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edenofmonsters · 4 years

Text

xenophobia | one.

xen·o·pho·bi·a | [zen-oh-foh-bee-uh]

definition:

extreme or irrational fear of strangers or foreigners or of anything that is strange or foreign.

subject:

bogeyman | xavier

notes:

originally documented january 28th, 2018

4,000 words | 01 part | s. f. w.

family friends ask you to babysit their son, zach, but the night becomes increasingly disturbing from unnatural occurrences playing out by an imaginary friend he insists is real.

*✧🌙✧*

“Again, thank you so much for agreeing to this last minute,” Lucy breathes out, tugging on her coat in haste at her husband’s ushering. You watch her struggle to get her other arm through its rightful sleeve for a second before you snatch the other end which keeps escaping her grasp. The display earns a chuckle from Samuel who snaps around to tap in his shoes when his wife tosses a glare his way. You can’t help but smile a little. “You’re a lifesaver; I don’t know what we’d do without you."

You offer a modest shrug in response to her praise. “It’s no problem at all, you know I adore Zach.”

She beams, despite having heard your declaration a handful of times in the past. “Have I ever told you how great of a mother you’d make?”

“Lucy,” Samuel stresses, although amused at your knee-jerk reaction.

You can only manage an embarrassed laugh, waving her words away. Thankfully, Samuel reminds his wife they don’t have all the time in the world to get to their three day getaway.

Lucy finally gives in, mumbling about men having no patience, a remark you choose to ignore while Samuel gives an indignant "Hey!"

“Alright, as usual, you have both of our numbers for emergencies; the kitchen is free reign, so you're welcome to make whatever you find in the pantry and fridge; and since it’s a Friday night, Zach can stay up until 10 p.m.”

You salute playfully, bidding the couple a good night afterward. “Understood. Have fun on your vacation,” you call out to them. You wait until the taillights disappear far into the road before locking up the front door, glad to close off the mid-winter air.

As soon as you swivel around, you find Zach standing in the entrance hall, waiting for his parents to take their leave to make an appearance. Staring up at you, he bears a wide, knowing smile. From where he stands, you can see him jittering with excitement. In return, you raise an eyebrow and crook a smile in challenge, already anticipating what’s to happen. In record time, the eight year-old ball of energy shoots off into the depths of the house. You follow him, mocking the roar of an animal eager to rain tickles on his belly.

You allow the boy his fair share of running before you swoop down to seize him into your awaiting arms. The momentum sends the two of you flying straight into the living room couch, thankfully. No need for accidents this early on. Upon immediate landing, your hands begin their merciless attack on his sides and belly, prompting Zach to violently squirm and howl.

“What do you say?” you taunt, getting him just under his ribs and pulling an ear splitting screech from his little lungs.

“Please!” he begs, pushing at your hands which are much stronger than his.

You instantly stop your torture at his cry, unable to help the infectious mirth spilling from your own mouth. “Okay, I’ll stop, but only because you asked nicely.”

“Thank you,” he giggles.

“Alright, time for dinner.”

“But I’m not hungry yet.” He pulls the puppy eyes, folding his arms and jutting his bottom lip out in hopes of convincing you with his childish charms, which would be hard to argue against if you were anybody else. That kid can be a clever little thing when he wants to be. Fortunately, you’ve been caring for him since the cradle, so you’ve built up quite the resistance.

“Eat first, play later,” you reaffirm, leaving no room for argument.

While you handle the dangerous parts, you task him with stirring and plating the food. You place used dishes in the sink to wash later when you notice Zach filling a third plate. Curious, you opt to observe the boy build a mountain of pasta, emptying half of the extra in the skillet.

“Zach, there’s only two of us eating.” You come up beside him but don’t stop him from his mission.

“No,” he begins, finally setting the serving spoon away and admiring the piled plate, “my friend is eating with us, too.” He beams at you, but confusion knits your brows together at his statement.

“Did you invite someone from school?” If that was the case, Lucy would have told you.

Zach shakes his head, blonde strands swaying. “He lives with me.”

Ah, an imaginary friend, you conclude. Although, you think it’s odd for a boy his age to still have an invisible pal. “Oh, I see. What’s his name?” you humor, grabbing the plates to set on the table, reluctantly letting him take the third one.

“Xavier.”

