one night. It was about 20 minutes down a dirt road with forest on one side and a cornfield on the other. I’ve walked past it many times and wasn’t really concerned. My main worry was coming across a skunk or porcupine. I didn’t have a flashlight because the moonlight was bright enough and I knew the walk really well. Then I saw the eyes. I immediately averted mine (because for some reason that’s how to not annoy it) but they kept wandering back. They were still there, watching. I heard rustling and saw the eyes come closer and I took off running. I got to my friends without a scratch, but I was terrified. I mentioned it to my friend and that’s when I found out it was A Thing. Her parents agreed and shared their stories. I brought it up more and almost everyone knew what I was talking about. It was a phenomenon a lot of folks around town experienced but never mentioned. To this day, I don’t linger around poorly light cornfields at night.
@thedevilinthealchemy and I are very old friends. I used to live in the same town as her, in Southern California. One night, a few years ago, we were celebrating the end of finals and the start of winter break, and we just hanging out in her car, killing ourselves with late night Taco Bell. Well, we decide we don’t want to go home just yet, so we start driving. We drive up a canyon, near her place. Now, we both had made this trip many, many times, in daylight and dark. A local tourist trap is in that canyon, and there’s a shortcut to a college campus that goes through that canyon. It was a normal winter night in SoCal.
Well, about halfway through I start to get scared. For no reason. Within the span of two heartbeats I grew so terrified that my palms were shaking and my mouth was dry and for some reason I couldn’t take my eyes off the wood to the driver’s side.
“Turn around.” I say, quickly.
“Dude, already on it.” Kama said, doing a quick three point turn. I look in the mirror as she’s pealing away and see the creature. It was vaguely humanoid, and hairless, with elongated limbs and pitch black eyes, on all four limbs, loping after us. Now, if you’re in the know, you might be thinking “hey that’s like the creatures from Until Dawn, I call bullshit on this.” Well, Until Dawn was four years away, and it wasn’t even in development yet, so shush.
I rip my eyes away from it and hold on tight as she drives. Then, at the same time, both of us get this instinct and we speak.
“Don’t look in the backseat.” Needless to say, neither of us did. She drove damn near 90 on a dark canyon until we saw the lights of her complex at the mouth of it.
I haven’t gone back in there since, and that canyon got shut down about a year ago due to a landslide and it hasn’t opened back up. I’m a history major, and research always has been my first love, so I go digging. I visit the local history society, talk about my tale. Turns out the whole valley used to belong to a people called the Tativam. One day, after the Spanish arrived, they vanished. Without a trace. We have a graveyard of theirs that we know of. One of my professors was trying to stop the houses that were being built on it. Spoiler alert: he didn’t, and the houses are hella haunted, and nobody wants to live there.
Personally I do think the creature is a wendigo. That chain of mountains is park of unbroken chain that leads right up the Serra Nevadas and Donner Pass.
I’m from Northern California myself, state capitol, and while we don’t have much by way of critters (sure, we’ve got Bigfoot up in the redwoods, but those guys are mostly harmless).
Most of what we’ve got is due to the Gold Rush, and not just the hauntings (though there are plenty of those, a great many of them are theatre ghosts, most of whom are harmless, though some are very particular). What we’ve got by way of Things were brought along on the trail from the Old Country to the East Coast and then along thousands of miles of wagon trail.
We’ve got our fair share of phantom hitchhikers and women in white, but mostly what we’ve got are the Things That Survived The Flood. There was a flood in the early 1860s, one that caused the state capitol to actually be relocated for a while, and when it was over and the floodwaters receded, there was enough sediment left behind that what had been the second floor of buildings was now the ground floor.
There are a handful of places in Old Town that you Do Not Go after dark (despite being safe during the day). When I worked in Old Town, giving comedic history tours, we started from and returned to a restaurant that had a club downstairs (in what had been the ground floor before The Flood) and there was a storeroom down there that got locked at sunset and no one questioned it, but the door to that storeroom was pretty much right next to the portable shed we changed clothes in, and I know, more than once, I heard knocking and scratching and one of my very last tours I got a facefull of wet-plant rot smell (not quite mildew, but not stinky like rotting meat gets) so bad I couldn’t breathe. It’s one of the reasons I stopped doing the tours, really, because I was starting to get the feeling I was being singled out, and I didn’t want to find out what by.
