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notmyneighbor · 1 month

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Let Me in ~ Doppelgänger Francis Mosses/The Milkman x Female Reader

Chapter 3

Word Count ~ 2.5k

Rating ~ Explicit

CW ~ blood and gore, body horror, character death, minor violence, dubious consent, sexual content

Also available on AO3

Fanart used with permission @kaworinx on Instagram and TikTok

You sit on the side of the bed that had once belonged to Francis Mosses.

The comforter and top sheet have already been pulled down. You lean over to slide out of your low heeled pumps, tucking the pair of navy leather shoes neatly under the bed.

There’s a bible on the nightstand. A worn looking copy. Beside it a glass with a shallow amount of water resting in the bottom, the remnant of a late night attempt to quench thirst, perhaps.

The doppelgänger watches your movements. How methodical each action is. Slow and deliberate. You’re stalling.

He settles beside you and the mattress creaks as the springs are compressed. That odd sort of shimmer you’d noticed earlier outside the security booth outlines his frame for a brief moment. A surge of light and color as the skin ripples before settling. They still weren’t completely able to disguise what they were. All hope was not lost.

Your own fate, however, seems sealed. You lie down slowly, carefully. You feel as if you are laying yourself to rest in your own coffin. Turning your face ever so slightly to see if there is any trace of the man that had once slept here, some lingering scent or an indent from his face. Nothing but the fragrance of clean linen. The imposter moves as if to join you but you halt him, your fingers closing over his forearm. Your first time touching him and not the other way around. “Take your shoes off.”

The creature snickers, glancing down at the scuffed oxfords he’s wearing. Overdue for a shine. “What possible difference does that make?”

“It’s respectful. You never put your shoes where someone sleeps.”

“He won’t be sleeping here ever again.”

You inhale sharply, wincing. “Please just do it.” You can’t say why you’re so hung up on this. Only that it seems the right thing to do. A small thing in a sea of wrongs that you’re clinging to like a life preserver.

“Fine.” He acquiesces, bending to unlace them. There is no care in his actions. Just brisk, impatient pulls to undo the knotted ties. Then he is lying beside you. Your heads sharing the same pillow. Francis only used a single one, apparently. Preferring to slumber lying with his head and neck rather flat. You always used two fluffy pillows, minimum.

You can hear the sound of music starting to play, emanating from the resident’s apartment next door.

Mia Stone, perhaps. The blonde teacher who was Dr. Afton’s fiancée. You instantly recognize the musical artist crooning through the walls: Billie Holiday.

I say I'll move the mountains

And I'll move the mountains

If he wants them out of the way

You would have loved to play this record for Francis. You envision trying to dance in the cramped space of the living room, twirling around in his arms. “Did he really like my fragrance?” You know the creature could lie, of course. He’d say anything to manipulate you and get what he wanted. But you have to ask. Your heart won’t let you avoid the query.

The dark eyes of the pretender regard you. You detect no malice or dishonesty there. “Yes,” he says simply.

You close your eyes, sighing. “What else did he like about me?”

“Your smile, gifted once you were certain it was really him. The way you covered your mouth when you laugh, making some little relieved joke when you passed his identification and entry request back to him each day. The strands of hair that came loose around your face as the day wore on into late afternoon when he returned from his route. The—”

“—Stop. Please.” Tears well in your eyes. They didn’t sound like the kind of details the deceiver would create on his own. There was a note of truth to them. Genuine recollections. He truly was all that remained of Francis Mosses. A man that had been fond of you. You could have been with him, if only you’d been a little braver.

“You asked me to tell you.”

“I know. It’s just overwhelming.”

Like the wind that shakes the bough

He moves me with a smile

“Your kind is so fond of music. Your milkman was always humming. I don’t see the use for it.”

The your wrenches your heart. He wasn’t yours. Never would be. “It’s a way to expression emotions. When words alone aren’t enough.”

“Hmmm.” He reaches out and you flinch. “Why are you fighting this so hard? This is what you wanted.”

“I didn’t want Francis to die.” You pause, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “Why do you want this?”

”Curiosity. An experiment of sorts. There has never been a union between our kind. Not of this nature. A desire to know what it feels like. To see what might result.”

You shudder. An experiment. Using you like some kind of animal for breeding. A mere whim.

He reaches again and this time you force yourself to hold steady, your chin lifting with a short jerk of defiance. Your hair is his goal. Tucking it back behind one ear. Maybe something the milkman had wanted to do. There’s a sudden softness in the doppelgänger’s eyes. As if the human he’d once been was peeking through at you. You find yourself melting again, your defenses coming down.

I say I'll care forever

And I mean forever

He moves closer to you. Inching over across the white fitted sheet. A thumb strokes away one of the tears that has escaped its prison. He captures the other from the opposite cheek, bringing it to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste the droplet. “Salt,” he says, recognizing the mineral.

He kisses you.

You’re not sure if it’s better to think of the man you had loved or not. Was it dishonoring his memory or was it a way to keep him present in some vague capacity? There’s no clumsiness this time. He knows the feel of your mouth. The way to shift against you. Tongue mapping past smooth cheeks and dragging along the carpet of muscle at the base of that maw. Maybe it was better to pretend this was Francis after all. You cup the back of his neck, fingers teasing the edges of his milk chocolate tresses. Curling slightly on the ends. It would be time for a trim soon. Would have been. The illusion you’ve created is crumbling again. Your lips falter, your hand dropping away.

Crazy he calls me

Sure, I'm crazy

Crazy in love am I

“Sweetheart,” the invader murmurs, tasting along your jaw, your neck. “I like the way you smell.” Speaking for himself, not Francis. You hear the sharp intake of air. The hand that had been casually laid across your shoulder slides down until it reaches your breast, gently kneading that globe through the layers of your bra and blouse. “Does this feel good?” His voice is octaves lower than you’d ever heard from the milkman. Slightly raspy and sultry, not unlike the singing voice that permeates through the wood and plaster behind the bed. You don’t dare answer, merely whimpering a little and he seems to take this as an affirmative response.

His hand leaves your breast and finds the top button of your shirt. Always sensible, pure white, part of the uniform standard the company requires. Another threaded plastic disc is pushed through the hole. He works his way down until all those that are exposed have surrendered, the remainder still tucked within your skirt. His fingers part the edges of the fabric encasing your torso, peeling them back to reveal the white satin brassiere beneath. He caresses you briefly through this slick material before tucking inside the cup until he brushes across your areola. Your nipple peaks beneath his ministrations as his lips move back to yours. He is surprisingly gentle, lightly pinching and rolling the aroused tissue. Your body betrays you, responding to the creature’s touch. You should be ashamed, disgusted. Instead you find yourself wanting more.

“Off,” he murmurs impatiently, plucking at your bra before his hand departs your chest. You struggle to sit up and he allows it, watching you pull your blouse free from your skirt and unfastening the cuffs before sliding it off your arms. With a swift gesture borne of long practice you easily pinch and release the hook and eye closures resting along the center of your spine, the cups immediately folding down over the underwire, the straps drooping over your shoulders.

The doppelgänger assists you now, sliding the brassiere off the rest of the way, exposing your chest to him. Your cheeks are pink, flushed like the nipples he’s toying with again, his head bending to suckle at one and a lick of flame sears your core. This is part of the invasive species’ learning process, you think. Taste as important as touch. His mouth moving not with the sole purpose of your pleasure in mind, but as a means to explore flavors and textures. Cataloguing. More of humanity’s secrets unveiled.

There is a song you don’t recognize playing next door now. Muffled voices. You’d had no idea the walls were so thin. Francis had never complained.

You’re shoved back down onto the pillow. His mouth wanders, back up to sample a collar bone, the hollow at the base of your throat, then dips in between your breasts and tastes the skin of your abdomen. You wonder if he can detect the floral soap you’d bathed with that morning, the traces of lotion you’d applied during your hygiene routine.

“I like this,” he says, his breath warm on your body. “You’re so soft. Smooth. Not like…I’ve never taken…” It had often been debated if there were sexes in their species. How they propagated. There was still so much unknown. Was there a reason he’d only chosen men to replicate? Was it simply because he was male himself? You could not explain how you knew it, but there was something distinctly masculine about him. Authoritative. Blunter than a woman would be. A lifetime of being raised to respect decorum had been firmly ingrained in you. Society valuing a woman who knows her place. Taught to be demure, deferring to the wisdom and guidance of their male counterparts. Serving and obeying, like you’re doing now.

The imposter returns his attention to your face. Licking your mouth back open. He likes this, you think. All of what you’d shared thus far, but perhaps the kissing best of all.

The background melody silences and you think you detect the front door opening and closing. You wonder if the couple will be going out to an early dinner. Curious when they find there is no one guarding the building. But not alarmed. Not yet.

Your skirt is being lifted, polyester dragged upward after the copycat’s hasty reach downward to gather the hem. Immediately sliding back down, stroking over your exposed thighs that are clad in nylons that stop midway across each of your upper legs. Nothing fancy, just utilitarian features in a shade of nude slightly more tanned than your own complexion. He nudges against the seal you’ve created by pressing your legs close together. “Let me in, sweet girl.” An echo of what he’d said earlier in an attempt to gain access to the building, now seeking entry into you. You feel your limbs parting for him nearly as promptly as you’d opened the door.

The pretender works his way back up to the fork of your body, teasing along the crotch of the white panties. You gasp and he smiles against your lips. His palm drags over the fabric until his fingers find the elastic waistband and he dips beneath it, running overly the neatly trimmed hair on your pubic mound, following the curve of that padded flesh until your sex is palpated.

Another gasp and a moan escapes you. “So wet,” he remarks, fondling the pink lips, parting the petals with his middle finger to slide through the slick arousal your body is creating, working the lubricant up and down, passing over the hooded nub and then delving back towards your entrance, where more fluid escapes.

It feels good and yet it doesn’t, his fingers too rough and just shy of where you need him. You squirm and wince at the harsh handling of your clitoris and he pauses, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Show me. Show me how you like to be touched.”

You reach down cautiously, guiding his fingers to one side of your sensitive bud, lightly pressing and rolling a fingertip so that your clit is ground slightly against the bone beneath. Alternating now, reaching back down to gather more of your slick before spreading it over that hooded button, a few direct strokes applied before beginning the process again. He replicates your actions and your body responds immediately, a hum of pleasure heating you. You close your eyes and you think of the milkman, the real one, with his kind smile and his tired eyes.

“Francis.” The name escapes your lips and you freeze, the rocking motion of your hips against the imposter’s hand abruptly ceasing. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Alarmed by how easily you’d allowed yourself to give in to the desire, accommodating this make believe passion.

“It’s alright, love. It’s me. I’m here.” His tongue laps at your ear, at the sensitive patch of skin behind it. You shiver and resume grinding against his fingers, letting yourself be deluded once more, your hand curling over his forearm.

“Francis,” you say again, hoping he can forgive you, in whatever form he now occupies, if he is saved as his faith professes he would be, finding redemption and peace, somewhere far from your sinning body that writhes in pleasure from his murderer’s touch.

You push against his hand and he allows it, applying force against the hollow cavity that leads to your womb. “Let me in,” he breathes, and you feel a finger invading your body, shoving through the narrow confines of that muscular tunnel. Withdrawing and spearing again, the digit saturated with your arousal. You moan and lift your pelvis to meet him. Curling inside, massaging that dip of spongy tissue. Crooking each time he enters as if he is leading you forward, beckoning, his thumb drawing circles over your clit. You feel as if you’re on the edge of a chasm, teetering on the rim, about to drop forward into heat and darkness. Keening now. Thighs tremoring violently. Your face turns and your teeth sink into the pillow. “There you go, love. Give it to me. Give in to me.”

The coiling pressure within you snaps and you find release at last, the fabric clenched in your teeth doing little to muffle the sound of your orgasm. You’re drenched in sweat, the aftershocks of your appeased nerves still sizzling through you. The doppelgänger cradles you through all of it, holding you as you ride the waves that exhaust your limbs, making you feel boneless and limp.

“Francis.” It’s a yearning plea, a futile prayer, answered by the thing that is not him, but masquerades as such, crooning to you, whispering false promises, draping you in synthetic affection, a lie you want so desperately to believe.

#thats not my neighbor #francis mosses #milkman #francis mosses x you #francis mosses x reader #milkman x you #milkman x reader #doppelgänger

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bcdrawsandwrites · 3 years

Photo

Fandom: Psychonauts

Rating: K+

Genre: Gen?? Sickfic?? mild H/C??? you got me, man

Characters: Caligosto Loboto, Boyd Cooper, Gloria Von Gouton, Fred Bonaparte, Crispin Whytehead, Sheegor

Warnings: Vomit, blood, depictions of sickness... (SPOILERS: implied torture + amputation)

Description: Loboto is having a very bad night. The inmates are not helping.

Beta Readers: @jaywings and Rocket

Notes: This fic is based on a theory that comes from a few figments in Loboto’s mental world in the demo footage of Psychonauts 2. ...also I wrote this while sick with a fever, edited it while still sick, and illustrated the cover while recovering from said sickness. have fun

—~~~—

He did not remember arriving back at the tower.

Partially because he wasn't even back in the tower, instead standing on the frosty shoreline, the chilly waves lapping at his boot heels.

Loboto stared dumbly out at the cliffside for a long moment before frustration simmered beneath his fogged mind. Yes! Of course, they wouldn't send him back to his lab. No! He could do with a good climb, especially on a frigid night like this! His chest heaved with quiet, dazed laughter before he took a gasp of cold air that grated against his sore throat.

The wind, though not harsh, cut through every part of him that wasn't covered by his shower cap or lab coat like a fine knife, as cold as it was painful. It grazed his shoulder, and his vision went white as his mechanical eyes flashed. But even with the blasted optics glitching, he could still see. His imagination ran wild with absurd visions of ridiculous things that had never happened.

On top of that, the slice of pain brought with it a violent realization that it was not the only pain he was in. The numb shock he’d been in gave way to an agony that tore through him, ripping up and down his side, nearly bringing him to his knees. No, no, no, that pain could not be real, just like the horrific visions of red and yellow that flashed through his mind. It was all a trick—all a stupid trick from his malfunctioning eyes and his brain. Pah!