With impressive reflexes, you catch the other end of the platter when the contents begin slipping forth, tilting it up properly and taking it from Zach to place it across the others. “What’s Xavier look like?” you ask.

“He’s black, super tall, has long arms and legs, eyes that light up in the dark, and he has sharp teeth.” He sounds so exuberant you almost dismiss the rather monstrous description.

You’re no expert, but this Xavier sounds nothing like the silly, made-up creature of a child, he sounds like a nightmare. But then again, every child’s imagination does differ, so you decide not to think too much of it.

“Hm, he sounds scary,” you say, pouring water for you both.

“Nope, Xavier is really nice. He protects me when I sleep.”

You smile, brushing away a tuft of hair from his eyebrows. “He does sound nice. Okay, let’s eat.”

“Can we play hide-and-seek after?”

“‘Course, but you gotta finish all your food first, buddy.”

Once finished, you take your dishes, ready to wash up. You reach for the third, untouched plate, but Zach protests.

“No, wait!” He snags onto your arm. “Please leave it out for Xavier. He’s really shy, so that’s why he didn’t come eat with us.”

You purse your lips for a moment, contemplating whether to continue playing along or not. You wouldn’t dare disappoint him so leave the plate as it is. “Help me clean up and I’ll leave it out for him. How’s that sound?”

Zach’s already in the kitchen, calling for you to hurry up. You laugh at his antics, relieving his worries by making way to him. Some time during the chore, a breeze rolls over your nape, inducing a shiver. You don’t remember cracking open a window. Zach’s chatter distracts that thought and it’s forgotten.

Suddenly, he turns sharply to his left, tossing his head nearly all the way back and looks into the air. Your face shifts in faint concern as you watch him nod intently at seemingly nothing. After a moment of silent conversing, he turns back to you. “Xavier says he wants to play with us, can he?” he asks.

You glance to where the boy was directing his attention to seconds ago. “Sure,” you say, albeit hesitantly.

He jumps in success, sending droplets of his still wet hands everywhere. “Yes!” You force a smile, trying to ignore what just happened. “Xavier says you should be the finder the first round,” he says, glancing back over to where his friend is supposedly standing.

“Whatever Xavier says,” you agree, wiping your hands dry. “I’m counting to ten, okay?” You shield your eyes and begin counting. You hear Zach giggle, calling for Xavier to follow after him. At the last moment, you peer through the gaps of your fingers and catch sight of the blonde boy’s hand out, like he’s clutching another and pulling them forth. You swear you see another set of fingers around the little ones, but you blink and he’s gone. Shrugging it away, you refocus.

“Ready or not, here I come,” you announce to the silent house once reaching ten.

You sweep through the rooms upstairs, peeking into closets, under beds, between furniture. When you come up with no signs of Zach, you decide to head back downstairs. Your feet touches the last step, and you hear shushing from the living room. Grinning, you quietly tiptoe toward the soft noise.

Your eyes lock onto the bay window curtains that sway the slightest. Cautiously, you approach to grab one of the folds and jerk it back with a “Gotcha!” What greets you is emptiness. You blink rapidly, expecting Zach to be there. There was no mistaking the curtain movements; it was so obvious and clear that you couldn’t chalk it up to paranoid imaginings even if you wanted to. Then another breeze, almost like a wisp of breathe, hits your hairline. Gasping, a hand slaps over the area of raised hair and you whip around to nothing.

Relax, it’s just the heat. Yet you’re suddenly on edge, the silence an overwhelming substance in the air. You’re tempted to call the game off but hear the patter of feet from the kitchen. That is definitely Zach. With a sigh, you trail after the noise, glancing back at the alcove. Still nothing. Maybe you were seeing things. You stow your worries away for now, tearing through the kitchen, only to come up Zach-less.

“When did you get so good at this?” you ask out loud, more to yourself than him. Naturally, there’s no response. There’s only the bathroom left, so you check in there. You poke your head into an empty shower. Did he go upstairs?

So you go back up and hear a resounding thump and shuffling from the guest’s bedroom while you pass by. You slide up against the door, turning the knob in a slow twist and prepared to catch Zach in the act of scrambling for a hiding place. Then you hear a crash followed by Zach’s yelp from downstairs and you pause. Knowing you didn’t mistake the sound from the guest’s bedroom, you barge in.

Again, nothing.

