Thriller - Blog Posts

does anyone else ship armstrong x blore from and then there were none????!!!

like NO ONE can convince me they WEREN’T both secretly gay for each other and jealous of vera and philip so that just increased their gayness

like just look at them!!! they’re so cute!!!↓

(not my gif!!! creds to whoever made it↓)

Chapter 4: I see you

Content Warnings for Chapter 4:

Child Abuse (Physical and Emotional)

Neglect and Abandonment

Drug Abuse Mention

Domestic Violence

Mentions of Poverty and Financial S

trugglesTrauma and PTSD

 ThemesMental Health Struggles (Insanity/Breakdowns)

Graphic Descriptions of Injury/AbuseDissociation and Psychological Distress

viewer discretion is advised ⚠️

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My footsteps echoed softly through the unfamiliar halls, each step carrying me closer to a classroom I had never entered before. There was no sense of certainty about what awaited me beyond its door, only a quiet apprehension that lingered in my chest. After signing a consent form handed to me at the entrance, something unexpected happened—the paper itself shimmered faintly, folding and twisting until it transformed into a mask resting delicately in my hands.

I recognized its shape almost instantly, though only from the books I had devoured back at the facility. It was a kitsune mask, a relic often associated with spirits and tricksters from old tales. Traditionally, these masks covered the entire face, which struck me as suffocating and isolating—perhaps a personal bias formed from my own sensory sensitivities. To my relief, however, this mask was only a half-mask, designed to shield my eyes rather than my whole face. A practical adjustment, I assumed, meant to make it less overwhelming to wear.

Ms. Tess, who had been silently observing my reaction, stepped forward and explained the mask's true purpose. It was not simply an ornament or a ceremonial object—it was a tool. A containment device meant to dampen the constant flood of visions and fractured moments that relentlessly played across my mind like a broken film reel. With the mask in place, the overwhelming torrent of future flashes would ease, granting me at least a fleeting sense of normalcy.

She also gently suggested that I visit her every Friday—a standing invitation to what she called 'sensory moments.' These were designed to ground me, a time dedicated to unraveling the tension knotted inside my mind. Apparently, my powers were not only fueled by external triggers but also amplified by my own relentless overthinking, the constant hum of unease I carried with me. It was this internal chaos, she explained, that kept my abilities flaring wildly out of control, leaving me drained and vulnerable.

Those fleeting thoughts, fragile as fallen leaves beneath my feet, crumbled the moment I stood before the door. Room 206—a name so ordinary for a place that felt anything but.

My knuckles rapped softly against the wood, and with a breath caught between hesitation and resolve, I pushed the door open.

"As predicted, here she is."

The voice belonged to the professor, whose gaze flickered toward me with the faintest trace of expectation. I lifted my eyes to meet theirs, offering a plain, almost weightless, "Good morning," before stepping fully into the room—a presence without fanfare, yet not without gravity.

My gaze drifted over the room, tracing each unfamiliar face. Eleven students. Only eleven.

So, they weren't exaggerating after all. Those who walk the uncertain paths tied to time itself—our kind—are rare as cracks in the sky.  From what I see, they all have unique different objects they wear to help them control their powers, which is quite amazing to think that there's this one girl who have her eyes blindfolded.

"Please introduce yourself." The professor said as I nodded. "Good morning. I am Tachibana Hagarin..."

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Curious gazes devoured my presence the moment I settled into my seat. I suppose I couldn't blame them—a new face in a room so small was bound to attract attention. The silence that followed pressed against my skin like a second atmosphere, thick and unrelenting.

"For the continuation of our lesson," the professor's voice cut through the hush like a knife against glass, "we begin at Chapter 5."

A pause—deliberate, heavy.

"Dark Triad."

The words slithered into the air, curling like smoke around the edges of my mind.

"The Dark Triad refers to Narcissism, Machiavellianism, and Psychopathy—three personality traits bound together by manipulation, absence of empathy, and an insatiable hunger for control."