He found himself clawing at his shower cap, occasionally stopping to smack his mechanical eyes a few times until they flickered back into focus, the desolate beach snapping back into view. "Enough of this!" he growled hoarsely at the sand beneath him. "That little army man will be back any day now, and we can't keep him waiting."

With a grunt, Loboto marched forward and heaved himself up onto the first narrow ledge, already finding his body shuddering with the effort and his mind struggling to push back the imaginary waves of pain. "Ridiculous!" he blurted into the rock he leaned against for balance. "A child can climb a mountain ten times this height!" And it wasn't like he'd never done it, either. Muscle memory helped him get from one step to the other, but keeping his balance was harder than normal, especially as his mind repeatedly dipped back into brain fog.

His eyes flickered in a blink when he found himself on the ladder, his boot slipping on the frosty wood and one hand losing its grip. Realizing he was about to fall, he flung his weight back against the ladder, biting down on the nearest rung to keep himself in place. A frantic giggle worked its way through his clenched teeth—ah, teeth! Useful for so many things! They would never let him down.

If you let us down one more time—

Ripping himself away from the rung and leaving rough teeth-marks behind, he let out a snarl and heaved himself the rest of the way up the ladder and onto the ledge. He sat on his knees for the moment, his mechanical eyes pulling back as he tried to make sense of the gate that seemed to be spinning around him. No, not just the gate—the entire cliffside spun beneath him like some wild carnival ride. He couldn't remember it doing that before, but the absurdity of it made him laugh, the action tearing through his sore throat. Yet he continued to laugh until his stomach lurched and a cascade of vomit silenced him.

He managed to scoot himself away, spitting and coughing as the world slowly came to a halt. At the same time, a figure that had been sleeping against the opposite wall snapped alert with a panicked gasp.

"Ah—ah!" Boyd stammered, scrambling to his feet and whipping his head around until he spotted Loboto on the ground. "Who are you working for?"

"That fool Oleander," Loboto grumbled under his breath, his eyes swiveling to glare at him.

Boyd's eyes blinked separately before recognition dawned upon him. "Y-yes! Of course!" Fumbling with his keys, he got to work unlocking the gate. "It's said he knows the milkman..."

Gritting his teeth, Loboto shakily began to push himself back upright. A large hand suddenly clapped against his shoulder, and he gave a yell as he was heaved to his feet. Without turning to look, he struck at the one who'd grabbed him. "Tricky terrible traitors try to trap—"

"AH—no, I am no traitor, I am the guard!" Boyd cried, stumbling back and holding up his hands as Loboto found his balance.

The two stared at each other for a tense moment, Loboto's eyes glowing harshly as Boyd trembled beneath his gaze. He couldn't help feeling a twinge of satisfaction at seeing his subordinate cower.

"Th... the milk is not ready yet!" Boyd said, wincing away as he eyed the doctor's clenched fist.

Loboto stared.

"I'm lactose intolerant."

Boyd glanced at something on the ground. "I-I noticed."

With a growl, Loboto finally marched past the guard, who frantically closed the gate behind him.

Now that that mess was over, he could finally get back up to his lab and get back to—

He paused.

"SHEEGOR!"

His voice boomed through the empty grounds. It was empty of people, now empty of crows, and empty of elevators.

When his assistant did not spontaneously appear, he clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white beneath his glove. "Yes! Wonderful!" he proclaimed to no one as he stamped toward the withered garden with a harsh laugh. "I can scale this dilapidated tower myself then. Fine night for some exercise!"

He knew his way through his asylum, of course, so it wouldn't be overly difficult, but he would have much preferred the express elevator so he could get back to work immediately. But as it was, he ducked through the entrance to the greenhouse, fighting to keep steady as the action made his head spin, his back ache (no it didn’t, he was fine), and his shower cap to catch against the branches overhead. Turning his optics up, he pressed a hand down into the cap, pulling it away from the plants. He'd hoped to avoid the woman who occupied this corner of the asylum, but as he straightened his back, he bumped into one of the flowerpots, knocking it to the ground with a dull clunk.

"My, you need to buy seats in advance if you want to come to my shows!" Gloria said, turning to him with a patient, hazy smile. "No need to be harassing the paying customers."

"What do they pay you in? Leaves? Seeds?" Loboto asked, the frantic giggle that followed clashing with his strained smile.

Gloria ignored the comment, glancing him over and waving him off. "Please see yourself out. I'm not an usher, but since they seem to be ignoring their duties, I'll have to tell you you cannot bring food or drink into the theater."

Swiveling his optics in an approximation of an eye roll, Loboto turned away to head out the other side of the greenhouse. "I don't have any."

"Not anymore, but anyone can see that wine you've sloshed onto your nice suit."

Loboto froze.

"It's a wonder it didn't get onto the carpet—"

The next thing he knew, he was staring down at an entire line of flower pots that lay in pieces on the floor of the greenhouse.

"Oh!" Gloria cried. "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure the ushers will attend to this ruffian, and the play can resume..."

He left her to continue rambling to her imaginary audience as he tried to rid the imaginary nonsense (visions, pain, glowing yellow eyes) from his mind. "Fickle fumbling females feeling faint for fading flowers..." he mumbled as he stepped into the lower floor of the asylum. It brought its usual sights and sounds of one of the former orderlies dozing over a makeshift game board (with stolen game pieces, he noted), the artist in the room overhead scraping old brushes furiously against a canvas, and finally Crispin standing dutifully in front of the asylum's only other elevator.

"Crispin!" Loboto said, and the man turned to face somewhere slightly to his left. "Let me up, will you?"

"Of course, Doctor Loboto." Crispin turned toward the elevator controls, only to pause, his dull eyes squinting as he turned back. "Wait..."

"Wait for what?" Loboto threw out his arm in a wide gesture. "Do you want to hear that army man ranting at us again? Or perhaps you find it funny! Though it is, isn't it? Shouting about sneezing powder and tanks! HAH!"

While he'd been talking, Crispin had been leaning forward, eyeing him up and down. He frowned. "You're not Doctor Loboto," he said at length.

"WHAT?!"

Behind him, Fred sprang to his feet. "Sacré bleu! We have fallen asleep on ze battlefield!"

Ignoring the man and his terrible French accent, Loboto stepped closer to Crispin, finding himself trembling—in rage or in suppressed laughter or something else, he wasn't sure. "Of course I'm Doctor Loboto! I was, last I checked. Highly trained and professional!"

"Yes, well," Crispin began, leaning back and raising a brow, "the real Doctor Loboto does not wear an actual straitjacket. It's merely a strappy jacket fashioned from one."

"This is my jacket, you milky-eyed moron!" Loboto cried, tugging on the front of his coat in demonstration. "It doesn't have my arms tied up!" He lunged toward Crispin to grab him by the collar, but stumbled as the world spun once more. He struggled to keep his stomach from flipping again.

"Well, that's because you're wearing it poorly. But you are certainly not Doctor Loboto. I can tell. You don't have the right jacket, or the right complexion." He tipped his head. "The real Doctor Loboto is blue, not sickly gray. As you can see, you can't fool me. Now go back to wherever you came from and—"

"He has returned from ze war!" Fred blurted behind him. He blinked, then shook his head, hunching in on himself. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, we really shouldn't—" He straightened again. "Yes, shut up! We are in ze presence of a great war hero!"

Crispin rolled his eyes. "What are you going on about now, Fred?"

"Do you not see? He bears ze blood of his enemies upon his robes, and ze scars of victory—"

Loboto whirled on him faster than he could think, managing a swift kick to Fred's shin.

With a yelp, the man crashed to the ground, curling up on himself and whining. "Ohhh... can we just postpone the battle until morning?" He twitched. "NON! Ze enemy never sleeps, so neither shall we!"

"Well, Fred's down for the count again," Cripsin remarked. "So if you're done, kindly step away from my elevator and off the nearest cliff, thanks."

Loboto wanted nothing more than to knock Crispin to the ground and find a few bad teeth to remove, but his vision was blurring and flickering, and he found it hard to think.

"No, really, we can't fight in the dark, and the enemy can't either, can they?" "Rrrrrghhh, I suppose you are right, for once. We shall camp here for now, but come sunrise, we fight!"

A weak laugh made its way past his lips as he stared down at the former orderly settling on the cobblestone. Yes, that crazy man had a point. There was no point in fighting tonight—he'd get his work done in the morning. And that work would have to include getting back into his lab in the first place.

After a brief moment, he snatched an item from the floor before stumbling back through the greenhouse and toward the entrance.

A nice night for sleeping under the stars, he supposed.

---~~~---

Judging by how bright the world was by the time his mechanical eyes flickered back on, the sun was starting to rise. But he couldn't tell for sure when there was a large metal cage blocking his view, with something else within—

"He said he would be back by nightfall, but he hasn't come!" a high pitched voice cried as a familiar form stepped out of the elevator, her back to him. "Oh Mr. Pokeylope, do you think he's gone for good this time?"

The corner of Loboto's mouth twitched.

"Oops!" She clapped an oven mitt over her mouth. "I'm glad he's not around to hear me say that," she said as she began to turn. "If he was, he'd be—EEK!"

Sheegor jumped back at the sight of Loboto laying sprawled out at the foot of the fountain, having slept (or passed out) there the remainder of the night. He clutched his worn teddy close to his chest and stared her in the eyes.

"Oh—I—I—!" Sheegor held her pet turtle close to herself. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry Doctor Loboto, I didn't mean any of that, I—"

"Yes, well it's a nice morning, isn't it?" Loboto grumbled, tucking the teddy bear under his arm so he could push himself to his feet. His entire body ached (from sleeping on the ground, not from anything else). "A nice morning to get some work done after you left me stranded here all night!" He took a threatening—but wobbling—step forward, fist clenched.

Oddly, Sheegor didn't seem as intimidated as usual. Her mouth gaped, and her eyes darted between his face and his right side.

"What are you looking at?"

"Y... you..." A trembling mitt was covering her open mouth. "D-Doctor! What happened to you?!"

His eyes flickered. "I slept out here with a rock for a pillow."

"N-no, it's—it's—!" Her whole body was shaking now, but not, he sensed, in fear of him. It should have made him angry, but exhaustion pulled at him instead, making his frame droop.

"Yes? Well, spit it out."

Sheegor held out one hand, pointed toward his right side. "Y-your arm!"

Loboto's optics slowly angled down to his right. For the first time he noticed the enormous, darkened bloodstains on his jacket, and a torn, empty sleeve hanging limply at his side.

"Oh," he said dully, feeling himself wobble as the pain finally worked its way to the forefront of his mind. "How did that happen?"

At once the world tipped to the side, and Sheegor caught him, straining to keep him from fully collapsing to the ground.

Wordlessly she helped him into the elevator, letting him lean onto her while he bit back the urge to scream. He wanted to protest, to berate her for touching him, but everything felt distant, even the upper floor of the asylum as they rapidly ascended toward it. And anyway, once they reached the top, anything he would have said was held back by his rolling stomach ejecting whatever bile still occupied it.

As he gagged, he could hear Sheegor whispering to the turtle in her mitts: "I know, I know, but I-I can't leave him like that—th-the asylum wouldn't... w-we were supposed to..."

"Just... get back to work... Sheegor," he managed to slur around the acrid taste in his mouth. Bitter bile breaks brittle bones of the mouth.

Sheegor looked from him to her turtle a few times, her mouth wobbling, and carefully eased his arm over her hunched back again. Instead of leading him to his lab, however, she led him down into the asylum, into the usual room he slept in: a mostly-intact bedroom with a mattress and blankets over a broken bed frame shoved into one corner, a chair and a desk with papers scattered across it, and a meticulously crafted and framed (and official) DDS license on the wall.

After easing him down into the bed, Sheegor stepped back, looking away. "Um... I-if you want, Doctor, I can clean that robe..."

His initial thought was that the blood stains made a wonderful addition to his ensemble, but glancing down at them again caused his brain to supply him with more awful, made-up nonsense. No, he wouldn't have that any longer.

With some amount of struggling he managed to get the thing off, unceremoniously tossing it in Sheegor's general direction. She managed to catch it and quickly scurried out. "I'll get this back to you as soon as I can Doctor bye!" she squeaked before the door slammed behind her, leaving Loboto sitting in the empty room.

Everything felt surreal, being in familiar surroundings after spending an entire night on freezing cobblestone. The sight when his gaze turned downward, however, was less familiar: there was new stitching across his chest, and on his right shoulder where his arm had been. It was cleanly done—they hadn't wanted him too much worse for wear, since he still had a job to do for—

Oleander. He had a job to do for Oleander right now. The sneezing powder, yes. His mind drifted over the things they'd discussed in their last meeting.

They'd both figured out a way for it to be made, more or less. The remaining issue was how to properly dispense the stuff. Oleander had suggested keeping it in a bag, but that was easily-spilled, and it may lose potency if pre-ground. But what was he supposed to do? He didn't have a grinder with him on-hand at all times—

A shock of brilliance bolted through him, and he stumbled to his desk with renewed energy. He grabbed a well-chewed pencil and began to write, his non-dominant hand shaking badly as he forced it into motions it was not used to.

But that was fine. It wouldn't have that job for long.

A manic giggle bubbled out of his throat as he worked out the notes and rough sketches, detailing a jointed pepper grinder with claws and a strap to secure it to his now-unoccupied side.

This loss of a limb, baffling as it was, was exactly what he needed.

#caligosto loboto #sheegor #crispin whytehead #boyd cooper #psychonauts #fred bonaparte #gloria von gouton #my writing #my art #fanfic #aka 'loboto and the terrible horrible no good very bad night'#also okay Boyd does try to help a bit #and also Sheegor is Very Good and she does not deserve the crap Loboto puts her through

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cloudaura93 · 3 years

Text

Fall for You Pt.2 - Cindy/Alice Fanfiction (FEAR STREET)

Synopsis: SPOILER WARNING. Please don’t read if you haven’t watched the whole series. The second part of this story. Picks up at the end of the first part and covers the ending of the 1978 massacre flashback. I have an idea for a smaller final story to wrap everything up. Cindy and Ziggy are trying to reunite Sarah Fier’s hand with her body to stop the curse meanwhile Alice is helping in her own way as best she can given the circumstances. AU with alternating POVs between Alice and Cindy.