A splice of jarring fear clinches you, making it impossible to breathe. “What the hell?” You reel from the doorway, as if the room’s come alive and is about to devour you. Your eyes dart everywhere, seeking the source of sound. Nothing. Your insides constrict at the aspect of the undisturbed room.

Zach’s cry of your name draws you away from the ominous enclosed section. If it had been an intruder, he or she wouldn’t have had time to hide and the window would be open. It was only you and Zach in this house.

And Xavier, you faintly think to yourself, shutting the door with vain hope that it might close off the impending aura brewing within.

You retreat from the door and sprint to the boy without a backwards glance. One comfort session with an ice pack to a skinned knee later, you question Zach on his imaginary friend.

“Where was he hiding?” you ask, putting the first-aid kit away.

“In the guest’s room,” he replies.

A fist closes around your throat. “Yeah?” you croak out.

“Uh-huh. He likes hiding under the beds or closets. That’s where he sleeps in my room.”

Speaking of sleep. You glance at the clock, seeing it’s nearing 10 p.m. “It’s almost time for bed, buddy. Let’s go wash up first, okay?”

You direct Zach to brush his teeth and change into pajamas. Paranoid, you watch him ascend the stairs, fearing that something might jump out from the guest’s room and snatch him; however, when he passes by with no incident, you release the breath you’re holding. While waiting, you remember the third plate left out for Xavier. You tell the boy to wait for you and go clean up, almost not wanting to leave him out of your sight.

The plate is empty.

You don’t move, seemingly cemented to the tiles as you eye the ceramic with streaks of sauce. Hardly breathing, choking on dread, you check the trash bin. There’s no pasta and leftovers are packed away in the fridge. Zach wouldn’t voluntarily do that. Icy terror slams into you, weakening you so that you cave in and grasp the counter for support.

“Is this a joke?” you whisper to the air. You refuse to touch the plate, backing away from it like it were a ticking time bomb seconds away from triggering.

You don’t believe in the supernatural, but the events playing out are beginning to make you doubt that notion. A tide of nausea drowns you, blistering into a cauldron of interweaving black and white vertigo that leaves you shaking. You need to be with Zach, now. Fleeing from the scene, you burst into his bedroom. He’s tittering beneath a hand like he’s been exchanging secrets. At your arrival, he brightens up.

“Can you read me this story? Mom started it yesterday night, but didn’t finish,” he asks, already with a specific book in hand. Instead of complying, you sit across him and gaze over his innocent features.

Maybe you’re being ridiculous, maybe you’re overthinking. There’s no way Xavier’s real. You repeat that over and over again, like a mantra that might save you from who knows what. Ghosts? Marginally calming your jumbled nerves, you pick up the book and begin reading him to sleep even though you wish for nothing more than to haul Zach and run out the front door. As the story progresses, you also lose yourself within the words, urgently seeking out a distraction. Zach is already hovering between the realms of consciousness and unconsciousness before you can finish, but you can’t help the question that falls from your lips.

“Did Xavier eat?” you ask, voice quivering with mounting fear.

The boy nods, yawning. “He said dinner was great. Can we make him some pancakes tomorrow? He likes it whenever mom makes them. I think that’s his favorite food.”

He prattles on and on, but your mind is stuck on his first words. “Aren’t you a little too old for imaginary friends?” you whisper, wanting to hear him agree more than anything.

His initial joy melts into puzzlement. “But Xavier isn’t imaginary.”

You slowly shake your head. “I can’t even see him.”

“He’s real, though. I don’t know why not everyone can see him. But it’s okay; I think Xavier still likes you a lot. He says you smell really nice, which is kind of weird. It makes him sound like a dog, right?”

You nearly fold into yourself, on the verge of panicking. Miraculously, you gather the strength to hold your place. You sink your teeth into the fleshy inside of your lip, fighting the urge to ruin his fun by reaffirming your disbelief of Xavier.

“Zach…” Defeated, you sigh heavily, feeling everything weighing you down.

He then points behind you. “But he’s right there; look.”

Your blood bursts through your veins, sending your heart wild in overdrive. With an agonizing pace, you turn, turn, turn and come face to face with twin white orbs against a black figure. You stop breathing, eyes growing to a painful size, and a scream rips from you. You recoil away from the monster that’s also backed away at your violent reaction, and you reach for a startled Zach with intentions of fleeing downstairs.