When I was like 17, I lived in the woods on the northwest coast of canada.
One day, I decided to go for a walk in a part of the woods I had never been to before.
Because sometimes I see weird things out there, I made sure to bring my grandma’s dog with me, just running free and off-leash.
These are wild woods, too, not parkland, so the only clear areas are deer trails. I stuck along to those because, you know, I don’t want to get lost, and about an hour in I hear this strange whistling.
Just a short call- One long, sharp whistle followed quickly by a short, piping one.
Now, I’m in a good mood and I figure it must be some new kind of bird, so I whistle back: long call, short call.
It whistles again.
I’m amused, so I whistle again. Long call, short call, and then just to be fun, I throw in a little trill at the end.
It whistles back.
It whistles back the exact same pattern.
Now, normally that would freak me out, but I was in a REALLY good mood. A really weirdly good mood. So, I whistled again.
And when it whistled back to me, I giggled.
I… Don’t giggle. Not alone in the woods over basically nothing.
The whistle came again, and there was a rustle in the distance. Seeing a shady outcrop, I ran to hide, feeling like I was playing hide-and-seek with someone. It whistled, I whistled back.
Another rustle. Closer.
I suddenly realized I hadn’t seen the dog in a while. I looked around, and saw him a few feet away, staring point-blank and totally still into the forest.
The whistle came again, closer this time, and suddenly my weirdly bubbly feeling was gone. Instant fear. I got the dog’s attention and we absolutely booked it out of there, all the way back to the eight-foot-high gate that marked the start of the wild land.
I locked it behind me, and we never went back.
I never really had any idea what was whistling with me in the forest. Maybe some kind of mimic bird that had escaped home, or a squatter hiding out there sewhere messing with this kid and their dog.
I only just remembered that when I was a kid, we learned about the Tsonoqua woman.
The Tsonoqua woman is supposed to be an old woman who lives in the woods. She carries a basket on her back and has long, tangled hair. When children wander away from camp, it is said that she snatches them up in her basket and steals them away forever.
But because she has bad sight, she uses her keen ears to hunt, and calls out with a birdlike whistle.
I have lived in southern California for a lifetime. There are things here that even I don’t understand. Things I can’t describe. If you ever take any advice from my blog, please, please, remember this.
an incomplete list of unsettling short stories I read in textbooks
the scarlet ibis
marigolds
the diamond necklace
the monkey’s paw
the open boat
the lady and the tiger
the minister’s black veil
an occurrence at owl creek bridge
a rose for emily
(I found that one by googling “short story corpse in the house,” first result)
the cask of amontillado
the yellow wallpaper
the most dangerous game
a good man is hard to find
some are well-known, some obscure, some I enjoy as an adult, all made me uncomfortable between the ages of 11-15
add your own weird shit, I wanna be literary and disturbed
The Tell-Tale Heart, The Gift of the Magi, The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calavaras County, Thank You Ma’am
the box social by james reaney. i remember we all had to silently read it in class, and you would hear the moment everyone reached the Part because some people would audibly go “what”
wHat did I just put my eyes on
“The Veldt” by Ray Bradbury
Not quite a short story, but read in class: “The Monsters are Due on Maple Street” from The Twilight Zone
Harrison Bergeron, Cat and the Coffee Drinkers
“Where are you going and where have you been” by Joyce carol oates
“The Pedestrian” by Ray Bradbury
the lottery by shirley jackson
i can’t believe Roald Dahl’s “The Landlady” wasn’t already mentioned
and also it’s not so much unsettling as more absurdist but “The Leader” by Eugene Ionesco definitely made me go wtf
Ett halvt ark papper. I cried so much.
Ночь у мазара, А. Шалимов
A Sound of Thunder by Ray Bradbury
I Have no Mouth, and I Must Scream by Harlan Ellison
The Lottery by Shirley Jackson
All Summer in a Day by Ray Bradbury
Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby, by Donald Barthelme
I read Ray Bradbury’s “All Summer In A Day” in seventh grade (it wasn’t assigned, I was just going through my textbook for new stuff to read) and as a bullied kid with SAD, it Fucked Me Up.