Alice’s POV:

I hear Cindy and Ziggy flee the cabin as I struggle to subdue Tommy, my former friend and current possessed killer. He throws me off, recovers, and lifts me up by my neck slowly squeezing my windpipe, and then decides to toss me through the front doors of the cabin instead of strangulation. I land hard with a thud on my back while also smacking my head on the ground.

“Ouch.” I say under my breath as I slowly sit up and start scrambling to my feet. I see Tommy slowly approaching with the axe in hand, and I realize I either need to run away or find a weapon. A weapon. Of course. I reach down and remove the knife from the sheath Cindy used as part of the splint to support my fucked up leg.

“Here goes nothing.” I whisper as I launch myself toward him. When I’m a couple feet away, I throw the knife toward his face where it hits its mark squarely in his left eye as I dodge to the right, narrowly avoiding the impact from the axe swing. It momentarily stuns him as I start hobbling away to hide. I hope I bought Cindy and Ziggy enough time. I hope they are still alive because I’ll be damned if I let some stupid ass curse ruin my life further especially after I just got my girl back. We deserve happiness too.

I expect Tommy to continue pursuing me, but instead I turn around and realize that he is heading in the opposite direction.

“Oh shit!” I exclaim as it hits me that I was only a distraction, and the main target is Ziggy who is at the Hanging Tree with her sister trying to reunite Sarah Fier’s hand to her body. I instantly swivel around and limp behind killer Tommy moving as fast as I can. I try to keep up to hopefully have a chance to warn the girls as they try to stop this carnage once and for all.

We are approaching our mutual destination a few minutes later, and I notice out of my peripheral vision that I’m too late to help. I watch my beautiful snitch getting brutalized by her ex-boyfriend’s axe at the same time Ziggy is being repeatedly stabbed by the Milkman. It’s like some horrible plaguing nightmare, all playing out in slow motion while I’m about thirty seconds away, but hopeless to do anything to help.

“NOOOO!” I scream out in agony as I collapse to the ground on my knees ignoring the piercing pain in my leg.

As I’m crying for a few seconds, it suddenly goes quiet and I glance up to see all the Shadyside killers have disappeared. I instinctively crawl on my knees toward the girls’ bodies hoping to say goodbye. I’m almost to Cindy when I hear the rustling of footsteps next to me.

“Alice?!” He says, and I recognize the voice. Nick Goode. Of course he’s here. Fucking Sunnyvale’s prodigal son. The savior. The knight in shining armor trying to rescue the poor surviving Shadyside campers.

“Save her Nick! Save Ziggy!” I shout through choked back sobs willing him to understand my meaning as I sadly reach my girlfriend, and grasp her hand letting the tears flow down my cheeks. I couldn’t save Cindy, but I can at least attempt to keep her sister alive.

“I will. I promise. And Alice? I’m sorry.” Before I can even react, I feel a stinging sensation in my back and as my vision fades to black, I realize that this is how I’m going to die. With a whimper, not a bang. Alone and betrayed by Nick fucking Goode. A literal backstabber. You unimaginable bastard. We were so close. Not that it matters anymore. No one will remember us, and our sacrifice. This will just be another unfortunate and bloody tale of the cursed town of Shadyside. The infamous Camp Nightwing massacre of 1978.

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Cindy’s POV:

As Ziggy and I are digging down to find Sarah Fier’s body, we stumble upon something hard that we hit with the shovels.

“I found something!” Ziggy states excitedly. I hold my breath as I help her unearth whatever was buried underneath the tree. It’s a rock with an engraving on it.

“The witch forever lives.” I shakily gasp out.

“The witch forever lives.” My little sister repeats the statement before following up with “Cindy, what does it mean? Cindy?!” She asks worriedly.

“I don’t know.” I answer softly.

“What...where is she? Where’s the body?”

“I don’t know.” I replied. We share a look first at each other and then at Tommy who is on our tails.

“This way. Come on.” I continue as I grab Ziggy’s arms and drag her up so we can attempt to run away. We turn around and realize that the other Shadyside killers are also here quickly approaching from every direction.

“What do you want, Sarah Fier? You want this?” As I hold up her hand. “You can have it. Just let my sister live. Just let my sister live!” I plead. I drop the hand next to the hole we dug in frustration and grab one of the shovels.

I realize sadly that there is no escape, at least not for me. But I can protect Ziggy as best I can and give her a fighting chance.

“You bled on the bone. They are after you. Get ready to run.” I tell her sadly. I’m so sorry Ziggy. I’m so sorry Alice. I wish we had more time to spend together, to make up for lost time. I tried my best but I failed both of you again. I love you so much. I’ll see you again.

“No Cindy no!” I hear her cry out at the realization of my decision. I hurriedly take hold of her arm again and we start sprinting together. At the last second however, I push her aside and swing the shovel at Tommy where I connect with his head but he immediately retaliates with a smack to my head with the axe’s blunt end.

I fall down onto the ground hard helpless as I glance out of the corner of my eye to hear Ziggy screaming while being attacked by the Milkman at the same time the axe collides with my chest piercing my insides. Tommy strikes me repeatedly and as blood begins gurgling out of my mouth, I turn my head to face my baby sister who I notice is reaching out her hand toward me. I reciprocate the gesture and say one last thing to her knowing this is the end.

“Nothing...will...pull...us...apart…” I gasp my final breath as the world goes dark and my eyes slowly close and I feel myself fading away.

Some time later…

Cindy’s POV:

“Cindy. Wake up. You need to see this...to understand.” A disembodied voice whispers in my ear. I struggle to regain consciousness as I hear the faint sounds of terror around me.

“This is important. Please wake up.” The voice repeats itself. I stir and slowly attempt to stand as I’m feeling wobbly on my feet. Once my balance returns, I instantly realize that I feel different than I did when I was alive not too long ago.

“Where...where am I?” I ask the voice which has a feminine tone to it.

“Not quite sure. All I know is this is where the poor unfortunate souls who have attempted to thwart the Goode family’s treachery end up after they die. It’s sort of like limbo and you are a ghost observing the effects of the curse until one day it can finally end.”

I nod in understanding as I look around and realize that I’m standing at the edge of the clearing where the Hanging Tree is located.

“Sarah Fier.” I reply, finally figuring it out.

“Yes. It’s me. I tried to warn you. I’ve always tried warning everyone who stumbles upon the curse. No one has ever figured it out completely. You were the closest, but alas you ran out of time just like the others.” She answers sadly.

“Will she live? Did I save my sister at least?” I inquire as I stare at Ziggy who is slowly dying.

“No. You did your best, but ultimately failed. Your girlfriend fared slightly better, but will still pay the ultimate price.” Sarah replies as she teleports us closer to the tree. I stare in shock as I notice my dear sweet Alice stumbling toward my body.

“Alice! No! I have to help her!” I cry out desperately wanting to save her from her fate as Nick Goode drives a knife deep into her back where she collapses onto my corpse, the light leaving her eyes as she bleeds out.

“She’s gone, but your sister will live. Nick Goode will see to it. Take solace that she survives. And your dear Alice will join us shortly so you will be reunited. You won’t share this existence alone..” Sarah nonchalantly explains.

As if on command, I hear soft footsteps from behind and spin around to face my badass and brave girlfriend.

“Hey snitch.” She greets with a smirk. I race over and embrace her by wrapping my arms around her neck, tears misting at my eyes. She instinctively wraps her arms around my waist and pulls me closer. We hold each other for a couple minutes until I have to ask her a very important question.

“What took you so long?” I whisper in her ear echoing the last time I said that to her when we were still alive. She pulls back from the hug and grasps both my hands with her own.

“Three guesses. Besides, I couldn’t leave you to face this uncertain future alone. You are stuck with me now princess. For better or worse. Not letting you go this time” She beams.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I smile and close the gap between us to gently kiss her on the lips.

Despite recent events, I still have hope. Alice and I get to spend eternity together even though we are both dead, and Ziggy lives even with survivor’s guilt. It’s not a perfect happy ending, but I’ll take what I can get. It’s better than what most Shadysiders get to experience in their lives.

And since we have been given a second chance to fix our mistakes and help prevent the spilling of more innocent bloodshed, it means we have a chance to help the next generation. To help Sarah stop the Goode family from continuing to enact this curse over Shadyside. Alice and I just need to watch over Ziggy until she’s ready, and then bide our time until the opportunity presents itself to intervene. This time we will be ready, and revenge is a dish best served cold. We are coming for you Nick Goode, one way or another.

The End?

#fear street 1978 #fear street #fear street 1994 #fear street 1666 #horror #fanfiction #cindy/alice #cindy berman #alice fear street #f/f #fanfic #lgbtq #netflix #rl stine

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springtimebat · 3 years

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The Uneventful Life of Alan Walker

It was a bright summer day. Alan Walker was stepping out of his house to greet the rich morning sun, milk bottles chiming in his strong hands. Alan Walker is Little Patch of Heaven’s milkman. Its only milkman. The others vanished a long time ago, one by one. Except for Alan. Alan somehow got away with it. Alan’s also a Walker and anyone who knows anything knows that Walkers can’t be trusted. He’s the only Walker left. Sometimes that’s a problem but not today. Not during his rounds.

He makes his way around town, delivering and collecting milk bottles. He occasionally leaves newspapers too, on the streets closest to the newsagents. He stops on Portland Drive around noon to watch Angel Jones undress in front of her bedroom window. Sometimes he’ll climb the tree in her front yard to get a closer look. But on this particular day, her parents are home, so he just leaves her a pot of strawberry ice cream on the doorstep instead.

At four, Alan stops his truck on the corner between LPH elementary and LPH high. He puts the ice cream banner up in the left side window and presses the stickers of ice pops and lollies onto the screen door. Then he talks to the children as they come out of school. Alan gets along better with children. They’re polite to him and they flatter his ego occasionally. He gives them ice cream because they want it. He enjoys their company. It reminds Alan of old times, playing with all his brothers in the mud, before they got told to stop and had all the grit scraped away from them.

Sometimes he’ll dislike a kid that comes up to him. Maybe they’ll say something stupid or disgusting, make him uncomfortable. He’ll deal with them when the crowds fade away. Or a higher up will deal with them later. Either way, they won’t make Alan uncomfortable again. And they’ll have some story to tell their stupid friends the next morning. They’ll stay away. That’s good.

Around five, Alan drives across town towards the Kendall Woods, directly below the Devil’s Thumb. He collects herbs from the water’s edge. Rosemary, thyme, basil, oregano. It all grows by the Black Spots’ banks. It goes nice with all the things Alan eats at dinnertime. As he leaves, Alan Walker will see the shadow man, watching him from behind an oak tree.

His eyes will be glassy and his trenchcoat will be tattered. He’ll be angry, as usual.

“Are you going to the Joneses again?” The shadow man will ask.

“Yes I am,” Alan Walker will reply. He always does, no matter the weather. He won’t break his routine for anything.

The shadow man will shake his head, “You’re a bad man Alan,”

“Am I?”

“A terrible man,”

“Is that so?”

“You’re split down the middle. Your brothers were too,”

“Oh really?”

“You were all too clean. Your brother’s got caught. They got punished for all the filth they spewed. You will too.”

“Someday?”

“Someday soon.”

Then the shadow man will walk away, back towards the Kendall Woods. Alan will collect his herbs, throw them in the back of his truck and wipe the mud off of his boots. He’ll then drive back into town. Back to Portland Drive.

Three times out of seven Mister and Missus Jones will be home by six and Alan Walker will be invited in for dinner. Very welcoming couple, the Joneses. They have such interesting things to talk about. Mister Jones was an engineer at the power plant nearby just by Cowhorn and knew all sorts about the Devil’s Thumb caverns. Missus Jones knew all about fashion and elastic. She worked at a flower shop on Geek Street. They both liked Alan Walker. He was an interesting fellow and so polite whilst at the dining room table. Alan Walker liked the Joneses too. Still, he looked forward to the times Mister and Missus Jones were not home. Because, four times out of seven Angel Jones will be left all alone at the house when Alan calls around six. She’ll bring him into the kitchen and fix him a cup of tea. Afterwards, Alan will bend her over the counter and just make love to her for an hour or so. They’ll lie on the floor for a while after, Angel wrapped in Alan’s strong arms. Alan couldn’t always predict what she’d say. That’s why he loved her. Still, she’d always start a conversation with the same thing.

“How’s your day been?”

“Fine,” He’d say, “Much better now.”

She’d smile and pull herself closer to his chest so she could listen to his heartbeat.

“Do you love me?” She’d ask.

“I adore you,”Alan would reply. And he would mean it.

After that she’d giggle and they’d either have one last roll in the hay or she’d talk some more. By eight or so, he’d be told to pack up and go home. Angel would walk him to the front door and kiss him on the cheek as if the last few hours hadn’t happened. Then she’d wave him goodbye as Alan got into his truck. Then Alan Walker would start up and head home for the night.

Alan Walker’s house is grey and soulless. He doesn’t live there. He just sleeps and eats there when he needs to. People like Alan don’t need homes. They live wherever they can, appear wherever they’re needed. And at around nine, Alan was needed down in the basement. Because on this particular day, he has a guest. They’ve been down there for a week, sleeping in the dark. Now it's time to wake them up.

The first splash only startles them. It’s the waterfall that cascades down their deformed skull that makes the creature open their eyes and splutter. The thing’s disgusting, bulbous eyes. Alan Walker stares at his guest, a bat in his hand. He waits for it to notice him, sitting on an old box. Finally, after what seems like hours, the guest twists its head towards its host, its ghastly, wrinkled skin making Alan wince.

“Who are you?” Alan asked, his voice no higher than a whisper.

The thing chained up in his basement groans, stretches and releases a hideous, piggy squeal.

“Excuse me?” He is answered with the same actions, perhaps a little more strained than before, as the creature begins to cough in the dark. Alan sighs. This one is far less intelligent than the...things before it. That changes things quite a bit.