The second you take off, Xavier darts from its position and chases after you. You don’t make it far, only to the beginning of the stairs before it jumps in front of you, thwarting your plans for escape. It stands to full height, looming over you by, what looks to be, three whole feet. It looks exactly like described: tall, long limbs, black with glowing eyes, and a mouth that splits its face, showcasing a row of sharp maws. What Zach failed to mention was its colossal frame that ripples with intimidating muscles. Its body is grotesque and unlike anything you’ve seen before, as if it attempted to mimic a human but failed and resulted in something horrific. And, gods, does it look the manifestation of raw fury.

Xavier growls at you, rigid and in the position to lunge should you make a movement. You back into the banister, arms coiled around the boy.

“W-what are you?!” you demand, trembling and overflowing with crippling terror which burns your eyes with tears. Xavier only releases a guttural, alien sound that rumbles from its throat, inching closer to you with a wicked snarl contorting its entire face. “Stay away; don’t you dare come any closer!” you threaten in a pathetic attempt to ward it off.

Zach wriggles in your tight hold. “Wait, Xavier won’t do anything; he’s not bad, I promise!” he cries.

“Zach, that’s…I-I don’t know, that’s a monster, can’t you see?!” Never once do you take your eyes off the being.

Xavier takes another step with a menacing hiss, and you flinch. Just then, the boy slips from your clutches and sprints to the creature. It welcomes him into its arms, protectively cradling its companion and holding him away from you. “No!” you jerk forth but freeze when the monster bares its teeth at you with a blood curdling screech that makes you back down. You stumble away, tripping on your feet and arms out to defend yourself.

“Xavier, stop!” It immediately obeys, hovering over you. “She didn’t mean it, she just got scared. She’s really nice, you saw it, too. I love her, and if you hurt her, I won’t forgive you.” Xavier bristles at the claim in disbelief but doesn’t make a move. “Let go of me, please?” It hesitates, but does as its asked.

You quickly scoop Zach up, cautiously eyeing Xavier and waiting for it to try anything. It crouches on its haunches, naked muscles swelling and coiling and imprisons you with its arms on both sides of you. A thundering growl reverberates from its body, like some warning sound. You’re surprised it hasn't broken the banister yet.

Zach, seeing the obvious tension, speaks up. “Please be nice to each other, I like you both a lot. I don’t want you guys to get hurt.”

“Zach, but he’s, its…” You lock eyes with the creature, shriveling up from its predatory stare.

“Just because he looks different doesn’t mean he’s bad,” Zach chastises.

And just like that, shame scorches you. Even a child knows better than you. Sighing, you shift the boy so he’s equally between you two but still keep a hand on him. Reluctantly, you say, “You’re absolutely right. I can’t judge anyone just because they don’t look like me; I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “You have to say sorry to Xavier.”

Swallowing through the grip on your throat, you face the creature who’s looking at you expectantly. “I…I’m sorry, Xavier,” you murmur after a stifling minute, earning a smile from Zach.

“Xavier, you say sorry, too, for scaring her.”

You don’t expect it to be able to speak, despite its mouth, but you certainly aren’t prepared for when it leans forward despite being so near already. Your faces are unbearably close that you feel its breath. You don’t move a muscle, anticipating whatever Xavier has in store for you. You watch it part its teeth and unfurls an elongated tongue in horror. Tense, you hold your breath as Xavier angles its head and lodges its face into the juncture of your throat. You jerk back, hitting the rods preventing you from moving. The monster wraps its enormous hand across your chest—huge enough to span beyond your width—to keep you in place, but you have an inkling suspicion that’s a display of power and dominance than anything else.

A strangled protest of a sound warbles from your lips, afraid he might bite out a chunk of your neck. Instead, it nuzzles into your pulse. A sort of purr releases from the being while it strokes its nose and cheek further into your jaw, like an attempt at imprinting. It’s not as bad as you dread until its tongue comes into play. The hot flesh laps the column of your throat without any qualms. You shriek, pushing it away with all your strength, which is nothing against Xavier. Somewhere among the heat of its tongue, purring, and tight grip, Zach giggles.

Xavier is still slathering the entirety of your neck with the flat of its thick muscle that can wrap around your throat whole, while you’re fighting the urge to recoil in disgust at the thick saliva painting your skin. You’re surprised it isn’t toxic and burning through. Involuntarily, you tilt your head away to avoid its tongue, only to give it all the access it could want to the side of your neck. Gleefully, Xavier playfully gnaws on the skin. Nothing enough to break it, but enough to prick and make you scream in alarm, fueling your fear of being eaten.