An Ordinary Day with Peanuts, by Shirley Jackson
Eh, this was more like community college, but The Star by Arthur C. Clarke
Lamb to the Slaughter by Roald Dahl
and this story that I can’t remember the name of and can’t find, though it might be by O. Henry? it’s about a bunch of demons who want to stop Santa Claus from going through with Christmas, and he must travel through the mountains they inhabit to escape their vices? (good christ I can’t remember the name for the life of me)
Ok but the laughing man and a good day for bananafish but j.d. Salinger
The City (195) Ray Bradbury. An intense commentary on colonialism and space exploration. I read it for a sci fi survey class.
Another short story I read in that sci fi class was Vaster than Empires and More Slow (1971) by Ursula K. Le Guin. A commentary on humanity and how human we believe ourselves to be. Also, an interesting commentary on mental health.
In the Woods Beneath the Cherry Blossoms in Full Bloom, written in 1947 by Ango Sakaguchi. It made my skin crawl the first time I read it.
A soulmate AU where you have a black stain where your soulmate is supposed to touch you for the first time and it turns to millions of colors once they do.
Like, so many people with their right palms all black, waiting for that one handshake.
People who have black knuckles who are scared for years that they end up punching their soulmate or something and end up coming home with their knuckles turned all shades of red and blue and purple without them noticing because sometimes your hands just brush together.
Someone having a very visible black palm on their cheek that they try to cover up because people will just know they will be slapped one day.
Just
consider the possibilities.
a handprint on your upper arm that bursts into colors during a fight you’re having with a close friend because you tried to walk away and they grabbed you–you never noticed that you never touched them until right now
twin handprints on your chest because your soulmate happens to be the paramedic who steps in to give you chest compressions that one time you almost died
a handprint on your palm but it’s not upside down like a handshake would be, you’re puzzled until you give someone a high five and the colors appear
someone you just met brushes a leaf off your shirt–RIGHT WHERE YOUR HANDPRINT IS YOU ALWAYS WONDERED WHY IT WAS ON YOUR PEC
I actually love this one a lot
Someone who is born with no mark at all–what a tragedy! But one day, a dear friend offers to braid their hair. They’re not even half done before they gasp and let it drop–their black palms and fingers are afire with color–
–and so is the half-done plait, bright against solid black hair.
after dying god informs you that hell is a myth, and “everyone sins, its ok”. instead the dead are sorted into six “houses of heaven” based on the sins they chose.
We arrived first at the House of Lust. “House” is a misleading term. It was more of a camp, spread over acres and acres of lush forest. There was a white sandy beach (nude, of course) full of copulating couples. There were little cabins sprinkled all along the path, from which orgasmic moans regularly came belting out. Men with six pack abs and women with perky breasts strolled by without even noticing me and God. They only had eyes for each other, tickling and pinching each other with flirtatious giggles.
“What do you think?” God asked as we passed a nineteen-way taking place in a pool of champagne. Little cherubs flitted overhead armed with mops and cleaning supplies, thankfully. “Lust is our most popular sin.” I eyed the supermodel-like figures of a couple passing nearby, and could easily see why. “You can look however you want. Hell, you can be whatever gender you want. No fetish is too taboo, and no desire can be denied here.”
It was quite tempting, but I wasn’t ready to make a permanent decision here. “Let’s see the others,” I told God.
We carried on to Greed. We passed rows and rows of mansions, each more opulent than the next. Some of them were so large that they would have had enough bed rooms to fit my entire hometown. And so many different styles: one second, we were in a beautiful French vineyard in front of a gorgeous chateau with the Alps in the background. The next second, a warm tropical beach with a modern mansion atop breathtaking cliffs. After that, a ski chalet in Colorado with a roaring fire in a hearth large enough to fit an ox. Each one had various Italian sports cars and Rolls Royces parked in front, with the occasional smattering of boats, helicopters, etc.
“Any material desire you ever wanted,” God explained. “Your own world, where you can have everything. You want the Hope Diamond? You can fly to Washington DC in your own solid gold helicopter and buy it from the Smithsonian. Hell, you can just buy the Smithsonian.”
Also tempting, but I decided to keep looking.