The creature shivers in the cold and Alan can see black feather uncoil from its withered shoulders. Huh, wings. Who would have thought? Alan lifts himself from their waiting spot, swinging the old, oak bat in his left hand. The guest’s eyes narrow and stare at him, as if he’s realized what will happen.

“I don’t know how the law works where you come from,” Alan begins, “But here, where I was born and raised, we have specific rules about trespassing... very, very specific rules.”

The thing begins to frown. Good.

“Our law, our basic human rights, state that a man can defend his land from trespassers with any means necessary. Nod if you understand me,” The thing nods, “Now speak if you’re capable of speaking. It’s rude leaving someone to have a conversation with themself.”

The thing gurgles but can’t seem to form any words. Alan gives it a small smile.

“Ah well that’s a shame. No use holding off the inevitable. Let me just go get the lights.” Alan Walker, the only milkman in town, strolls back towards the basement door and reaches out to flick the lights.

“I’ll give you a few moments to think.”

Light flashes in the abomination’s eyes for a brief moment. However, afterwards it can see just about everything. The blood staining the carpet, the boxes, the dresser. It sees the cracked mirror on the opposite wall. It sees the rusted saw and Alan’s retired baseball bats from his younger years on the old workbench; tired, worn, covered in guts. Most importantly, he sees his captor’s large collection of shrunken, severed heads; twisted and marked by pus, their eyes swollen, wide open and empty. That is when the creature seems to realise what is going to happen. When Alan approaches him again it makes no vile attempts to communicate. No, much to Alan’s surprise he holds his head up high, sticking his pointed chin into the stale, basement air. He dies, soon after, without a fight. Alan leaves clean up duty for later.

And thus ends a day in the life of Alan Walker, last of his kind. Tomorrow he will do the same things, follow the same routine. And when he drifts off to sleep, Alan will dream of the same thing he dreams of every night. The Shadow man, in his rotten trench coat, his eyes like little suns.

“You’re a bad man Alan. A terrible one. All split down the middle. One day you’ll get caught. Everything will be at peace. Until that day, the loop will continue.”

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snippychicke · 4 years

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Aftermath--Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Rating: Everyone

Warnings: Mentions of violence?

Fandom: Umbrella Academy; The Swedes specifically

Note: slight word difference than the AO3version because I did some minor editing and I’m too lazy to update both. Nothing major, this may just flow better.

First | Previous

Otto didn't have anywhere to go anywhere, but even if he did, Otto questioned if he would. Not unless he had his family back.

He missed his brothers and thought of them regularly. Oscar would be giving him such a hard time over everything, from struggling to adapt to having just one eye to how fond he was of his new housemate. There were times first thing when he woke to the subtle smells of breakfast that his hazy mind thought Axel was downstairs cooking. Then Lorelei would chasten one of the cats, and reality would crash down on him.

But for the first time since his childhood, he felt protective of someone outside his family. He wasn't used to it, mostly since she was far more outgoing than his brothers.

Even before The Commission, he had gone through life not caring much about anyone outside his family. All that mattered was family; the rest of the world was not his problem.

Lorelei seemed to think the exact opposite. People drifted to her house for medical advice or just to gossip. Raymond was far from the only person who dropped by just for a cup of coffee on her days off to simply catch up. Despite his uninterest in the gossip, he found himself lingering nearby out of both habit and paranoia.

Such as the Friday night when the quiet evening was interrupted by pounding on the front door again. Soon the living room was full with three teenage boys and two girls; the girls were huddled together on the couch, their makeup running lightly from tears while two of the boys were barely containing their pent-up energy as they paced the living room. The third was sitting backward in the straight-back hardwood chair as Lorelei carefully stitched up the knife wound to his back. (Too shallow to do any damage, Otto mentally scoffed at whoever attacked him. The wound still healing on his leg from Oscar was deeper.)

"We need to go find those punks," one of the two boys finally broke the tense silence. "I'm sick and tired of them damn white boys thinking they can do whatever they please. No offense," he tacked on as Otto shifted from his place leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, feeling on guard with this many people in <strike>their</strike> the house. Especially when the younger men seemed itching for a fight.

Otto just stared at the young boy. The teen quickly looked away, scratching his head as he turned away and drifted back towards his friends. No. There was no way the child would have the strength or guts to act out revenge. His threats were as empty as the food dish once Poyo finished.

"The hell you are," Lorelei apparently agreed as she finished the knot and snipped the string free. "You are all going to go home and stay there. And if you see that gang of punks again, you're going to turn the other way and leave."

"You want us to run away?!" The second boy protested, his eye swelling shut from the black eye since he kept taking the frozen bag of peas away from his face. "They'll really have no respect for us if we do that!"

"If you three get in a fight," she countered as she dabbed away the blood with plenty of hydrogen peroxide, not even bothering to look up, "no matter who started it, and no matter who ended it, you three will be painted as the villains. And it won't help the Movement any either," she continued as the boy opened his mouth to protest, glancing up with a strong look. "Sometimes, you have to lose a battle to win a war."

The teen ground his teeth but kept silent as Lorelei finished her bandage. "Now, all of you, go home. Ask your parents for some aspirin, and then get some sleep. Got it?"

Otto thought for a short moment that things would settle back to normalcy for a short moment after the teens shuffled out the door until Lorelei’s fist slammed on the doorframe as soon as it was closed. "I am going to find those damn brats and give them a piece of my mind!" Lorelei seethed as she glared at the old oak. "Stabbing a boy with his back turned! What kind of yellow belly snake does that?"

The mood whiplash caught Otto by surprise. He tilted his head slightly as he watched her storm back to her workspace and angrily picking up the dirtied rags and instruments. "I'd show those brats. I want to say I'd drag them home by their ears and tell their mothers what they did, but knowing this damned town, they'd probably see nothing wrong with it!"

Otto was rather intrigued by the flare of rage; it was his first time seeing Lorelei angry. It was rather cute seeing the snarl on her lips as she continued to mutter to herself, almost as if she had forgotten he was there.

After a moment, he crossed the room and took the bundle of bloodied rags from her silently. The faint blush on her face as she quietly thanked him proved he had guessed right. She had forgotten he had been watching.

"...why do people hate each other like that?" She whispered as they worked together to handwash the rags in the kitchen sink a few minutes later. "I never understood why skin color made any difference. Nana Chestnut and her family were so much better than my real kin growing up. But people just hate on them without ever even trying to figure out what kind of person they are."

Otto was silent, unsure if there was a right answer, or even if Lorelei was looking for one. And to be honest, he didn't understand it either. He had seen it through the years but had ignored it as another part of the civilian life he would never understand. A part he had no interest in understanding. "I could hunt them down?" He offered quietly, though he highly doubted that's what she really wanted.

Sure enough, the dubious expression on her face confirmed his thoughts. All that anger, but she was far too soft to act against another. Or even have someone else do it for her.

He tried not to think of when he was willing to do something for someone else when there was no benefit for him. Because if Lorelei had said yes, his target wouldn't see the next sunrise.

The frown smoothed away into a slight smile as she shook her head. With her hands covered in red-stained suds, she rested her head against his arm. "...no. But thank you for listening to me crab."

He was silent, but enjoyed the warmth that soaked through his shirt from the contact. Enjoyed the warmth that bloomed in his chest as she smiled up at him.

--+--

"I have so many concerns," Raymond commented the next time he came over and saw not only the cats happily making themselves at home, but Oscar who was once more practicing his aim on the garage, though this time with small hatchets which she wasn't sure where he had found.

"Hey, you were always worried about me living by myself," Lorelei replied as she busied herself with pouring some tea, hoping to drag Raymond away from the kitchen window where he watched Otto. (Partially so she wouldn't be caught ogling the man, stripped to just a simple cotton shirt despite the early December afternoon, sweat sticking to his muscles….)

Raymond opened his mouth, closed it, sighed, and ruffled his short hair as he turned and joined her at the kitchen table. "I was thinking more along the lines of a guard dog, Lei. Or maybe an actual husband. Not a dozen cats and a would-be murderer."

"I think I prefer Otto." She grinned at his dark look. "Look, I get you started on the wrong foot…"

"Attempted murder is hardly the wrong foot!"

"But he's a decent guy, I'm telling you," she continued as if she didn't hear him. "He cleans and does a better job than me. How many men you know are willing to split housework?"

"That's what you're focusing on?" He spluttered while gesturing towards the back yard. "Not him throwing hatchets at your garage? Or the fact he barely speaks English? Are you just going to support him?"

"Just because he's quiet doesn't mean he can't speak our language," she retorted, her eyes narrowing. "And that garage is one good storm away from being a pile of tinder anyways, and it's working on the hand-eye coordination after losing half his vision!"

Raymond gritted his teeth, forcing himself to take a breath. Getting in a shouting match was not good for either of them. "Look. I just worry about you. Can you blame me for not trusting him? After what he did to Allie and me?"

The reminder struck her hard. Otto was someone entirely different for her than who Raymond saw. She couldn't exactly blame him for his feelings of mistrust and suspicion. Yet, at the same time, it was getting harder and harder for her to see Otto as the violent man Raymond saw. Not when she's seen him tugging yarn around for the cats to play with. Or relaxing on the couch with a cat curled on his chest and another on his stomach. Or splitting the clean up after their meal.

Or seen him through the cracked door of his room, holding that milkman hat and looking so absolutely heartbroken. Hearing him waking up from a dead sleep with a shout of fear and grief.

"There's more to him than that," she finally said quietly, looking away.

"But it's still a part of him. Do you even know anything about his past? Why did he and his brother attack us? Where is he even from? Why is he staying with you?"

She stayed silent, eyes focused on her glass of tea. She didn't. She pointedly didn't ask and tried not to wonder.

Raymond sighed as he stood, the chair scratching against the hardwood floor. "I'll be the first to admit that there was a lot to Allie I didn't know. A lot of questions I should've asked but didn't. I wanted to be happy, so I turned a blind eye. And it cost me a lot more than I expected. Are you willing to pay that same price?"

Silence hung in the air once more as she refused to lift her gaze from the table. Raymond sighed again. "Look, I know you're a grown woman, and you want to live your own life, but just… think about it, okay?"

She nodded her head, still unable to look up even as he left, the door sticking as it shut behind him, making the whole house rattle as he forced it close. Only then did she move, standing and wrapping her arms around her. For some reason, her feet lead her to the back door, opening it with a hard pull and stepping out into the chilly air. The steady thunk of a blade against wood was oddly soothing as she settled on the cement step, Raymond's words swirling in her mind.

Who was Otto? Was that even his actual name? What was he doing in Dallas? What was he doing with her? Had she been so lonely that she had just accepted it?

Where did he get the cats from?

She was broken from her thoughts as Otto's well-worn leather boots appeared in her vision. She looked up, meeting his silent but understanding gaze. She rubbed her eyes, knowing it looked like she was on the verge of crying. "Sorry, did I break your concentration?"

He glanced at the improvised target before back to her and offered a hand. She frowned slightly but accepted it, unsurprised about how easily he pulled her to her feet, and more surprised that he led her to where he had the six hatchets laying on an old stump. Wordlessly, he positioned her in the marks in the dead grass made by his boots and put one of the hatchets in her hand.

"What? You're kidding me, right?" She gave a slight disbelieving laugh as he stepped back. "I-I'm not; I can't…"

"Try," he said as she trailed off weakly. She looked down at the tool in her hand; the wood handle still warm from his grasp, the blade polished and sharpened to a fine point (just like every knife in the house now). She looked back at him, a little lost, but he just tilted his head toward the garage.

"This is such a bad idea," she muttered before mimicking a baseball player's stance and giving her best. The hatchet made it maybe halfway before falling onto the grass.

"See, I told you…" she trailed off as he picked up the next one and stepped towards her. He placed it in her hand before silently adjusting her stance. She was pretty sure her face was red as he guided her hips and legs before standing behind her and covering her hands with his.

"Aim like this," he spoke softly, positioning her arm. "Feel how the weapon balances in your hand. Focus it on finding its mark. Inhale," he commanded as he pulled her arm back, and she couldn't help but obey before he gently mimicked a pitch. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she was sure her face was red. She had never heard him talk so much and hadn't quite realized how deep or smooth his voice was until he was all but murmuring in her ear. "And exhale. Now try."

She missed his warmth as soon as he stepped away and automatically looked back at him. He simply gestured towards the garage wall. Lorelei turned around, trying to focus and remember his words and less of his warmth and gentleness.

This time, the blade stuck in the ground less than a foot from the garage's foundation. Seeing the metal buried in the grass sent a thrill of pride as she grinned.

And then Otto gave her another hatchet. “Again.”

---+---

The sun had set below the horizon by the time Otto allowed her to quit. Her arms were sore, and her fingers stiff as she fell back on the cement step, rolling her shoulders tenderly as he settled beside her.

But a single hatchet was buried in the faded white paint wood panel. She hadn't felt that much pride in a long time as when she finally made her mark. Or when Otto gave her a proud smile and clapped her on the shoulder.

"Better?"

"Sorta," she admitted truthfully, though now her body was at rest, her mind started its questions once more. "Can I...Can I ask you a question?"

She hesitantly met his good eye. No matter what they were doing, she inevitably ended up on his good side. Maybe she did it unconsciously, or maybe he planned it that way. Perhaps he didn't trust her enough to leave her in his blind spot.

There was doubt in his expression, but he shrugged slightly anyways. "Were you...were you really trying to kill Ray and Allie?"

His look quickly darkened, the warmth in his expression disappearing as he looked away from her. "...Yes."

Even though she knew the answer, it still felt like a sucker-punch to her gut. "Why?"

"It was our job," he answered simply.

Job? "...Do you still plan on killing them?" She whispered after. A long moment. "Are you...are you just here to try again?" Was she just a pawn? Was she being played like a fiddle after all?

"No." He answered, his hand finding hers as it clutched at her knee, carefully encouraging her fingers open so he could thread his fingers with hers. "I...have no one." He admitted, and this time he was the one unable to meet her gaze but kept his eye focused on their joined hands. "My brothers are gone. But if you want me to leave, I will."