The professor's voice echoed within the hollow of my thoughts, and for once, the clarity of it felt almost indulgent. My mind had been left unclouded for days, all thanks to the mask resting against my face — a fragile shield between my sanity and the endless unraveling of time.

Even so, I couldn't help but wonder why we were treading the waters of psychology in the first place.

This was supposed to be a class for those who twist time itself — so why did this feel like an autopsy for the mind? 

When the class ended after 2 hours, I finally reached the schedule of vacant time. I was quietly thinking of what to do with the given 2 hours of vacant but suddenly...

A pen rolled near my shoe, its faint clatter against the cold floor somehow louder than it should have been. I leaned forward, fingers poised to grasp it—

"No!"

The word cracked like a whip through the air, sharp enough to slice through my hesitation. I looked up to see a girl, panic carved into every step she took as she nearly stumbled toward me, her shoe sending the pen skittering across the room.

"You shouldn't touch it," she whispered, her voice low and urgent, as if the walls themselves had ears.

I followed the flicker of her gaze to a boy slouched near the back, his grin stitched too wide across his face, a glint in his eye that spoke of cruelty reserved for those who knew no limits.

"Why?" My voice was calm, but curiosity curled beneath it like smoke.

"That pen," Clara murmured, fingers trembling as they curled into her sleeves, "has been laced with someone's twisted magic. If you touched it, you would've been swallowed whole — into a room stitched from riddles and silence. A place where you could scream until your voice breaks, and still no one would hear you."

Her words tasted like truth, bitter and lingering.

"But you kicked it," I pointed out, my voice softer now. "Wouldn't that count as contact?"

She shook her head, strands of hair sticking to the sweat gathering at her temple. "No... It needs skin. It craves warmth. Bone, flesh, the pulse beneath your fingertips. Shoes are just leather and rubber. They hold no soul."

Her eyes drifted back to the boy — the architect of this sick game — who merely offered a laugh that sounded more like something choking on itself.

"Just be careful," Clara said, voice dipping lower. "You're new. You don't want to end up... you know... a plaything."

I offered a nod, the weight of her words settling across my shoulders like a damp cloak. "Thank you for the warning."

There was silence, then her hand stretched toward me, trembling just slightly. "I'm Clara."

I took her hand — cold skin against mine — and held it for a breath longer than I meant to. "Hagarin."

A pause, then: "Can I ask... more about this place? This department?"

Clara sighed, her expression caught somewhere between pity and exhaustion, before she sank into the seat beside me.

"I'll tell you everything I can," she said, her voice no louder than a prayer, "in hopes it makes you feel a little less like prey."

When Clara settled beside me, I let my gaze linger on her — a habit born from survival rather than curiosity. Her hair, a shade too soft for this place, was braided into a bun plait, too delicate for a room that reeked of fear. The strands twisted like a noose, and at its center, her monocle gleamed like an artificial eye — an elegant restraint to a power I knew she could barely hold back.

"Where would you like to start?" Her voice cut through my observation like a scalpel, precise and clinical.

I averted my gaze, as though looking too long would unravel me. "I suppose... we could start with the culture here. What do people do in a place like this?"

Clara's smile was thin, barely there, like a ghost caught between walls. "Culture," she repeated, as though the word was foreign, a relic long buried beneath dust and rot.

She folded her hands in her lap, knuckles pale. "This building breathes silence. Not by design, but by consequence. We are few — a species on the verge of extinction, clinging to corridors stained with the mistakes of those who came before us. But we all share the same disease."

Her voice dropped into something brittle. "The disease of seeing too much."

I felt my stomach twist. "And the subjects you study?"

"Psychology, History, Philosophy, Sociology, Politics," she listed them like names on gravestones.

"Why?" I asked, though I already knew the answer would taste bitter.

"Because if you lose your mind, your power will devour you." Her words carried the weight of a funeral prayer. "This place is a coffin for those who couldn't hold their own sanity together — their powers grew wild, untethered, until they swallowed them whole. If you can't control your mind, you can't control the time."

Clara scratched at her temple, the skin red and irritated, as though her own thoughts were a splinter beneath the flesh.