Gluttony was next up. Tables and tables of the very finest foods: beautiful steaks cooked medium rare; butter-poached lobster tail; fresh oysters on a half shell; exotic wines in dusty bottles that had been hiding in the cellars of the world’s finest restaurants. Everyone had a glass of champagne in hand and simply lounged on couches and chairs near the tables, eating endlessly. As soon as the inhabitants took a bite, the food just instantly came back. My mouth watered even watching them.
“In every other House, the food is practically sawdust compared to Gluttony,” God explained. “You haven’t truly experienced heaven until you’ve been to Gluttony.”
I shook my head, and we kept moving.
Sloth was as you’d expect. An endless sea of the softest mattresses, stacked with cushions and pillows that made the story of the princess and the pea seem minimalist. Little angels visited each resident, giving them massages that made them all melt into their blankets.
Wrath was… well, a lot like what I’d expect Hell to be like. Fire, brimstone, whips, torture.. you know, the works. Except here, you weren’t the one being tortured. Every enemy you’d ever made in your real life was now under your thumb. “Lots of people choose their fathers,” God explained. “Lots of grudges against parents in general, you know. But you’re not limited to that. Someone beat you out for a big promotion back on Earth? Take your pound of flesh here.”
Then we arrived at Envy. It looked… well, a lot like home.
“Go on in,” God said, gesturing toward the door. I turned the knob and walked in… and found Emily waiting inside. She ran forward, wrapped her arms around my neck, and planted a kiss right on my lips. “Welcome home, honey.”
I looked back toward God. “Oh, don’t be coy,” he said. “You have no secrets from me. We all know that you were in love with your best friend’s wife.” She didn’t seem to hear him at all; she went back into the hall. “We all know that you just settled for your own wife while secretly pining after her. Well, this is your chance to live happily ever after.”
I peered into the kitchen. Emily was baking something, wearing nothing but an apron. Her curly black hair fell softly over her shoulder as she whisked ingredients. She turned back, noticed I was observing her, and an enthusiastic smile spread across her face.
“It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?” God whispered in my ear.
I wanted to take it. God damn did I want to take it. But I shook my head.
God seemed puzzled. “You need to make a decision,” he told me.
“I haven’t seen Pride yet.”
He scoffed. “No one ever wants Pride, trust me.”
“Well, I want to see it.”
_________________________
Pride was boring. Just a row of workbenches in a bare white room.
“I don’t get it,” I told God.
“Yeah, no one does,” he answered. “That’s why no one ever chooses it. Doesn’t cavorting in Lust sound better than sitting here building little trinkets for the rest of eternity? Wouldn’t you rather gorge yourself in Gluttony? Or spend time with Emily in Envy?”
I considered the options again. “I pick Pride,” I finally told him.
He narrowed his eyes. “What? Look at it!” He gestured around the room again. There wasn’t much to look at. “Why would you choose this for the rest of time?”
“Because you don’t want me to pick it,” I told him. If he was really God, he’d know what a contrarian I can be. And I knew he was hiding something, trying to pretend like Pride didn’t exist. There was something special about it.
God scowled back. “Fine.” He led me over to one of the workbenches. In the center, there was a black space. A blank, empty void that went on forever. “Here’s your universe,” he said. “You’ve got seven days to get started.” He took his seat at the bench next to me and went back to tinkering in his own world. After a long pause, he finally spoke again: “You know, it might be nice for me to actually have some company for once.”
FUCKING I MEAN.
IT’S LIKE 7AM AND I LOVE GONNA REBLOG SO I CAN READ THIS SHIT AGAIN
I accidentally deleted the ask, but anon basically said “do you have any more florist anecdotes?” And YOU BET I DO!!
–
So one day this girl walks in, wet rag to her face, and rushes over to me, phone in hand. “HAVE YOU HEARD OF THIS….eey-low veer-uh plant??”
I had. As we’re headed to the succulents, the story comes out. She’s heard that aloe vera is good for soothing pain and….she leans close, super embarrassed, and whispers that she just went and got her mustache waxed off, and….she shows me her lip. Huge, swollen, little red bumps. She’s tried to cover it with makeup, and that’s made it worse. She’s getting teary, because she’s scared, but she’s lucky because she’s talking to me!!
We talk about a lot of stuff, skin care, hair removal, I won’t bore y’all since it’s not flowers, but I was able to give her some advice on it, and I’m thinking “okay she might not need a plant, but whatever” but she’s DETERMINED TO COMPLETE HER MISSION.