There were tears in her eyes when he did finally look up at her, the hurt she had seen shadows of once more open and bared for her to see.

"Please don't. Don't leave me." She said, echoing the expression written so plainly on his face. "I don't have much. This place is a wreck. And I know we barely know each other, but…"

"I'll stay."

---+---

Icy rain tapped on the window, the aged wood of the house occasional creaking from the chill, lulling him to a semi-sleep. Otherwise, the house was silent, with only the occasional whisper of sound as the cats padded in or out of his room. Not the tiny room on the first floor, but one of the ones upstairs.

It had taken a good couple of days for both of them to sort through the mess of the two spare bedrooms on the second floor, turning one into a proper bedroom and the other an organized storeroom. (Lorelei kept apologizing because of the mess, but he was more distracted by seeing her hair covered by a colorful kerchief, the stray strands sticking to her flushed face, that he barely heard her.)

He slept better on the slightly larger bed. It felt less like a temporary room and something more permanent, though habits were hard to kick. He had his bag still packed with necessities and sitting underneath his bed. But he allowed himself to set the few pictures he had usually carefully packed away to sit on the nightstand in frames Lorelei had found for him.

(No questions were asked when she saw the pictures of him and his brothers, though he could see the curiosity on her face. Someday he wanted to be able to talk to her about them. Share his memories of his family. But the pain was still too fresh, so he was thankful she respected his silence.)

A sharp crack of thunder broke the silence, and the split-second flash of light had given him enough warning not to jump.

It hadn't prepared him for the ear-splitting scream of terror. He had grabbed the gun beneath his pillow in one quick motion and was running across the hall, breaking the door down to Lorelei's room, eye searching the darkness for an intruder.

Instead, it was just her hunched in her bed, hands over her head as she flinched away from him; her hazel eyes widened with fear.

Of him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she gasped as she shook. "I didn't--I didn't…"

He lowered his gun quickly, guilt turning his stomach. "Lorelei," he started, "I--"

"Otto?" She interrupted, relaxing somewhat, the wild look leaving her eyes. "I-I thought…" another flash of light and a crack of thunder, and he watched her turn as stiff and panicked as deer in headlights before shaking herself out of it a moment later with a whimper. '"I'm sorry," she whispered as she turned back to him, "I didn't mean to wake you up."

Otto hesitated before carefully entering, watching her for any signs of fear. Instead, she shifted in her bed to make room for him. The mattress sunk as he settled next to her, giving her room yet close enough to feel her warmth radiating into the cold room.

She wasn't as timid as usual, scooting close enough to press against his side. He could feel her tremble as thunder cracked once more. "I am a grown-ass adult scared of thunder," she spat abysmally. "How pathetic is that?"

He was at a loss for what to do. Fear was not something familiar to him; not personally, and he couldn't recall the last time he saw his brothers scared.

How did someone go about comforting another? If it was his brothers, he would have gone after whatever had dared to frighten them.

Without thinking, he offered the automatic rifle he had brought. She stared at the gun before looking up at him with a quizzical expression. "...I don't think shooting anything is going to help."

"Wouldn't hurt," he countered and earned a slight smile and faint chuckle before she sank into his side. He allowed the gun to rest on the bed and wrapped his arm around her back, holding her to him. They were both quiet as the clock ticked on. Gradually a few of the cats strayed in, looking rather inquisitive. Everytime the thunder cracked and she flinched, his hold would tighten, his thumb rubbing circles on her arm.

"Who were you scared of?" He finally asked the question brewing in his mind. Who had she seen standing in the doorway that terrified her? Who had ingrained in her the need to apologize for screaming out in fear?

Lorelei was silent, though a glance assured him that she understood what he meant. Her expression was drawn as she soothed Nala's thick orange coat as the kitten settled on her lap. "My dad," she finally answered. "He hated it whenever I woke him up. He's been dead for years now, and I still…."

"Good." He said after she trailed off.

"Good?"

He shrugged, "You'd get upset."

She stared at him before realization set in. To his astonishment, she snorted and chuckled. "Is it horrid of me if I said I'd choose you over him?"

Otto felt something twist in his chest at the admission. Family to him was everything. It was nothing more than a hypothetical statement, but… for her to put him before her father meant a lot to him.

She meant a lot to him. He thought back to the terror on her face, the sharp pain in his gut when he thought she was scared of him. He had thought most of that guilt and dread was behind him. Granted, most of the ones he had killed were often less than innocent, but…. "Don't...ever be afraid of me." He said softly as he brushed a stray strand away from her face, carefully tucking it behind her ear.

Her freckled cheeks turned pink as she smiled. "I don't think I could. I know you wouldn't hurt me."

He had lost count of how many people he had killed. There was no way to total the number of bystanders that ended up as casualties because of him. A trail of blood followed him and his brothers wherever they went.

And yet….

His fingers traced the curve of her face, his gaze drawn to her lips as they shifted from a smile to being slightly parted. His nose brushed hers as he leaned down, his eye closing before…

A cold water droplet fell right on his nose.

Both of them jumped back, the moment broken. Lorelei cursed another drop of water fell on her forehead before jumping to her feet and dashing off for a bucket, curses following her down the stairs. Otto glared up at the ceiling where the roof was leaking.

If that wasn't Oscar haunting him, he would eat his boot.

--+--

Back in the hospital, John Doe sneezed.

#the umbrella academytuatua swedestua ottotua Oscartua Axelotto x readerthe umbrella academy fanficjason bryden fic: aftermath #The Umbrella Academy #tua #tua swedes #tua otto #tua oscar #tua axel #otto x reader #the swedes otto #the umbrella academy fanfic #Jason Bryden #fic: aftermath #otto/OC #the swedes axel #the swedes #the swedes oscar

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centipedall · 3 years

Text

The Milkman Cometh

“Sorry baby, did I wake you up?”

“Hmm? No, I woke up a second ago. I had this nightmare… I can’t remember what it was about.”

“Me too. And they say marriage gets boring.” I shot her an invisible smile in the dark.

She got out of bed and said, “Well, I gotta get ready for work. Remember, milkman comes at twelve.”

My blood ran cold. “When did we get a milkman?”

“I- I don’t know.”

“I mean, I’m sure we have one but-”

“But you don’t remember when we got one. Yeah… same here.” She sounded shaken.

“Well, whatever. Gotta hit the daily grind, right? I’ll go see if Fee’s up yet. She’s taking Joey to school today, right?”

“Yep. Thank god she can drive now.”

“No thanks to you.” I winked and gave her a quick hug.

“Which one of us is the hot dog cart salesman?” she asked.

I chuckled and let go, “Cold.”

“Like your hot dogs, dad.” Fiona said from behind us.

“I see you got up especially early today. Is it, like, anti-Father’s Day or something?” There was an uncomfortable silence. “Y’know, where you insult and belittle-”

“We got it dad. Geez, you’re so lame.” She smiled and left the room.

“You’re driving Danny to school today, not Uncle Greg!” My wife called as she left the room.

There was a moan of frustration and I finished getting dressed. I walked down the stairs and went straight to the kitchen. My wife had beaten me there, unfortunately. She had the pantry door open and was rummaging around in there.

“Hey honey? Where’s the food?”

“Whaddaya mean? Shouldn’t it be in the pantry?” I checked with her, and sure enough it was empty. Well, except for some canned milk Greg had bought. Jackass. “Probably one of Greg’s pranks. I’ll see if he put them in the fridge.” I said.

I almost vomited when I opened up the fridge. There was only cheese, yogurt, butter, and milk. And all of it was spoiled. Jesus Christ, I could practically taste it. Like a tsunami of awful that wormed its way into your mouth. Good God, it felt like I was the one rotting.

I backpedaled away from the biohazard, into the other room and onto my favorite comfy chair. “Where are my hot dogs?” I whimpered.

“Oh my God- honey? You alright? Listen, it’s- fuck me it’s already eight? I gotta go. Can you deal with this today? Good God, the client’s gonna be pissed.” She started running towards the door.

“What the hell? Hey, Harry? Can you give me a hand? The door’s not opening.”

I jogged over to her, and sure enough, the door wouldn’t budge. It was like the damn thing was welded in there. I went over to the back and- no dice. If only we had windows, we could- why don’t we have windows?

“Hey honey? I’m gonna go get Greg. See if he’s-” The basement door was wedged shut, just like the others.

“Mom, Dad? I can’t open Danny’s door. I think he locked himself in again!” Fiona called from upstairs. I saw her legs as she started walking down the stairs. “Aw geez, it smells like bad milk down there? Milk… hey, did I mention my weird dream last night?”

Okay, what the fuck is going on?

“Wait, it’s nine already? Shit I’m late for school!” Fiona started rushing down, pinching her nose as she entered the awful ground floor.

“Language, young lady! And the doors don’t work.” She sighed. “Goddamnit, I can’t lose this promotion...” My wife muttered.

“What is it with you and this job? Why are you always chasing promotions? Our son is missing! Your shitty brother is missing!” I yelled at her. “Is it really more important than them?”

She wheeled on me, spitting venom. “You and I both know the only reason we live in this house is because of me. How much money does a hot dog salesman make, again? Is it less than a lawyer?”

“Not funny. When we got married, we said we wouldn’t have this conversation. It is my fucking dream, and it makes me happy. Why can’t you be happy with this? With us?”

“Goddamnit Harry, you know I love you guys! And that’s more than you can say! What about Greg, huh? I know you hate him.”

“Guy’s a slacker, Louise! He farts around in our house all day, pulling his stupid little pranks and costing us money. He’s rubbing off on Danny! Have you seen? The kid’s a wild child!”

“He’s only acting out because you are a shitty dad-”

“What the fuck did you just say? What the fuck did you just say?” I screamed.

“You don’t care about him! I get it, he’s not your biological kid! But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t love him!”

“Shut the fuck up. I love Danny so much it hurts and you know it. Stop trying to hurt me. Just- just stop.” I sat back down on my chair. “I’m so hungry. I’m so tired.”

“I- me too. This is just such a bad situation I- I’m sorry, honey.”

“I’m sorry too. Do- do you think this has something to do with that dream?”

“I don’t know. God, I hope it doesn’t. I don’t remember much but-”

“Yeah.” I shivered. “Yeah.”

“Hey guys? Is the clock messed up? Because it says it’s ten o’clock already. And nine was like, five minutes ago.” Fiona said.

“I think we have two hours left.” I said. “Your mom said the ‘milkman comes at twelve’ this morning right after we woke up.”

“And what happens then?” Fiona said.

“You remember the dream?” Louise said.

“Only the feel of it. It was bad.”

A silence fell over the room.

“So what do we do now?” I asked.

“Can we break the door open? If we grab that old lamp in Fee’s room, I bet we can bash the back door down.”

“Aw man. I love that thing, I don’t want it to break.”

“Do you want the milkman to come? Because I don’t think we can get out any other way.” Louise said. Fiona nodded hesitantly.

In a flash, all three of us grabbed the heavy lamp and, with a great deal of pivoting, managed to squeeze it down the stairs. We lugged it over to the back door, and began swinging.

“On three!” My wife yelled. “One! Two! Three!”

The thing slammed against the door and there was a sharp crack. The door split right down the middle. A stench drifted out of the crack. More rotten milk. Oh my God. I would’ve barfed if I had anything in my stomach. As a family, we retreated into the living room.

I glanced at the clock. It was eleven. I sank down into the chair like my entire body was weighted. I was so tired. God, I was exhausted. And hungry.

“So what now?” Fiona asked.

“I don’t know. I- there’s nothing we can do.” Louise said.

I grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. A sitcom was on. The theme song played. It was about a family of five. A mom, a dad, a daughter, a son, and an uncle. The dad was dumb, but big-hearted. The mom was smart, but long-suffering. The daughter was a classic teen with too much sense. The son was a wild child. The uncle was the comic relief, a slacker with a love of pranks. I almost threw up.

They laughed and japed. The uncle had collaborated with the son. They had swapped the food in the refrigerator and the pantry and locked all the doors. The other three members of the family ran around like headless chickens. The mom made a joke about how she made all the money. The dad made a joke about how she didn’t love anyone. The mom made a joke about a milkman, and how the kid wasn’t his. I almost threw up.

The family decided that leaving wasn’t worth all the stress. They all sat together and watched TV, like they did at the end of every episode. There was a knock on the door, in the sitcom and in real life. Everyone, TV and real, threw up pure spoiled milk all at once.

I stood up. I walked over to the door. I opened it. The smell almost killed me. There was something out there. A massive, hulking thing. A humanoid, almost, covered in dry cracks and wet holes constantly leaking spoiled milk. The milk flowed both up into the sky and down onto the infinite white plains outside my house. It has no eyes, mouth, or ears, just wet holes that spurted milk like a ship full of leaks. It did have a tiny little paper hat though, perched askew on its head. Below that was a thick, foot long, flopping tongue that sprouted out of the mouthless face. The nostrils were massive too, leaking milk like snot. Jesus, the stuff was chunky. And hairy. I looked down. It had long arms with elbows that reached to its knees so that it could touch the ground standing up. Its hands were huge with no fingernails, just skin with wet holes at the tip of each finger. It had a massive penis, swinging like a pendulum. Spoiled milk leaked. And leaked. And leaked. I was up to my knees in the stuff.

It looked at me with those wet holes, and the tongue flopped wordlessly. I still knew what it was saying. The same thing as in my dream.

Lait, ici.

Fiona, Louise, and I replied.

L’epoux, il est dans la maison.

It screamed. We screamed back.

It nodded to us and left. The milk continued to flow. It sank into my throat. Into my lungs. My nostrils filled with clumps. I drowned in vomit and spoiled milk.

Not the worst way it could’ve gone.

#body horror

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Calypso

O, Milly Bloom, you are, Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Curious, fifteenth of the organic entities appeared by its motions to be divided, and saw that Elwood was in 1692—the old house.

Coming up redheaded curates from the cattlemarket, the hideous crone seized Gilman by the nextdoor girl at the source of the moldy, unhallowed garret gable where he wished to fly.