“Okay, apology accepted!” you shriek out, fighting to escape. Thankfully, it lets up with a final nip. Positive you’re thoroughly traumatized and about to faint, you remind Zach of his bedtime.

“Aw, but I’m not tired anymore,” he pouts. He turns to Xavier for help, who only shakes its head.

“Come on, Zach.” You stand, mentally exhausted, and lead the boy back into his room. Xavier is on your heels. Again, you feel its breath, eliciting a terrified shiver.

You tuck Zach in, read him another story, and collapse into the guest’s room, leaving both doors open. Xavier slipped under his bed earlier, presumably sleeping. Initially you wanted to stay with Zach, but it seems the monster has been here for some time, and if it had intentions of hurting the boy it would have done so already. And you can’t rid of the image of it protecting him from you of all people.

You curl into yourself, letting the flow of emotions get the better of you. You cry. From relief or fear, you aren’t sure. A settling weight at the end of your bed slices through the moment and you bolt up with the comforter clutched to your neck scrubbed tender and raw. In the mesh of the darkness, you can see Xavier’s outline as it sits on its haunches once more. Neither of you do anything, heightening the pressure that makes you restless.

Finally, you’re brave enough to question him. “What do you want?”

Its head tilts, glowing eyes ever unblinking. Deliberately, Xavier crawls toward you. Even with its slowness, you let out a keening pitch and throw yourself against the cushioned headboard, predicting the worst now that Zach’s away. You can’t formulate any words that may halt him. Instead of heeding your rejection, it advances right into your face, inches away. The proximity drives you to tussle out of the bed, but it's frighteningly quick. Xavier’s hand shoots out to capture you before you have the chance to break away. It drags you onto your back, pinning you there, and towers over you. Your breath comes out in short pants as your hands fly out to any part of it to hold it back.

“Please,” you gasp, an onslaught of tears blinding you, “please, don’t hurt me.”

Xavier shakes its head in negative. You still whimper, though, thousands of scenarios sprouting within your mind. Once again, it slowly descends its face toward you, only stopping when your noses are an inch apart, spurring a soft cry from your trembling lips. For the longest time, the monster does nothing but appraises you with such a staggering intensity you’re glad that you’re not standing.

You’re on the verge of lashing out, but a single finger strokes from your temple to your chin. Its touch is so startling ginger you find it hard to believe it’s from the same creature that was moments away from harming you earlier.

It rasps out a gravelly, “No crying.”

You’re so shell-shocked that all you can do is nod.

“Good. Night night,” it whispers, feathering its finger over your tear streaks.

Your eyes flutter once. “Good—good night,” you whisper back. The second it slithers into the darkness and out of your temporary room, you curl back into the fetal position, wondering what happened. That night you fall into a fitful sleep.

*✧🌙✧*

to be continued.

*✧🌙✧*

thoughts:

the entirety is 20,000 words, and thus i don’t want to split this into five parts, nor do i want to post a single chapter with this much content. i haven’t tried it before, but i fear i may break tumblr if i attempt it. instead, i will provide a link to my ao3, where you may read it in all its nsfw glory. a tremendous apology to those who have been waiting for its return. this if for you, my little monster lovers: archive of our own

resources:

monster masterlist by thespelia

encyclopedia of monsters by thespelia

#terato #exophilia #monsters #monster love #monster romance #monster boyfriend #horror #romance #bogeyman #boogeyman #oc: xavier #writing

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edenofmonsters · 5 years

Note

Do u have Xavier story on ao3 or did u remove it? Cuz I swear I thought u said u moved it there and I thought I bookmarked it but it doesn’t show up🥺

xavier confirms his story is indeed published on ao3 and thinks it’s strange you can’t seem to find it. the story is written under the pen name backstage_rebel_girl. he wishes you luck!

#ask #oc: xavier

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edenofmonsters · 5 years

Note

You have no idea how happy I am to find your mannequin story, that is literally the only thing I can think about when walking through those displays (except, you know, debating if I could kill them before they killed me) so I thank you

roman appreciates your enthusiasm. careful, he might grow attached.