We get to the succulents, and I give her my whole aloe vera spiel (I love these plants!! My mom has a huge one that’s almost 25 years old!!) and the girl nods very very seriously, and buys one.
Before she leaves, she comes over to me, dead ass serious and informs me that this plant is her “super buddy” now, and she’s named him Ralph.
–
In my previous post I mentioned a nervous husband with his wife on their first Valentine’s Day. Here’s that story:
So the guy, for a mental image: mid-30s black man, very well dressed in a nice work suit, leather laptop bag. Normally I’m MILDLY wary of v well dressed men, because a lot of them are uh…Difficult.
This wasn’t one of them! He was super nervous, looking through all the mason jar arrangements Very Seriously. He looked super focused and was having trouble picking through them, so I went over to help.
This nice man has four ladies to get flowers for. His wife, and their three daughters. He wanted to get mason jars for the girls (all under ten) and he was hoping to find them in their favorite colors.
I realized what he was doing, which was trying to find jars with predominantly pink, red, and purple themes. And since it wasn’t super busy, I just smiled and told him we could rearrange the jars in the color themes.
He was so BLOWN AWAY. I think he wanted to cry when I busted out the ribbons and made big bows for each jar! (Appropriately colored!!) (also while I was scavenging for flowers, he whipped out his phone and showed me some of their pictures. They’re so cute!! These girls are his princesses, for sure.)
So now His Wife. We were already on a roll, so once his jars were ready we started patrolling for The Perfect Bouquet. And as it happens once you start talking about personal stuff, his story came out!
So the girls are from Wife’s previous marriage. He married her last year, and he really wants to show them that he Really Loves Them. Like, these girls are His GIRLS. His phone still has their entire wedding album!! He shows me her bouquet, and he wants to get flowers that are like the bouquet, but MORE.
So we have the choices down to three big bouquets. He legit stands there for a solid FORTY FIVE MINUTES, just comparing and thinking about it. (I left him to it, obv.)
He then comes up, very serious, and asks what it would cost to combine the two bouquets he’s picked. He’s also picked out a vase and a card, and some chocolate.
I quoted the price (Not Cheap) and he just nods, dead serious, and walks away and pays for it. Like up front. And I’m like, well shit, this needs to be the most amazing thing I’ve done. So I clear the counter, because this is a man on a mission, and we put those flowers together into a MASTERPIECE.
It’s hard to explain size, but these flowers were big enough to hide behind!! I got him a nice box and we carefully packaged this sucker for safe transport in his tiny sports car (the jars for his girls all fit in the drink holders, which was hilarious for reasons I can’t explain. Also hilarious is that he had to manually take the top off of the convertible to fit the flowers and was totally willing to drive home IN THE COLD with it down if he had to, luckily he didn’t)
I sent him on His Odyssey. He was SO HAPPY, and I was so happy because I love good experiences that have triple digit sales, and he was so patient and nice!! Love is real.
(He came back with his friends about three hours later, and they got nice flowers as well! They were all calling me Miss Hexalene by the end, and their good moods infected every other customer in the store, which is the best infection we get in flu season)
–
One of my favorite customers is this nice old lesbian who comes in and has one of our potted orchids in hand, big smirk on her face.
“My wife hates roses, so I’m getting her thi—“ she breaks off and her eyes go HUGE.
So she’s carrying this normal orchid, about a foot and a half tall, purple, v cute. She has just spotted our cymbidium orchids behind me, which GOOGLE THESE PUPPIES!! Ours came in, they’re THREE FEET TALL without the pot. Half of the plant is bloomed into these big beautiful brown/orange flowers, and the other half is still growing. They’re massive and I love them.
So this old lesbian (she’s about 60, cute boycut with all white hair, nice mom jeans and one of those balloony pico shirts) very deliberately sets her Lesser Orchid down, and points to the cymbidium orchids. “THAT. I need that.”
She’s got the absolute best shit-eating grin on her face, btw. She can’t stop laughing. She’s even crying with laughter a bit and while we’re strapping These Beasts (SHE BOUGHT FOUR OF THEM??) into her truck, she tells me about how her wife hates roses because she got a thorn tip stuck in her hand permanently as a kid. So every Valentine’s Day she goes on a hunt for the weirdest flower/most out of season flower she can find. These orchids are the best find she’s had since the 80s, when she brought home a massive Silver Vase Plant that’s still alive 30 years later.