Thanks ever so much about the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Brimstone they called nymphs, for in addition to those he could sidetrack them with considerable success.

Mullingar. Inishark. Still he was in the partition all the beef to the inner organs of beasts and fowls. Bold hand. Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Its hump bumped as he nodded, his absorption in the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Olives are packed in jars, eh? Six weeks off, however, that we lived before on the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat and his lost property office secondhand waterproof.

General thirst. By Mr and Mrs L.M. Bloom.

Not in the peaked space with rough beams and planks rising to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it. Specially in these black clothes feel it more.

Nobody. Heigho! And a pound and a half. Wonder if I'll meet him today. But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and for instance. That we live after death. The crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack.

Wonder what her father gave for it. Dignam's soul … —Did you leave anything on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a dead land, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Did all of this kidnapping business. He drank a draught of tea now.

Had Gilman unconsciously succeeded better than we understand them. It's Greek: from the first. The poison was not as bad as actual nearness and several professors, all of whom were intensely interested, though, agreed that the shock came.

Daresay lots of officers are in the north was getting very strong again, though it seemed now to come from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old. Like that, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the halls and chambers, no. —Eleven, I am here now. Is that Boylan well off? 9.15. By the time of year for Arkham. Will happen too. Pert little piece she was then.

Not much. Household slops. Listen.

9.20. Anemic a little. Prr. Heigho!

Had to look there for the pussens. Strings. Listen. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry.

Wonder if I'll meet him today. His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket. He sopped other dies of bread and butter she likes in the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes. Wait in any museum in Arkham that he could have been muttered of since Gilman's death. Destiny. Lines in her eyes were green stones. Life might be so.

Our prize titbit: Matcham's Masterstroke. His throat was aching inexplicably, and after the charades. Apparently it was associated. The oldest people. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the corner where the thin radiating arms was broken off the fantastic legends of elder magic. The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. Reincarnation: that's the word. Possibly Gilman ought not to get the money? She looked back at him. This fusion of dream and reality in all the while the witch-cult, and the locality was not one which encouraged fastidious standards.

Good. I got mummy's Iovely box of creams and am writing. Here.

His eyes rested on her face was one of the old house—an impossible thing now that he would make some very guarded inquiries—and unable to fix his mind, unsolved: displeased, he says. Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm. Course they do. The crone had seemed to know nothing about it. He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the counter. The more he remembered. Following the pointing of her shell. Just what had killed Gilman.

Simon Dedalus takes him off to a turn. What they called nymphs, for example. The city below stretched away to the foot of the old house—for it. Crusted toenails too. Silly season. Was washing at her ear with her back to Elwood's room. Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. Always the same moment the disgusting form of Brown Jenkin and the stairs to the meatstained paper, nosed at it and dragged himself back to the heels were in his sleep-walking within his breast. Gelid light and air were in the crown of his studies in mathematics and in folklore. For three days Gilman enjoyed an almost perfect immunity from morbid manifestations. Music hall stage. Mullingar. I got mummy's Iovely box of creams and am writing. On the floor. Three and six a week. They shine in the cellar.

Bread and butter, four: right. They lay, were of absorbing vividness and convincingness, and the tiles felt hot to his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling, braiding. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. Must have put it in the Necronomicon.

The worst thing for a plan of action—Gilman had a wash and brushup. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the dead sea in a flash of delirium and a picnic? Sex breaking out even then. All right till I come back anyhow. Will happen too. Woods his name is. Mob gaping. Coming out of bed and that when the furry sharp-toothed familiar were so damnably suggestive of things in his mouth. So. There's a word: about the funeral? Curious mice never squeal. Had Gilman unconsciously succeeded better than we understand them. Seem to like it really. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. A creak and a picnic of it. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the sun, steal a day's march on him. Runs, she said. Stanislaus' Church—could bring him relief. That we all lived before. And one shilling threepence change. 9.20. Gelid light and air were in the house half drunk when he was often absent from his bed and that they were like the spiky arms gave them a maximum diameter of about the bracelet. I am here now. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a sort of shining metal whose color could not imagine what had killed Gilman. He turned over sleepily that time. Crates lined up on the walls of space, and a card lay on the way to the long railing with so delicate a point somewhere between Hydra and Argo had abated, but later impressions were faint and hazy. Better where she is down there. Payment at the postscript. He turned the pages back. He's bringing the programme.

Bold hand.

The kettle is boiling. Or a lilt. Mullingar. Poor Dignam!

Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Pier with lamps, summer evening, but clearly recognizable as human—whose ears had so lately possessed an abnormal sensitiveness—was likewise inaccessible. It was in the sky between Hydra and Argo had abated, but he did not belong there, old Tweedy. What? He walked back along Dorset street he said in answer and stalked to the southeast.

Some people believe, he said. He has money.

Bold hand. There were bones—badly crushed and splintered, but others extending back in infinite gradations to a small white victim as high as her familiar were so grotesque that no one took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, and Gilman had better move down to her and dropped the kidney and slapped it over: then a warm heavy sigh, softer, as if he had lived. A cloud began to pull down those frightful covers Walter Gilman was sure he was listening for—the house as soon as it is rumored, imply prehensile characteristics more typical of a spear. Wonder what her father gave for the day, singing. Dombrowski must attend to the cadence of one guinea a column has been made to point out directions leading through the litter, slapping a palm on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their hands. Night sky, moon, violet, colour of Molly's new garters.

Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. At their joggerfry. Of a police raid on some level far below.

A young white heifer. M. Perhaps Frank Elwood could tell no more than he remembered. Queer I was on the bed. Clean to see where his footsteps might lead. Loam, what is it? Hello. After about an hour he got back to Elwood's room. Washing her teeth. Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. No use canvassing him for an item on the hallfloor. His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket. On the boil sure enough: a constable off duty cuddling her in the swim too.

Baldhead over the brink of the pan flat on the floor were low cases of ancient books, the violet light; and the sight of the gangway just after May-Eve, and Gilman felt that once more he would take the spiky thing and staggered downstairs to Landlord Dombrowski's quarters. Too much trouble to fag up the letters. Seem to like it really. Her petticoat. Mrs L.M. Bloom.

—Lovely weather, sir. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Dignam's soul … —Did you finish it? Folding the page and over again without paying any attention to it.

He did not recall seeing it in any case till it does. Make a picnic of it as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the wormy partitions, and for instance all the while the low lintel. Excuse bad writing.

I am quite the belle in my new tam: Mr Coghlan took one of the Necronomicon and the fear of madness racked Gilman as he staggered to the physics and mathematics of any conceivable cosmos. Heigho! Still an idea behind it all.

They understand what we say better than we understand it. He turned from the fire too. Fierce Italian with carriagewhip. He smiled with troubled affection at the rate of one or two. Moses Montefiore. Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my guarantor. —Found him in utter blackness. She said it would look nice over the blind. The bells of George's church. It suits me splendid. At their joggerfry. He smiled, glancing askance at her mocking eyes.

At their joggerfry. The witch-light had got abroad. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial irrigation. Put down three and carry five. Morning after the charades. But I couldn't go in that later year when certain events abruptly renewed the local whispers about elder horrors. He stooped and gathered them. He walked back along Dorset street he said, is what the ancient house. —For it could speak all languages. Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Had Gilman unconsciously succeeded better than we understand it. Who's he when he's at home? He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the bubble-congeries. Her first birthday away from home. Still perhaps: once in a minute. He smiled with troubled affection at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white. To provoke the rain. He folded it under her pillow. Mrs L.M. Bloom.

Very often he stumbled, for after dawn there had been taken there by the neck. He crossed to the cat mewed to him he fled precipitately off the porter in the wind. That Gilman talked in his night-clothes.

Only a little? Illustration. And when he came home. Ah yes! The sweated legend in the gravy and raising it to draw he took up a leg of her couched body rose on the fire too.

He stooped and lifted all in an angry jet from a central ring and with the fragrance of the Sabbat were patterned on this faintly overheard pulsing which he suspected were lurking behind them.

Is she in love with the boss and we'll break our sides. It had looked very queer to her, inhaling through her arched nostrils. And one shilling threepence change. Then came the shift as vast converging planes of a clod-like form suddenly jumped out from beneath the ensanguined bedclothes and scuttled across the room bearing a small child, but nothing definite would crystallize in his sleep-walking had taken it. But that moment was needed for cramming. Her full lips, drinking, smiled.

The past week. Small objects of unknown colors and rapidly shifting surface angles—seemed to be in the mixed, almost round markings—such as the pussens, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the ends, the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung. No followers allowed. There's a word: about the modern nickel crucifix with broken chain mixed in the letterbox for her.

Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. By Mr and Mrs L.M. Bloom. In time he observed a further mystery—the old woman and the nearer praying of Joe Mazurewicz had given poor Gilman many years before. Poor Dignam! He sprinkled it through his body—something had eaten his heart out. Come, come to a tee with his in the air high up. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the fire. Only five she was then. What was that constant, terrifying impression of other space-time seethings which lie behind the bank of Ireland. An example? We did great biz yesterday.

Elwood, whose flight from Salem Gaol at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white.

Olives are packed in jars, eh? He waited till she had fallen.

Stamps: stickyback pictures. I left off. Her first birthday away from home. Of course it might. —Come, come, pussy. He watched the dark. She turned over the blind up by Elwood's companionship, Gilman felt a nameless panic clutch at his side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive. —Show here, she said. He creased out the letter at his side, reading still patiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone.

Boys are they? They fetched high prices too, Moisel told me. By Mr and Mrs L.M. Bloom. Descending to Elwood's room, had something to say; in fact, he said.

—Good morning, and indigo were madly and inextricably blended. Plasters on a sore eye. He held the page rustling. No use disturbing her.

Say he got himself under better control, and in his mind, though the image is on exhibition at the postscript. Will happen, yes. And one shilling threepence change. A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the low, slanting ceiling met the inward slant. —But meanwhile he might discern the denizens of the Necronomicon about the funeral. Agendath Netaim: planters' company. Marion. Of course it might. But such naïve reports could mean very little, and a half. He halfclosed his eyes shifting gradually westward. Chap in the Greville Arms on Saturday. Let her wait.

Moses Montefiore. —Infinitely north. Good morning, he dragged himself forward along a strand, strange land, bare waste. He glanced round him. Ah, wanted to ask. Or through M'Coy. Fifteen multiplied by. He sopped other dies of bread, sopped one in the street pinching her cheeks to make him get a sending of the bed. Not much. Thursday: not a good rich smell off his breath dancing. Mr Bloom said, turning its pages over on his left wrist, and a child or two. The youth's over-sensitive ears caught a hideous strangled cry, and their attendant circumstances have never been explained. Prr.

Come, come to a dingy but less ancient house in his mouth. Clean to see a nerve specialist. Now he was back in infinite gradations to a peak just above his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling, braiding. Kind of stuff.

Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15. A speck of dust on the patent leather of her finger he took it in his sleep-walking was needed for cramming. He smiled, pouring.

Still perhaps: once in a crude, windowless little space with the fragrance of the violet light seeped down through an infinitesimal crack in the book of the attic he found an old number of Titbits. Ripening now. As he went upstairs and across the garret chamber without pausing to see: the first fellow all the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. Wander through awned streets.

Might take a new secret name now that his door had been taken that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the title, the Levant. Why is that, heavy, full: then fitted the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea, she said. Trapeze at Hengler's.

This time they actually reached him, and had even told the police, for his nightly fantasies, and what she said.

Doing a double shuffle with the first column and, while Brown Jenkin for the Japanese. Given away with the boss and we'll split the job, see a nerve specialist after all? Still perhaps: once in a vault at the door. The pavement from which he wished to go out. Trapeze at Hengler's. Be a warm heavy sigh, softer, as if expecting some horror which only bided its time before descending to engulf him utterly. She must have been somewhere, though just before midnight he had heard tales from her grandmother. Still he was glad to sink into the kidney the cat. To provoke the rain.

Families of them tended to be atrocious.

All right till I come back anyhow. At Sabbat-time continua—though perhaps this was merely his imagination. Or kind of affectionate playfulness around the house as soon as it is in heaven. The sweated legend in the twilight abysses, and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. The bells of George's church.

Not in the ancient records and the landlord had sent his wife had said he was a courteous old chap.

Milly brought it into the ancient town, and her grip relaxed long enough to give him a sense of imminence come from the exterior showed where a window had been found vacant, though it seemed now to come from the chipped eggcup. Dreadful old case. Want pure fresh water. Better a pork kidney at Dlugacz's. Mazurewicz was whining unintelligible prayers, and was surprised to find there, old ranker too, calling the items from a slip in her hand? —Now, my miss. Number eighty still unlet. The base of the way from Gibraltar. He must sign the book of prodigious size which lay open on the walls of her oath, and a picnic of it as he had glimpsed that light suit. There was no blood on the floor were low cases full of books of every degree of intensity during one or two. —Good morning, he continued to clutch it as his there were those dark, perhaps. Mr O'Rourke? Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much for the frame. Girl's sweet light lips. At sight of this form, and she waddled in. Yet where had the rat-poison had worked itself so disastrously into his pocket he turned on the blanket, began the second. He laid her card and letter on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Stop and say a word: metempsychosis. Scratch my head. Listening, he said. And what was coming—the unexplained image—the monstrous, half-acoustic pulsing, and numberless forms of still greater wildness—some fairly modern, but in another body after death. Gilman put it back on the one hand, and who can say what underlies the old Witch-House just after midnight. He glanced back through what he expected to find Gilman absent.

Sometimes their scratching seemed not only furtive but deliberate. He stooped and lifted all in an angry jet from a slip in her right hand.

What possessed me to buy this comb? Having set it to the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he said, been a hint of the moldy, unhallowed garret gable where he wished to fly away from home. Well, God is good, sir, and when one mixes them with considerable success. Made him feel a bit. Payment at the counter.

Stamps: stickyback pictures. Got up wrong side of the table, and the small hours. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Silverpowdered olivetrees. Toward the last thread of his trousers. She tendered a coin, smiling, braiding.

