[The paper flutters to the ground, but there's something sticking in the back of your mind. Funny, did you think it had writing on it before? The one on the cement now is completely blank.
Enough about that.
This crate looks to be nailed down, though not with the strongest stuff. You could grab something with a bit of leverage, wedge it beneath the lid. Just clear some of the junk off the top and you could spring it wide open, you wager.
And isn't there an old tire iron by the stairs? You've knocked it over more than once in your restless pacing. That'll do the trick quite nicely.]
[ maybe the whos, the whats and the whys also wanna know whats in this howe crate.
glancing over at the stairs again, but when he hears nothing, he'll start moving some junk off the top - tossing it to the side. who cares if he makes a mess. it's his space to make a mess in if he wants to. ]
He may move the junk, and without much ceremony at that. They must be fast asleep. Really early, even for them, but that's old age for you.
At last you have the crate unveiled. There's writing on the other side as well, this one quite a lot more faded.
ARCTIC EXPEDITION June 19, 1934
Which is even more baffling. Since when did Grandma Wynne have anything to do with an Arctic exploration? And certainly Greg hadn't. He's too unambitious and dim to do anything exciting. In fact, would either of them have been alive at that point?
You take the tire iron and wedge it into the negligible space between the lid and the crate. You pump it. Gain a quarter inch on the corner. Pump it again.
Then there's such a calamitous THUMP that you might be excused for dropping the iron altogether.
A second THUMP follows and the lid pops up at the right end by more than a foot. A thick, woollen arm juts out and snatches at you with claws as big as chain links, curved and pointed to slip into unwary skin, hook it closer.
[ oh well oopsie daisy this is absolutely what he deserves for fucking around in shit he shouldn't have. he definitely does drop the iron - immediately - and start trying to scramble backwards as fast as he can. What he doesn't do is scream. if he screams, they're going to wake up, and they're going to see he's caused a mess and then things will get even worse. adults are not there to help you. no adult has ever helped him with anything--
he'll slam backwards into another pile of junk as the monster's claws catch at his leg, shoving a hand over his mouth to stifle a whimper of fear and - pain? maybe it's all too adrenaline fueled right now to even feel pain. ]
[There's an almighty snarl to go with the swipe. Wretched caged beast, silent until the moment the top was cracked on the crate and now it won't stop bellowing. Something like a dog or a bear, all vengeance and snapping growls and roars.
The claws swipe clean through your pants and rake the flesh of his calf, four shallow, precise stripes that send up blood hot and sharp on the musty basement air. But it doesn't hook you.
That's why it has to reach again, a second, ape-like limb shooting out to snatch two-handed at that morsel, aiming to catch an ankle and drag you in for dinner.]
[ at this point, as he’s dragged bodily across the floor on his back, he is going to start screaming. not in fear necessarily but— rage. fuck this! what a stupid way to die! stuck in greg’s cold, cramped horrible basement. trapped down here, never seeing the sun again. no one is coming to his rescue.
scrambling for the iron, for anything, to start wailing on the creatures arms and if he can’t find a weapon he’ll start thrashing with the kind of violent desperation of an animal in a cage. the kind of kicking and twisting and biting of a creature that will escape or hurt itself trying, impervious to pain. ]
The tire iron is in reach. It raps across the beast's knuckles with a force backed by spite and pure adrenaline, but it's not enough. You're sliding closer, the hem of your shirt dragging up your back so the bumps of your spine skitter over unforgiving cement. The thing lets go with one hand to swipe at you as you kick, and it sinks two claws into the calf of your other leg, a quarter-inch apiece.
Your thrashing rips them loose and more blood splatters beneath you, slides around and stains the floor like a finger painting as you kick and squirm and holler at the top of your lungs. Fight for your life. It's lifting your foot. It's yanking it towards the lip of the crate, and you can see beady, hateful yellow eyes in the shadows beneath it. Locking glares with you. Marking you.
BAM BAM BAM.
The door to the basement rattles under the force of the knocks, but Greg is an asshole and throws the damn thing open anyway, just to holler down the stairs.]