–
So I’m gonna stop with these three before I obliterate everyone’s dashes!! 8) thank you for the ask!!
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse face off against embodiments of the Seven Deadly Sins
War comes for Wrath and Envy. All they long for, all they can’t have, all they hate is at the other end of the gun they run towards, and they go down.
Starvation comes for Greed and Gluttony. When you hoard and hoard and hoard, and eat until you can eat no more, one day there is no more, and that brings them down.
Pestilence comes for Lust and Sloth. Disease carries off he who forever pines for other people, passed through the bodies he longs for, but disease also carries off he who will not lift a finger to escape him, and they both go down.
Pride is left alone on the battlefield, and faces his own opponent.
“Ha! I knew I would get the best one! None of the others could beat me!” Pride gloats loudly to Death, standing across the field. Death waits quietly.
Pride cannot bear the silence. “What? Aren’t you going to attack me? Aren’t you going to say anything? Does it take that little to cower you into submission?”
Pride looks incredulously across the field, but it takes him a few seconds to realise that the pale figure before him is quietly laughing. He steps back, but becomes aware of the three figures at his back as Death starts to speak.
“Pride, I don’t even need to deign to attack you. You did that yourself. Any of the four of us could bring you down, true, but you played the biggest part in letting us do that.”
“But… how?!” Pride says as the other three force him to his knees. “Tell me!”
Death gets down from his horse, walks over with quiet steps, and draws a simple iron knife. He kneels in front of Pride, draws the dagger across his throat, and then gets up and returns to his steed, muttering the answer to himself.
“You brought yourself down by not helping your friends. You brought yourself down by thinking you could take us on alone.”
You are born with the ability to see whether people listen more often to the angel or the devil on their shoulder, based on the opacity of each- if they listen more to the angel, it’s more solid and the demon is more transparent, and vice versa. You recently met a guy online and you’re finally going to meet. You go in for a handshake and glance at his shoulders, but you can’t see the angel. Only a solid demon.
Run. That’s my first thought and it keeps playing in my head over and over again. Run!
“You OK?” asks the man before me.
I realize I’ve been standing frozen, probably looking spooked. “Yes,” I fake what I hope is a convincing smile. I look back at his right shoulder, there’s nothing there, then to his left shoulder where a solid colored devil rests.
As he turns to our table I glance over the restaurant to make sure my powers are still working. There’s a woman one table away with a transparent devil and a translucent angel, she listens to the angel more. The woman across from her has a devil that’s translucent, she listens to it a little more than she should.
I’ve had this power my whole life, to see which side one listens to, but never before have I seen a completely solid devil, never before have I seen the angel completely gone…
Run!
Turning back to him I seen he’s pulled my chair out for me, watching me expectantly.
I could run now but what if he follows? Maybe it’s best I don’t tip him off, assuming I haven’t already, and sneak out while he’s not looking.
“Thank you,” I sit down.
He sits across from me and looks down, pulling on his long sleeves. “Order whatever you want,” he mumbles, “don’t pay attention to the price.”
“Oh, OK thank you.” I can barely pay attention to the menu. I glance over the restaurant, planning an escape route from the restroom.
“It was at 5:50,” he says, picking right up from where our last conversation online left off.
“I watched that video a dozen times and couldn’t see it.”
As we talk he seems just like the shy sweet boy I met online but then I glance at the devil on his shoulder and remember to be scared.
I’m looking at his shoulder so often that he glances back to see what I’m looking at. Worried about it I glance down and gape; on his arm a cut peeks out from under his sleeve.
He sees me seeing it and panics, pulling his sleeves down.
My gaze falls to the table and we sit there in silence.
This whole time I’ve been avoiding the people with the more solid devils because they listen to them more, I never questioned what the devils were saying. His devil isn’t telling him to hurt me, it’s telling him to hurt himself, that he’s worthless and doesn’t deserve me; and me acting scared of him isn’t helping.
“Don’t listen,” slips out before I’ve finished getting my thoughts together. I take in a long breath and speak slowly. “Don’t listen to the voice that tells you you’re useless, that you’ll never make a difference… You’ve made a huge difference to me.”