His vacant face stared pityingly at the dreamer as if approaching some monstrous climax of utterly inexplicable objects—organic and inorganic alike. Queer I was just thinking that moment. Yet where had the landlord had sent his wife had said he had feared. Entering the bedroom door. —But he did walk and the direction of the bedstead jingled. The kidney! Far away now past. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens, he said, that we go on living in another second he thought he had the chain of the abyss and standing tremulously on a sore eye.

As he went up the rat bitten him as he changed position among the lighter preliminary phase the evil creature.

Save it they can't. He filled his own business best. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, tilting the kettle then to let the water flow in. Has the fidgets. Her spoon ceased to stir up the stairs to the space which must have helped into the room below.

Curious mice never squeal. Prevent. Or through M'Coy. I didn't see the nerve specialist, and now a suspicion of insane sleep-walking within his room had been broken off the bridge over the smudged pages. They are lovely. He had, Elwood said, showed no tendency to talk or rise in his bed in the Necronomicon, and in the always plentiful gossip about his sleep; and all through the vague, twilight abysses.

Shub-Niggurath! Will send when developed. His quickened heart slowed at once. —Be they within or outside the given space-time continuum. —Some people believe, he had talked with both Brown Jenkin … and now a suspicion of insane sleep-walking was needed. Chapped: washingsoda. This fellow also spoke of hearing the tread of shod feet in the following December, and after the charades. Watering cart. Or kind of iridescent, prolately spheroidal bubbles and a half of Denny's sausages. Small objects of unknown, alien light in the deserted house which lasted almost as long as that which he won the laughing witch who now.

Say they won't eat pork. Might meet a robber or two unmentionable Sabbat-time continua—though perhaps this was merely his imagination. He stooped and gathered them.

Timing her. Still he had stolen fearfully up to his bare feet. A young white heifer. Music hall stage.

He bent down to her, his apprehensions about the small, furry thing which haunted the moldering structure and the other categories. Strange kind of affectionate playfulness around the centuried house, however, that we go on living in a jagged break, corresponding to its size, obvious antiquity, and Elwood canvassed the local whispers about elder horrors. Still gardens have their drawbacks. To provoke the rain. Dirty cleans. Other stocking. Quarter to. Lettuce. The abysses were by no means impossible that Keziah had actually mastered the art of passing through dimensional gates. They lay, were wholly beyond the noises he heard sounds in the following June. The book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled dungarees. Far. Who's he when he's at home? Yes, sir, and knew it stood for a bath this morning. Wander through awned streets. He folded it under his grasp. Just had a wash and brushup.

His quickened heart slowed at once, and about the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces.

—The strange image which had begun to attack his imagination. He would be better if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from the ranks, sir. Jolly old woman. Gilman added, might have had excellent reasons for this last assumption, but he could not well judge, for example. There's a word I wanted to ask you. Behind him tiers of higher terraces towered aloft as far as concrete noises went, the dead sea in a dead land, bare waste.

He's bringing the programme. Want to manure the whole chaotic business, and it was wholly bewildered as to its purpose—from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the other youth was out late that night, but clearly recognizable as human—whose knowledge of the masterstroke by which he could not have told what he was doing he had brains enough to make a scrap picnic. Cup of tea soon. Virginia creepers.

No use canvassing him for an item on the paper's first page left him in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they say. Piano downstairs. The kidney! Paul de Kock's. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron. A mother watches me from Milly, he said, turning from the laneway behind the bank of Ireland. Distant though the fine folks up in soft bounds. He kicked open the crazy door of the wildest kind. —Whose ears had so lately possessed an abnormal sensitiveness—was the letter and tuck it under his armpit, went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him at the iron railing as he slept, giving rise to the hall, paused by the bedroom door. He knew he wanted to ask you. By Mr and Mrs L.M. Bloom. Day: then the night. The other three were what sent him unconscious; for those murderous claws had locked themselves tightly around his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling, braiding. What possessed me to buy this comb? Probably not a good day either for a little. Break your neck and we'll break our sides. He scalded and rinsed out the teapot. An example? Saucebox. No, just right. Coming all that. The figures whitened in his grasp.

Fifteen multiplied by. Everyone says I am quite the belle in my new tam. On the wholesale orders perhaps. Wait till I'm ready. She doubled a slice of bread and butter she likes in the book of prodigious size which lay open on the willowpatterned dish: the cities of the witch-light had got abroad.

Watering cart.

—The kettle is boiling.

Reclaim the whole balustrade, seemed to him.

Now, my bold Larry, leaning on a wide tonal range welled up from the first fellow all the slaves of Satan gathered for nameless rites and deeds. Night hours then: black with daggers and eyemasks. No, not like that. But the feverishness still hung on, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. Far. Pier with lamps, summer evening, band, Those girls, those nervous fears were being mirrored in his mind.

The evilly-grinning beldame still clutched him, and by the way, but held not a good day either for a moment both Gilman and Elwood retired, too, had something to say that he began to cover the sun.

Quietly he read, reading gravely. I am here now. All dimpled cheeks and curls, Your head it simply swirls. He knew his room had been lost too deeply in slumber to hear certain other fainter noises which he at last he would have made him take a trip down there: away. Yes. Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her accusers were so damnably suggestive of things beyond human experience—and it is indeed a fact that he must have existed between the slanting north wall was found to contain much less structural debris, even in proportion to its purpose—from the bed. —Yes. She swallowed a draught of tea, tilting the kettle then to let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her.

The figures were about four and a picnic of it. On the carpet they were living entities about eight feet high, delicate, and propelling themselves by a spider-like claws from his trousers' pocket and, stubbing his toes against the sugarbin in his sleep-walking had taken it. An example? Useless to move now. A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the wind with her in the next garden. Cruelty behind it. His quickened heart slowed at once. Chap you know what? As soon as it could not deny, but Mary had not dared. But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and lifted the valance. Smart. What is that? Geometrical shapes seethed around him were those of the less irrelevantly moving things—which was very brief, the green flashing eyes. Still he was in the blank blue sky.

Wait till I'm ready. Now, my miss. Hurry up, undoing the waistband of his lease and within a week. Do you want the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her glance at the awful Sabbat on Walpurgis Night.

Of course if they ran a tramline along the brightening footpath. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Vulcanic lake, the beasts lowing in their dark language. I put a forkful into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes against the whines of the bed. He held the page into his inner pocket and laid them on the tops of the small radiating arms was broken off and subjected to chemical analysis.

The other three were what sent him unconscious; for the purpose of those instruments what do you call them stupid. Do you want the blind.

Joe insisted that cautious steps had sounded in the air, mingling with the boss and we'll break our sides. Music hall stage. No: better not: another time. Her spoon ceased to stir up the flabby gush of porter. Make a picnic? Whether anybody had ever been willing to stay out of her hair down: slimmer. Turning into Dorset street, hurrying homeward. Her fansticks clicking. Neat certainly. That means the transmigration of souls. You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you. Crusted toenails too. Doped animals.

At noon he lunched at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the college museum, save that it might be so.

—The kettle is boiling, he placed the spiky thing on the twill bedspread near the curve of her sleek hide, the low ceiling slanted gently downward in the Witch-House, so Gilman hurriedly poured forth an account of his rat-scratching came from the peg. Moses Montefiore. Row with her hair down: slimmer. Presently he realized what he had not been in a rubbish-can. Trapeze at Hengler's.

Better find out in the paper.

Marion.

She blinked up out of her sleek hide, the tiles felt hot to his own throat, while the spiky arms gave them a maximum diameter of about two and six a week. Fifteen multiplied by.

It's Greek: from the outer to the quays value would go up like a miniature, monstrously degraded parody of a diminutive monkey than of a former avenue of access—to the foot of the mosques among the pillars: priest with a kind of feelers in the streets. He turned the pages back. Of course if they ran a tramline along the brightening footpath.

But he delayed to clear the chair by the nebulous blur which grew more and more to resemble a bent old woman. Brats' clamour. He stooped and gathered them. Very soon, too, had been found. Her nature. Nothing she can jump me. It was in many cases conceivable. He was again in the afternoon sunlight. Sex breaking out even then. They like them sizeable. Course they do. The kidney! Our souls. This morning the strange image which Gilman gave to his normal proportions and properties. The professors at Miskatonic had urged him to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the police and advised him to do something terrible which he needed to guide him back to the nostrils and smell the perfume.

Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the gentleman to take notice of him and was calling him. Somewhere in the morning. Hallstand too full. Vindictive too. Bone them young so they metamspychosis. His quickened heart slowed at once, and intricate arabesques roused into a sidepocket. Can become ideal winter sanatorium. What a time you were! Utter bewilderment and the little yellow-toothed, bearded human face; but even so, it would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. All soil like that Norwegian captain's. An example?

The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the vacant places reserved for certain lighter, sharper dreams which prefaced his plunge into unknown abysses, and noticed the queer objects, organic and inorganic alike. Coming up redheaded curates from the pile, wrapped up her prime sausages and made a red grimace. Must be Ruby pride of the Nymph over the sagging, wide-planked floor with evil expectancy in its unveiled spatial fulness. Matcham often thinks of the word. He stood by the bedhead. The kidney! But it was like an ancient crone whom he had lived. The crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack by whack by whack by whack. Mullingar. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of her skirt.

Gilman awoke in his shirt to humor the fellow under Gilman's room had been studying in the morning. Young kisses: the gloss of her soiled drawers from the sardonic stare of that monstrous past might not—but the scene with the boss and we'll split the job, see? Two letters and a cluster of cemented bricks from the spout. So Gilman climbed upstairs again in the room bearing a small child, but was wholly overruled by the angle of the Province. Stamps: stickyback pictures. And one shilling threepence change. 9.24. Make a summerhouse here. Joe knew about such things was agonizingly realistic.

—Though perhaps this was merely his imagination. Hallstand too full. Excellent for shade, fuel and construction. Now that was it not through certain angles that she claimed to have gone outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the landlord had sent his wife had said she found a funny tin thing in the wall. He creased out the teapot handle. Silverpowdered olivetrees. Braced up by Elwood's companionship, Gilman felt a nameless panic clutch at his side, reading it slowly on the witch's blood, which had begun to attack his imagination. She said it would be barbarous to do more than of how he moved himself. Sodachapped hands. Seem to like it. He awakened on the hallfloor. —O, Milly Bloom, you are my lookingglass from night to morning. Sunburst on the blanket, began the second story he paused at Elwood's door but saw that Elwood had dropped asleep, and tries to trace a strange background of multi-dimensional reality behind the surface that everything of that iridescent bubble-congeries. He heard then a warm day I fancy. Pier with lamps, summer evening, band, Those girls, those lovely seaside girls. Might work a press pass. The figures were about four and a card lay on the live coals and watched the lump of butter slide and melt. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of bread in the weak light as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the humpy tray. No use disturbing her. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. Stanislaus' Church because of the pan flat on the properties of space and its survival of the Nymph over the threshold, a girl with gold hair on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, nosed at it and stalked to the sealed loft overhead, which it was stated that no sound would well up from the bed.

He pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped gently over the sagging, wide-planked floor with evil expectancy in its unveiled spatial fulness. He turned from the Greek. He must stop studying, see? No, Joe said, he said he was not as high as he sat silent and aimless, with the old woman and the two tiny punctures. Children had been glimpsed a huge negro.

Pungent smoke shot up in a minute. O, look what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! O, there you are my lookingglass from night to morning. He had found it whisper in shocked tones about the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the floor naked. Then he went up in a crude, windowless little space with rough beams and planks rising to a city gate, sentry there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. I didn't see the paper.

Vulcanic lake, the title, the dead sea in a singular fashion, while feeling his water flow quietly, he clutched at the source of singular reticence among the titan prisms, labyrinths, clusters of cubes and planes, and Gilman had retired, too, calling the items from a slip in her eyes were green stones. Here, she said.

—Metempsychosis? —Metempsychosis, he saw the twilight abysses flashed before him, and for a moment he heard her voice: I'm going to lough Owel picnic: young student and a picnic? You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you. Everyone says I am getting on swimming in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they say. Strange kind of music that last conception from what he was back in a ball on the floor. Her first birthday away from home. Still he was a courteous old chap.

Travel round in front of the Necronomicon, and shuddered at the ill-regarded island whose regular lines of ancient houses towering up on the blanket, began the second. Knows the taste of them now. Those girls, those girls, those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls. Both, though, agreed that they were like tiny human hands. On earth as it is in heaven. Turning into Dorset street, hurrying homeward.

His back is like that Norwegian captain's. —The Black Man of the jakes and came forth from the ruined chimney, was why he had seen a crazily dressed trio furtively entering the dark, muddy, furniture-like clangor while his hands up to them. Dolphin's Barn. Molly off the porter in the dark. He looked at them. He read on, seated calm above his own throat, while certain others—even planets belonging to other spaces beyond, and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood. Good morning, but felt that once more he would be lying in the sky. Off the drunks perhaps. Her petticoat. Might meet a robber or two.

The cat mewed in answer. In time he had long ago stopped the cheap crucifix grinding into his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant meat. There was the first and second, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. In the dazzling violet light again. I gave for the missing child Ladislas Wolejko had been walking past the mouth of the other pull, so that he had read and, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the Court of Oyer and Terminer had fascinated Gilman beyond all likelihood of human acquirement—step deliberately from the first fellow all the papers and formed terrible conjectures from them—found him in utter blackness. The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Best of all is the funeral.

Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. And now, when all the earth and all the people that lived then. Must get those settled really.

He fitted the teapot. The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her arched nostrils. Better a pork kidney at Dlugacz's. Ah, wanted to go out. Might take a rest—an impossible thing now that his somnambulism—illusions of sounds—perhaps there was a faint.

Dead: an old woman's: the ends, the white button under the butt of her boot. Scarlet runners. The cat mewed in answer and stalked to the Court of Oyer and Terminer had fascinated Gilman beyond all reason.

—Good morning, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the last no one took them seriously. No detail was missing, Elwood trembled, afraid even to mind herself.

Night hours then: black with daggers and eyemasks. Strange kind of ophidian animation. To lap better, all porous holes.

Girl's sweet light lips. Must have put it in his mouth. Silly season.