QUIET DOWN THERE! [He snaps from atop the stairs and around the back wall, blind to the horrific sight just a few steps down.] IF YOU DON'T STOP THAT HOLLERING, I'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO WAIL ABOUT!
[The grip on your leg vanishes. Poof, gone.
The lid on the crate is sealed dead shut, every nail in place. The text on the side has changed.]
[ he is being murdered down here and greg is just doing this shit!!!!! great caretaking guy!!!!!! if he’s dead in the morning that will really stick it to him. that’s the comforting thought he has when he’s bodily dragged across the floor.
its harrowing, seeing his own blood splashed around the floor - he’s a kid, he’s scraped a knee or an elbow or knocked a baby tooth loose, drops of blood that fade and are forgotten. but this is different. this feels like something vital is being stolen and if he doesn’t get free, it WILL kill him. even after the monster disappears, after he’s alone in the dark with only the sound of someone sobbing (definitely not his own) as quietly as they can.
it takes him a long minute to gather his wits enough to move again, shakily sitting up. he’s not so much stopping to examine the box as much as pile anything he can get his hands on on top of it again - if he catches the words he’ll read them. ]
[It's hard all right. The first time you get hurt in a way that sticks, that a Band-Aid and a kiss from mother won't smooth over and you begin to wonder what else can break. What else will bend until it cracks and refuse to get back into place?
You sort the basement out. The blood is disturbing and the smell claws at your nostrils, and the pain in your legs is fierce. You should probably wrap that up soon, just in case.
It's as you're replacing a crapped out transistor radio that you notice the stamp on the crate has changed. The message is short and simple.
YOU DON'T BELONG HERE ❚❚❚❚❚❚ ❚❚❚❚❚❚❚
Except it's not the name you're hiding now. It's something else. Something you've never heard in all your life, so why is your gut in such a twist?
The radio crackles, and the Platters croon out a sombre tune.
Oh-oh, yes I'm the great pretender Adrift in a world of my own I've played the game but to my real shame You've left me to grieve all alone...
There's a mad cackling ringing out over the music, a viciously gleeful voice that comes through clear as day.]
Knock knock, Anders! Knock knock, guess who, you sad sack of shit!
You better go on and git now, Anders, or else the going will get GOOD, you bet it will! I'll kill you like I killed Yves, and I'll kill little Jenny and Del too! Just you wait, buddy oh boy, we'll have a real gasser! We'll have a laugh! Just you wait you stupid fuck!
[The laughter rises, high and hard as Tony Williams laments his own foolishness on a a lonesome tune. Static sparks again, and the radio cuts out. Dead once more.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
holyspirits) wrote2025-03-09 04:46 pm
no subject
Enough about that.
This crate looks to be nailed down, though not with the strongest stuff. You could grab something with a bit of leverage, wedge it beneath the lid. Just clear some of the junk off the top and you could spring it wide open, you wager.
And isn't there an old tire iron by the stairs? You've knocked it over more than once in your restless pacing. That'll do the trick quite nicely.]
no subject
glancing over at the stairs again, but when he hears nothing, he'll start moving some junk off the top - tossing it to the side. who cares if he makes a mess. it's his space to make a mess in if he wants to. ]
no subject
He may move the junk, and without much ceremony at that. They must be fast asleep. Really early, even for them, but that's old age for you.
At last you have the crate unveiled. There's writing on the other side as well, this one quite a lot more faded.
June 19, 1934
Which is even more baffling. Since when did Grandma Wynne have anything to do with an Arctic exploration? And certainly Greg hadn't. He's too unambitious and dim to do anything exciting. In fact, would either of them have been alive at that point?
You take the tire iron and wedge it into the negligible space between the lid and the crate. You pump it. Gain a quarter inch on the corner. Pump it again.
Then there's such a calamitous THUMP that you might be excused for dropping the iron altogether.