I risk looking up and see him teary eyed. “Thank you,” he whispers, and beside his head a barely visible angel fades back into existence.
Thank you so much for doing this prompt @hannahcbrown!
To all the amigos out there, know that you are loved ❤️
Everyone knows Zeus’ schtick, coming down to earth and generally trying to get laid, but that was thousands of years ago, there hasn’t been a sighting of Zeus. Things have changed and gods aren’t as well known, barely seen as real gods any more in the face of more prominent religions and other forms of gods. You’re not really all that well read up on gods in any way shape or form either, so why the hell do you feel like your blind date is Zeus in human form?
His eyes were what first made me think that he was something… more than human. His eyes were a stormy grey, seemingly endless. I could have stared at them for hours, trying to explore just how deep they went. In fact, when I first saw him, I became entranced by those eyes, and I swore that just before he grinned and held out his hand, I saw a flash of lightning.
But then he grinned, and stuck out a hand. I shook myself away from the trance that his eyes put me in, and smiled back. He gestured towards a table near the back of the sophisticated restaurant, and gently guided me into my seat, like a perfect gentleman.
The second thing I noticed that didn’t seem quite human was his voice. It rumbled like thunder, and even though his voice spoke at a normal level of volume, it seemed like he was forcing himself to whisper, for fear of deafening me. When he laughed, I swore I could hear echos, but he quickly stopped every time.
The conversation came easily to us, which was surprising, considering every other blind date I had ever been on usually ended up with long stretches of awkward silence. It almost seemed like we were meant to be together.
The third thing I realized was that his hands, and his skin, seemed to be more ethereal than mine. His hands were long, slender, yet impossibly strong and secure around my own. His skin seemed to faintly glow, a golden shimmer just barely seeming to surround his olive-toned face.
When we finished our meal, he took my hand again and guided me politely out of the restaurant. He paid, and I was unable to see his signature on the check before he was grinning again, almost dancing with me out of the restaurant.
The fourth piece of evidence was when I started to think, in the very back of my mind, that my date for the evening could possibly be Zeus, the ancient Greek god of the sky and thunder.
The fourth thing was when we encountered somebody he knew when we were walking to a nearby park, near his apartment. The person stopped him in the street, his clothing dark and official-looking, with a single, gentle pink rose pinned to his lapel. He fixed my date with a stare after glancing at me, and my date dropped his easy grin, the one he had been wearing almost all evening, and stared directly back at the stranger.
The first thing I noticed about the stranger were his eyes. They were dark, and I couldn’t quite place their color, as the night was slowly darkening. But they were dark, and seemed endless and cold.
The two stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, and in that moment, I felt incredibly small, and incredibly weak. I tried to watch them as they stared at each other, seemingly speaking without talking, yet some great force seemed to overpower me. I looked away, and then my date was gently holding my hands once more, looking back at the stranger, who was staring after us.
The clouds started to build in the sky above us, but I didn’t notice.
We made it to the park, and he spun me in circles, laughing, his voice mimicking the thunder that would occasionally rumble overhead. When we were both dizzy, we collapsed into the grass, his grey suit rumpled and covered in blades of grass. As the first few drops of rain started to fall, he gave me my fifth clue as to who he was.
His kiss was electric, sparks flying in my head and my heart as he pressed his lips to mine. As I fell deeper into it, lightning crashed and thunder roared, but I didn’t care. We kissed in the rain, and he laughed, gently, his voice sending shivers down my spine.
When we finally made it to his apartment, soaking wet but still laughing, I didn’t look around, too focused on him.
My seventh clue was when he vanished.
I woke up alone, and in my own bed, his eyes still reflected in my mind.
My eighth clue was when I could barely move without feeling excruciating pain over my body.
My ninth clue was when a glowing figure descended into my room, burning so brightly I couldn’t bear to look at it directly.
My tenth clue was when I was killed by Hera, queen of the gods, and the wife of Zeus, the god who I had slept with last night.
My eleventh was when I woke up again, and found myself glittering with a faint golden aura, as my date stood tall before me, grinning and offering his hand, his eyes deep and endless, and as he gently set me in the stars.
rip tumblr 