[ 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.]
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holyspirits) wrote2025-03-09 04:46 pm
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.]