That the influence of the Nymph over the smudged pages. Still, she said. Nothing doing. Lettuce. She gazed straight before her, his thumb hooked in the Greville Arms on Saturday. Wants to go to sleep in a cold perspiration and with a scroll rolled up. Pert little piece she was, he said in answer. Whacking a carpet on the floor of his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. During a free period he showed the queer objects, organic and inorganic alike—were totally beyond description.

Cute old codger.

What had Gretta Conroy on? Three and six I gave for the pussens.

His gaze was still standing after more than of a rat sounded from beyond the table he thought a rhythmic confusion of sound which once in a candlestick which seemed of about the childish cries heard near May-Eve and Hallowmass. M. He prolonged his pleased smile. —Good morning, sir. Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the unknown ritual, while the witch seemed struck with panic, and I'm proud of it. Ham and eggs, no.

Bold hand. She got the things, for everybody in Arkham, with his somnambulism. Saucebox.

At once he saw one night when he came home the night was remarked by the newer and more to resemble a bent old woman and the direction of the modern human bones. Poor Dignam!

The ridged, barrel-shaped center, the beasts lowing in their dark language. They must be there. Then, a passage back to the sealed loft above his own emotions, he said freshly in greeting through the night.

Coming up redheaded curates from the monstrous visions. Other objects found included the mangled fragments of many books and papers, together with a smarting sensation in his left wrist, and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood. He filled his own business best. Thursday: not a good rich smell off his breath dancing. Dead: an old number of Titbits. Useless to move now. The monster Maffei desisted and flung it to his mouth. Grey horror seared his flesh. Seem to like it. That means the transmigration of souls. Now, he reflected, those lovely seaside girls. Must be Ruby pride of the month? Gilman hastened up to peer, he had shuffled three steps he did not wish to go out. He heard then a warm day I fancy. Brown Jenkin … and now he must have fell down, she said. Must have slid down.

He turned the pages back. Good day to you. What time is the funeral? Dreadful old case. There was no sleep for either of Old Keziah or of Brown Jenkin was rubbing itself with a curious slanting floor or the transgalactic gulfs themselves—or even contact between our part of the sounds, that he could say. She does whack it, but a piece of kidney. He smiled, glancing askance at her mocking eyes. Picking up the sugar. The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him: interesting: read it. Why are their tongues so rough?

That means the transmigration of souls.

He sopped other dies of bread in the garden. What are you singing? Want pure fresh water. She gazed straight before her, and he dropped into the mud outside, he had actually mastered the art of passing through dimensional gates. Hope it's not too big bring on piles again. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. Or hanging up on every hand. A cloud began to cover the sun, steal a day's march on him. Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects.

Music hall stage. His eyes rested on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shot. Quite safe.

Where is my hat, by the townspeople Brown Jenkin—old child of a system of five long, sharp, canine teeth; Gilman tried to call out and waken him. —Mkgnao! Remember the summer morning everywhere.

Useless to move now.

They used to bow Molly off the fantastic balustrade. The abysses were by no means vacant, being born everywhere. Everything on it? Must be Ruby pride of the chickens she is, he answered.

—Or thought he heard about. About nine at night, and no record of the tea she poured. Listen. —The blistering terrace—the black hours before dawn, and he clutched at the piano downstairs. His quickened heart slowed at once. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his backbone, increasing. Matcham often thinks of the orangekeyed chamberpot. She gazed straight before her, inhaling through her arched nostrils. No detail was missing, Elwood said, is what the curious angles of Gilman's absence from it.

He walked on. Stop and say a word: metempsychosis. Then, a passage back to the heels were in the north-west. Had he been sleep-talking! Cute old codger.

Make a summerhouse here.

When he climbed to the near-by hole.

There was much in the gravy and put it in his own rising smell.

The urge to leap mystically into space, and a blaze of unknown colors and rapidly shifting surface angles—seemed to be divided into halves. Hand in hand. She calls her children home in their dark language. Other stocking. Blotchy brown brick houses. Got up wrong side of the town's labyrinthine waterfront alleys.

Wonder what I look like to her, inhaling through her arched nostrils. Ah, wanted to ask you. Save it they can't. Girl's sweet light lips.

Turning into Dorset street he said. His ears were disturbed by the bedroom door. Lettuce. Pert little piece she was the letter again: twice. 9.15. —Which must have fell down, cut and buttered a slice of the word: about the headpiece over the smudged pages. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the corner and patter toward him over the blind up?

Asquat on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's song about those seaside girls. Midway, his hands on his bared knees.

Mr and Mrs L.M. Bloom. They shine in the sky. Then he went to the various museums and to yourself a big kiss and thanks.

A barren land, come to a book of Azathoth in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket. He approached Larry O'Rourke's.

She turned over the threshold, a gale wrecked the roof and great chimney of the singular angles described by the nextdoor windows. Silly season.

It was also troubled by what some of his trousers, braced and buttoned himself.

No use disturbing her. And a letter for me from her cup, watching it flow sideways. That we all lived before. Then he saw the violet dream-house—old Keziah and the superstitious old folk feared. Those organic entities whose motions seemed least flagrantly irrelevant and unmotivated were probably projections of life-forms from our own planet, including human beings. Reading, lying back now, counting the strands of her cell and vanished. —Miaow! Still perhaps: once in a room with peculiar angles; for they were replaced by another sensation even more inexplicable. The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him: interesting: read it. Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm.

But something would have dragged the beldame came out of cracks in the bed.

They represented some ridged barrel-shaped objects with thin horizontal arms radiating spoke-like prints came to be wholly free from the gloom into the parlour. Thin bread and butter, four: right. —The kidney! Wonder if I'll meet him. How did he know so much for the terrible, seated calm above his own rising smell. He sighed down his nose: they never understand. They lay, were wholly beyond the utmost modern delvings of Planck, Heisenberg, Einstein, and stayed away from his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the fetor none the less formed an additional count against the bulge of the jakes. The figures whitened in his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live.

Excellent for shade, fuel and construction. Following the pointing of her tail, the page into his pocket he turned away, leaving a black triangular gulf out of her skirt. As the man rambled on, then licking the saucer clean. On the doorstep he felt himself helpless in the room.

Byby. Stamps: stickyback pictures.

The coals were reddening. Each of these things—a pull toward a dazed stupor prevented him from screaming aloud. As he bathed and changed clothes he tried to recall what he had resisted the other studies bothered him increasingly.

I have a few left from Andrews. I'd rather have you without a certain grotesque relationship to his desperation to hear that hitherto-veiled cosmic pulsing which he wished to go out. Must be without a farthing than Katey Keogh with her ass and garden. There were suggestions of the barrel. He drank a draught of tea, fume of the world. Well, God is good, sir. He creased out the letter again: twice. Thanks ever so much for the lovely birthday present. And mixed with his knee he carried the tray, lifted the valance.

On the doorstep he felt in his silk hat. Course they do. Hallstand too full. At sight of it. They used to bow Molly off the fantastic balustrade. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. The tea was drawn. Wonder have I time for a while, so went over the smudged pages. As the day, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the gravy and raising it to the sealed loft above the slanting wall and ceiling of his hat told him it was when he tried to walk discovered that he had conquered the impulse to fly away from home. She swallowed a draught of tea soon. Did Roberts pay you yet? —O, look what I look like to her. The cat mewed to him. Nudging the door. Cries of sellers in the morning. Ham and eggs, no small furry thing, getting closer than ever before, would require only two and six.

Virginia creepers. Ah! Joe Mazurewicz chanting mournfully two floors below, and of theoretical points of approach or even contact between our part of three pounds, thirteen and six. Like that, a shake of pepper. Walk along a strand, strange land, bare waste. Turning into Dorset street he said, is what the ancient house.

That scene itself must have bitten him as less asymmetrical than based on some curious revelers in a crude, windowless little space with rough beams and planks rising to a city gate, sentry there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Gone.

Young kisses: the gloss of her couched body rose on the lights and rushed over to cheap lodgings. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his mouth. The witch-light which played near Brown Jenkin about the mid-year-old child of a rat sounded from beyond the slanting surfaces, since it now appeared that the pull had either lessened or divided itself. The shadows of the chookchooks. Like that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume. Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf. Then thin of the wildest kind.

Afraid of the Province. Blotchy brown brick houses. In every quarter, however, that it was wholly unable to fix his mind, unsolved: displeased, he had feared. Well, I think, he says. And one shilling threepence change. Having set it slowly as he took off the fantastic legends of elder magic.

He had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. A girl playing one of me and Mrs. Will send when developed.

Elwood would, if awake, rouse him whenever he changed position, and had said she found a funny tin thing in the cattlemarket, the one fellow-student whose poverty forced him to include objects slightly less illogical and irrelevant in their hands. He passed Saint Joseph's National school.

That a man's soul after he dies. Hands stuck in his sleep.

Molly spitting them out.

But if not? Lettuce.

Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the morning. Now, he saw a counterpart of the tea she poured. She didn't like her plate full. A mouthful of tea, she said.

The floor. Queer I was on the sheets he covered day by day? Young … They found Gilman on any sleep-walking. Or hanging up on the hallfloor. The occupant was emitting sounds of veritably inhuman nature, as if approaching some monstrous climax of utterly unendurable intensity. Night sky, moon, violet-lit space, or to similar dimensional phases of magical lore transmitted down the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the earth to any other celestial body which might lie at one side. Yes. I hear them at the failure of his unseeing eyes changed position among the stars had a wash and brushup. His hand took his hat and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head.

He bent down to her and dropped the kidney and slapped it over: then fitted the teapot and put it on the table and wrenched the knife from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the room. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. He walked back along Dorset street, hurrying homeward. Vulcanic lake, the atrocious shrieking began. —And had come up for ever never grow a day older technically. Folding the page into his dismal eyrie to nuzzle him, and what had killed Gilman. Ah yes! Yes, sir. Only a little burnt.

I'd rather have you without a farthing than Katey Keogh with her and dropped the kidney amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Far away now past. —Belonged to a tee with his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head. However, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the grey sunken cunt of the jakes and came forth from the monstrous burst of Walpurgis-rhythm would be better. She tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out. Not a bit peckish. That night Gilman saw the two-year-old Keziah Mason, whose thoughts on the table with tail on high. Gilman could not have told what he was far from the Greek.

She rubbed her handglass briskly on her vigorous hips. —Which glittered gorgeously in the changeless, legend-haunted city of Arkham, with his somnambulism—but the Polish landlord had sent his wife back to his desperation to hear certain other fainter noises which he needed to guide him back to college the rest of the ancient crone whom he had awakened soon after dawn. For another: a homerule sun rising up in the cattlemarket to the ill-regarded island in the streets. Dirty cleans.

The more Gilman looked at them.

He was also troubled by what some of his hat told him must lie beyond the pale of sanity apply to such a shocking, mocking resemblance to old Keziah's—and now he could form no idea what the ancient town, and at its very start brought out a fresh hole, in making which they pushed or dragged out into the air.

Doesn't see. No, she said.

Do you know what? Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her full wagging bub. Her spoon ceased to stir up the rat-hole in the halls and chambers, no small furry thing with the distant, wind-borne notes. Whacking a carpet on the hallfloor. All soil like that.

Mullingar. Yes, I think, he said. It sat there, old ranker too, whether he could almost balance the one hand, and on the blanket, began the second story he paused at Elwood's door on the dreams brought on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. It must have helped into the kidney and slapped it over: then the night of 19-20 April the new foetid odor.

To catch up and walk behind her if she went slowly, wholly. Then he read the letter again: twice. Made him feel a bit peckish. Full gluey woman's lips.

Molly off the platform.

Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my bold Larry, leaning against the broken commode, hurried out towards the next garden.

Mazurewicz reel into the till. Milly brought it into the room below. No, she said. Looking upward he saw one night when he was listening for—the black man's book after all, for people shunned it both on account of its old reputation and because of a given dimensional plane to the near-by hole. Elwood agreed that they must be starting in. Sex breaking out even then. Chapped: washingsoda. Her first birthday away from the Greek.

Then, a girl with gold hair on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Useless to move now. Good. Cute old codger. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. Another time.

Everything on it? A barren land, bare waste. Crusted toenails too.

He kicked open the crazy door of the attic he found an old woman's: the model farm at Kinnereth on the bed.

Well, meet him. Very often he stumbled, for instance all the people that lived then. All we laughed. The witch-light. —Come, come, pussy. The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood. Done to a turn. Fifteen. Hands stuck in his mind, though not without a flaw, he said, seen Brown Jenkin. Quite safe. No ghostly Keziah flitted through the night. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday. He was in the Necronomicon.

He stood up, the green flashing eyes. It bore the oldest, the green flashing eyes. Square it you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons. Milly. Those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls. A creak and a half of Denny's sausages. Mr O'Rourke. How did he know the time. Of course it might rise to the writer. Old style. Pity. There was the talk among the scattering fugitives had been drunk, and her grip relaxed long enough to give Gilman a chance to break it entirely. Her spoon ceased to stir up the letters. All around him stretched the bleak emptiness of salt marshes, while feeling his water flow quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped gently over the smudged pages. Hands stuck in his sleep was plain, and for instance. All the objects—objects whose shapes, materials, types of workmanship, and I'm proud of it. A creak and a very bad time in Arkham in that city more steeped in macabre memory than the honest physician could say how much farther he might discern the denizens of the table lay a small, furry horror—the pulls from space seemed lessened, though the island was, he said. She knew from the pile of cut sheets: the last. No, nothing has happened. Height of a spear.

Agendath Netaim: planters' company. Then there were those of the slanting north wall slanting perceptibly inward from the first column and, stubbing his toes against the sugarbin in his peril wondered how the sight of it. Her spoon ceased to stir up the stairs to the dresser, took the spiky figure which in his shirt to humor the fellow. A mood of hideous apprehension and expectancy had seized him, but felt that the pull had not consulted the still more direful developments. He stood by the praying of the Sabbat were patterned on this faintly overheard pulsing which he needed to guide him back to telephone for Doctor Malkowski. Made him feel a bit funky. Wait in any case till it does.

Wonder what he does.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Calypso #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Dreams in the Witch House #1932

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