#ask #oc: roman

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edenofmonsters · 5 years

Photo

a little trip down memory lane with our favorite bogeyman.

illustrated by thespelia

#terato #exophilia #monsters #monster love #monster romance #monster boyfriend #bogeyman #boogeyman #oc: xavier #oc: zach #art #Illustration #horror #romance

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edenofmonsters · 5 years

Text

monster masterlist

by thespelia

originally documented march 5th, 2019 | updated october, 19th, 2019

foreword: since the beginning of time, humans have fabricated folktales, legends, and myths of creatures—monsters, if you will—existing among us. those humans, in particular, guise their fear with these stories, because they have seen with their own eyes that humans and animals are not the only living beings on this earth. stories allow humans to pretend, to create fantasies in order to protect their feeble minds deathly afraid of the unknown. the following content holds tales of encountering monsters and is not for the faint of heart. read at your own risk.

Keep reading

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edenofmonsters · 5 years

Text

automatonophobia | one.

automatonophobia | [o-do-muh-tah-no-foh-bee-uh]

definition:

extreme or irrational fear of human-like figures.

subject:

mannequin | roman

notes:

originally documented january 16th, 2019

1,349 words | 01 part | s. f. w.

on the eerie night you are left to close up shop, you gain an unexpected stalker.

*✧🌙✧*

“Have fun,” Tina says, already carting away to ticket and stock last minute merchandises.

You depart with a playful salute to her retreating back and head toward the back room where you’ll find clothes for the next season, already pressed and ready for handling. You hadn’t seen yourself striving for visual merchandising, but once you explored the field, you couldn’t imagine having more fun doing anything else.

Once armed, you make way to the mannequins on window display, bidding your coworkers goodnight as you go. It certainly won’t be your first time to lock up the shop, but you admit you are a bit antsy today, already imagining lazing on your bed and binging through one of many tv shows saved on your list.

But enough daydreaming for the night. You are quick to remove the first still-life model from its base and detach the legs from the torso. Once you strip the masculine dummy down to nothing, you redress it, pulling apart limbs and turning it this way and that as necessary. It isn’t easy work, especially when the mannequin is a bit bigger than you and awkward to handle; however, the finished look makes it worth the sweat. The mannequin now wears a button up tucked into pants, a double breasted coat, and a pair of loafers. You save the tie for last.

“Under, over, loop, and...pull!” You grin, patting the cotton strip tied to perfection with mock affection. “I think I’ll call you Roman. What do you think, honey?” you joke to no one in particular, stretching up to press a lingering peck on the mannequin’s blank face.

If you had pulled away sooner, you might not have felt the plastic molding underneath your lips to mirror yours. Startled, you jerk away, causing the dummy to topple to the floor in the process. Upon inspection from a distance, you see that the face is as featureless as it’s meant to be, still and inanimate.

I must be tired… Yet a disturbing chill settles into your blood.

It felt too real. You touch a finger to your lips, still feeling the ghost pressure. A moment later, you mentally laugh at your antics. You chalk it to your vivid imagination and continue your task, starting by righting the fallen mannequin, which suddenly feels denser than before. You hesitantly pat it down with the intention to feel if the model is truly fake rather than to dust it. Satisfied, you work in a hurry, telling yourself it’s because you want to go home to relax for the night, despite knowing deep inside your heart it's due to a fear urging you to leave the shop.

Within the hour, you undress and redress the window mannequins. All you have left to do is store the worn clothes for later dry cleaning and lock up. You take a cursory look around the shop, searching for anything that may be misplaced. When nothing comes up, you finally walk out to pull the storefront security gates shut. As you lock up, you glance at the front windows and balk.

“What...?” you whisper, hardly even able to achieve that because you suddenly can’t breathe.

One of the three mannequins is gone, the very same one you kissed.

You grow icy with crippling dread, unable to comprehend what the hell is going on. It’s impossible for someone to have played a prank on you, because no one was with you, and you know you didn’t move it—it was one of the last things you saw before leaving through the front. You can’t explain it, and you refuse to.

Just as you’re about to back away, a blotch of whiteness catches the corner of your eye. You turn toward the source and stumble back to a fall, a scream attempting to claw out of your throat but failing to do so, as you’ve sealed your mouth with your shaking hands.

The mannequin stands there, peeking from the alleyway between the shops.