A second THUMP follows and the lid pops up at the right end by more than a foot. A thick, woollen arm juts out and snatches at you with claws as big as chain links, curved and pointed to slip into unwary skin, hook it closer.
Closer to the crate.]
no subject
he'll slam backwards into another pile of junk as the monster's claws catch at his leg, shoving a hand over his mouth to stifle a whimper of fear and - pain? maybe it's all too adrenaline fueled right now to even feel pain. ]
no subject
The claws swipe clean through your pants and rake the flesh of his calf, four shallow, precise stripes that send up blood hot and sharp on the musty basement air. But it doesn't hook you.
That's why it has to reach again, a second, ape-like limb shooting out to snatch two-handed at that morsel, aiming to catch an ankle and drag you in for dinner.]
no subject
scrambling for the iron, for anything, to start wailing on the creatures arms and if he can’t find a weapon he’ll start thrashing with the kind of violent desperation of an animal in a cage. the kind of kicking and twisting and biting of a creature that will escape or hurt itself trying, impervious to pain. ]
Fuck off! Fuck off fuck off fuck off!
no subject
The tire iron is in reach. It raps across the beast's knuckles with a force backed by spite and pure adrenaline, but it's not enough. You're sliding closer, the hem of your shirt dragging up your back so the bumps of your spine skitter over unforgiving cement. The thing lets go with one hand to swipe at you as you kick, and it sinks two claws into the calf of your other leg, a quarter-inch apiece.
Your thrashing rips them loose and more blood splatters beneath you, slides around and stains the floor like a finger painting as you kick and squirm and holler at the top of your lungs. Fight for your life. It's lifting your foot. It's yanking it towards the lip of the crate, and you can see beady, hateful yellow eyes in the shadows beneath it. Locking glares with you. Marking you.
BAM BAM BAM.
The door to the basement rattles under the force of the knocks, but Greg is an asshole and throws the damn thing open anyway, just to holler down the stairs.]
QUIET DOWN THERE! [He snaps from atop the stairs and around the back wall, blind to the horrific sight just a few steps down.] IF YOU DON'T STOP THAT HOLLERING, I'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO WAIL ABOUT!
[The grip on your leg vanishes. Poof, gone.
The lid on the crate is sealed dead shut, every nail in place. The text on the side has changed.]
no subject
its harrowing, seeing his own blood splashed around the floor - he’s a kid, he’s scraped a knee or an elbow or knocked a baby tooth loose, drops of blood that fade and are forgotten. but this is different. this feels like something vital is being stolen and if he doesn’t get free, it WILL kill him. even after the monster disappears, after he’s alone in the dark with only the sound of someone sobbing (definitely not his own) as quietly as they can.
it takes him a long minute to gather his wits enough to move again, shakily sitting up. he’s not so much stopping to examine the box as much as pile anything he can get his hands on on top of it again - if he catches the words he’ll read them. ]
no subject
You sort the basement out. The blood is disturbing and the smell claws at your nostrils, and the pain in your legs is fierce. You should probably wrap that up soon, just in case.
It's as you're replacing a crapped out transistor radio that you notice the stamp on the crate has changed. The message is short and simple.
❚❚❚❚❚❚ ❚❚❚❚❚❚❚
Except it's not the name you're hiding now. It's something else. Something you've never heard in all your life, so why is your gut in such a twist?
The radio crackles, and the Platters croon out a sombre tune.
Adrift in a world of my own
I've played the game but to my real shame
You've left me to grieve all alone...
There's a mad cackling ringing out over the music, a viciously gleeful voice that comes through clear as day.]
Knock knock, Anders! Knock knock, guess who, you sad sack of shit!
You better go on and git now, Anders, or else the going will get GOOD, you bet it will! I'll kill you like I killed Yves, and I'll kill little Jenny and Del too! Just you wait, buddy oh boy, we'll have a real gasser! We'll have a laugh! Just you wait you stupid fuck!
[The laughter rises, high and hard as Tony Williams laments his own foolishness on a a lonesome tune. Static sparks again, and the radio cuts out. Dead once more.]