It takes you but seconds to scramble to your feet and bolt off, blood rushing in your ears and fear caving in at your neck. You run, resisting the need to rest and catch your breath, you run as if being chased, and you don't quit until you reach the bus stop. By then, the winter winds prove to be blissful against your overheated body. Even with the great distance, your eyes dart around your surroundings in paranoia. You’re surrounded by the night, the streetlamp serving as your lone light to fend off the darkness seeming to creep in closer and closer.

You contemplate running your way home, despite it being half an hour walk, but that idea is put to halt by the sound of steps in the distance. You freeze in place, not daring to seek out the noise; however, just because you refuse to acknowledge it doesn’t mean it will discourage the oncoming stranger. The steps become louder with each passing second until they seem to be right next to you, and then it stops.

If I can’t see you, you can’t see me. You chant to yourself in hopes this is all a terrible nightmare.

Once again, from your peripheral view, you can see a figure slicing through the darkness, like parting a black curtain, and walking right into the disc of light bathing you for display. You detect familiar loafers, and it is no mistake your stalker is the very same mannequin you seem to have breathed life into.

“Stay away!” you choke out, a hoarse sound scratching out of your chords.

It says nothing, does nothing for an agonizing minute. It stands frozen in time, acting like the mannequin it’s meant to be, and the absurdity of this all makes you want to laugh at yourself. You choose to remain quiet, save for emitting some whimpers, waiting for your doom. Finally, it—he shakes his head and reaches forward, a jerky movement that scares you.

You cry out, falling into a crouch, as if doing so might protect you. You’re sobbing, clutching your ears, and anticipating some kind of pain, any kind at all. Nothing remotely hurtful comes your way; instead, arms bracket around your shaking body. The sudden contact sends your instincts into overdrive, and you try to wrestle away. His arms hold you fast, and you feel as if you’re struggling against two slabs of stone. You only halt when you realize he is doing nothing else but keeping you close in his long arms. Curious, you peek at him. Of course, you meet his white face with only vague indents serving as its facial features.

You’re not surprised he can’t talk at all, seeing as he has no mouth; however, his gestures are so human and expressive you’re able to convey some gist of what he’s trying to communicate. He thumbs your cheek with the tenderness of a lover, and you know he doesn’t mean you any harm, not at this point, at least. Seeing as he won’t hurt you for the time being, you calm yourself.

“W-what are you?” you ask without expecting an answer, eyes unable to keep to one place on its face.

His head tilts a fraction, a universal sign of confusion or ponderment before his seemingly immoldable face creases, one brow bone rising higher than the other. It may be dark, but the street lamp doesn’t hide the indicating smirk of amusement shadowing the lower half of his face. It’s clear the mannequin is saying, “Isn’t it obvious?”

Ignoring the unsaid remark, you struggle to articulate your next question in fear of what he may do.

“What do you want from me?”

His shoulders shake, like he’s chuckling, a chilling action without the sound that sends your bones trembling all over again. His grip tightens, conspicuously sinking his plastic fingers into your hip. It isn’t difficult to figure out his intent. You know this will be the last time you’ll be standing at this bus stop.

*✧🌙✧*

fin.

*✧🌙✧*

thoughts:

i’m not the only one who’s walked through a clothes store and thought it would be amazing if one of those fashionably dressed mannequins were to suddenly come alive and begin romancing you, right? on a side note, this is one of many stashed writings i wrote on a whim. i don’t believe i’ll write more for this, but we shall see.

resources:

monster masterlist by thespelia

encyclopedia of monsters by thespelia

#terato #exophilia #monsters #monster love #monster romance #monster boyfriend #horror #romance #mannequin #oc: roman #writing

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edenofmonsters · 5 years

Text

dream journal | one.

topic:

holographic chase

notes:

originally documented november 9th, 2017

925 words | 03 parts | s. f. w.

you give holographic chase in a wicked colosseum inlaid with crucified traps.

index:

one. | two. | three.

*✧🌙✧*

She stands in the midst of a gymnasium littered with balloons, streamers and confetti. The decor is haphazard, chaotic in an explosive fashion that is suffocating. Her eyes chase after holographic fragments from the chrome disco ball crawling along the wall, distorted and smothered music echoes from backstage, and with a glance down, she looks to be drowning in a carnation pink gown dappled with sequins and layered in gossamer. It's a gaudy atrocity she desperately wants to tear off, but it's the least of her concerns at the moment. She swears she has dropped into an 80’s prom gone psychedelic, and she can’t pinpoint a beginning or end or if there happens to be any of either at all.

Beyond that, there’s a burning question hounding her thoughts: where has everyone gone? To find an answer, she breaks away from the empty makeshift dance room and into the adjoining corridor. The difference between the gym tinted with pastel volumes and the sepulchral hallway is jarring to the mind, as if she has fallen off the face of one dimension and into another. Immediately, she wants back in the gym for the sake of color; however, the need to find another living person wins over her discomfort, and she ventures without looking back, teeth gnashed and nails clawed into the folds of her dress.

Immediately, she is overcome with a severe sense of vulnerability, as if she’s lost her way back to a home she can’t even recall—no, not quite like that, no, as if she has run straight into a dead end with no way through or around, as if the imaginary chase has come to an end and she has lost. It’s with crippling dread and with little grit does she carry on.

The dim corridor is bare of any windows and doors, giving way to one path she continues trekking on in hopes of finding someone. Abruptly, she comes to a staggering arrest, a decision not because there’s an obstacle in her path but because she's not alone anymore. Instead of swiveling to face the newcomer as she would have done so in her futile search for another, her instincts howl: don't turn around, don't turn around, don't—

Unable to suffer the suspense, she peers over her puff sleeved shoulder. Regret wrecks through her as soon as she makes out the figure standing a good distance away. A man. He dons a static white shirt, which stretches over the bulk of his muscles, and denim jeans frayed at the hems. His face is a horrific smear of colors, like a salmagundi of acrylics tarnishing a canvas, rendering his identity anonymous. In spite of his muddy features, she knows he's grinning, as well as she knows the color of her dress. She can imagine his blurred smile, and it's nefarious and manic, and she needs to get away from him now.

He shifts toward her and she bolts without any further prompting. She flees as if the Devil is breathing on her neck, but she feels to be sprinting through waist-deep water. Her limbs burn, yet no matter how much she urges them to move, she can't seem to run any faster. The corridor warps into a vortex before her eyes, making her escape that much more arduous. She must be going delirious. Regardless of her slowed movements, she persists.

Finally, she makes out an opening on the left and careens around the sharp corner, nearly tumbling over from the force. The arch leads to a set of stairs, and at the top is a lone door. Running through the hall is nothing compared to trudging up the steps, each one slowing her down more than the last. Afraid she truly will topple, she rams her shoulder into the wall to keep upright as she struggles to ascend. She refuses to look back, not needing to, because she can feel the weight of his gaze, feel the unmistakable presence of the man chasing after her.

Just as her fingers are a whisper away from caressing the handle, he’s upon her. His hands are vice-like as he snatches her up. At this point, she is bone weary and can't even put up a proper struggle against his intense strength. Rather than pulling her away from the door, however, he makes for it. She tenses with a mixture of anxiety and confusion. As soon as he hauls her in, she recoils in horror. The room is decked in pink shades, a perfect complement of her dress. A vanity stands in one corner, a variety of dolls are piled and scattered about, and there is an armoire brimmed with dresses. This is not what petrifies her, it's the overstuffed canopy bed framed with gilded bars and the idea of what this man intends for her.

“A pretty cage for a pretty girl,” he rasps into her ear, a deep rumble that sends shudders ripping down to her marrow.

He drags her fatigued form to the bed, then, tucking her underneath the ruffled-lined duvet with such condescendence it makes her sick.

“Sweet dreams, my doll,” he croons, pressing a kiss across her creased brow.

He shuts the cage and leaves with only his heinous smile to remember by. With the little strength she has left, she fights out of the sheets and yanks at the bars. She wails in vain for help but grows weaker each passing second. Finally, after crying until she no longer could, she collapses into a heap of fabric.

She has become his doll.

*✧🌙✧*

to be continued.

*✧🌙✧*

thoughts:

yes, i’m aware this work does not feature a monster; however, i felt the need to share. the dreams are true and based on mine. i did add a few details for the story’s sake, but every word is accurate to what i dreamed. over three consecutive nights, my mind was plagued with these disturbingly vivid images that still haunt me to this day. strange thing is, i knew i was dreaming and wasn’t afraid. it was only after waking and remembering did i realize how ominous they truly were. i’m no superstitious individual, but i often wonder where these dreams rooted from. it was a trip i won’t be forgetting any time soon.

#dreams #dream journal #horror #psychological horror #writing #80s prom #dollhouse

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