"These subjects aren't about learning — they're about survival. You study history so you don't repeat your own mistakes. You study psychology so you understand the voices crawling inside your head. Philosophy teaches you to question your reality before it eats you alive. Sociology reminds you that you aren't the only monster walking these halls. And politics..."

She trailed off, but another voice filled the void.

"Politics teaches you the rules of power. Knowing when to kneel — and when to slit a throat."

The footsteps were soft, measured, each one deliberate like the ticking of a clock. A boy stood before us, the air around him heavy with calculation. His uniform was too neat, his posture too perfect, like he belonged in a portrait rather than this crumbling room.

His smile was polite, but his eyes were scalpel-sharp, stripping me bare in a single glance. "Sanity is currency here," he said. "If you lose it, your power consumes you from the inside out. So, we sharpen our minds until they're blades — because the only way to survive this place is to cut first."

The room felt colder.

The boy offered no introduction but just a polite smile. "Right, no need to sound like a walking thesis just to make us feel stupid, Clarence," Clara shot back, her voice light, but her eyes rolling with enough force to tilt the earth off its axis.

Clarence chuckled — a low, deliberate sound that somehow felt like it belonged to someone who knew exactly how and when you would die. "Just doing my civic duty. Our new little time anomaly deserves the full orientation package, doesn't she?" His gaze flickered to me, sharp but amused.

I rested my chin in my palm, already exhausted. "If we're supposed to be trained into functional, sane people, why's that guy..." —my finger lazily pointed at the slumped figure drooling onto his desk, the one who rolled the pen towards me— "acting like he's escaped from a psychological horror film?"

Clara snorted. "Oh, him? That's Ezra. He's new, like you. Except he skipped the 'gradual breakdown' part and just speed ran straight into 'hopelessly unhinged.'"

Clarence leaned against the desk, his expression darkening into something more serious — the kind of look you'd wear at a eulogy. "He's a walking cautionary tale. His sanity wasn't just fractured — it was pried apart, piece by piece, until the light itself showed him everything he couldn't bear to see."

He paused, his fingers tracing patterns on the desk absentmindedly. "You see, for some of us, the power doesn't break us. It shows us how broken we already were. And once the mind is exposed to too much truth, it shatters like glass."

I didn't respond. There wasn't much to say when someone described a fate you could practically feel breathing down your neck.

Clara, mercifully, broke the silence. "Anyway!" she clapped her hands together, trying to inject some life back into the room. "Moral of the story — don't touch random objects, don't stare too long at the void, and for god's sake, never trust the vending machine on the third floor."

"Why the vending machine?" I blinked, confused by the sudden shift.

Clarence just smiled. "It eats more than your money."

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Several days have passed, and I suppose I've begun to adapt to the peculiar rhythm of this place. The atmosphere here is unlike the main building, which was constantly alive with noise and bustling students. In stark contrast, this department feels almost isolated, its silence only interrupted by the occasional conversation or the faint hum of distant footsteps.

Throughout these days, I've found myself gravitating toward Clara and Clarence. They seem to have taken it upon themselves to ensure I don't entirely lose my mind in this strange environment. When they're occupied, however, Ezra tends to appear — often without warning. His presence alone is unnerving, considering our first encounter involved him casually rolling a cursed pen in my direction. A pen, mind you, capable of trapping me within a labyrinth of riddles until I somehow managed to solve my way out. To put it lightly, Ezra's existence leaves me with an enduring sense of wariness.

At the moment, our class is gathered in the gymnasium. Today's exercise focuses on building connections — not through casual conversation, but through direct access to each other's memories. The process is simple in theory: remove any object that dampens our abilities, select a partner, and lock eyes until the walls around their past begin to collapse, allowing us a glimpse into their personal history. It is, apparently, a foundational technique for understanding time travel. For some reason, the moment I removed my mask, nothing happened. No sudden flood of memories, no overwhelming rush of visions — just the ordinary sight of the gymnasium and my classmates. It was almost unsettling how quiet my mind remained, like a static screen where chaos should have been.

Perhaps it's this building itself — designed to keep us on edge, to suppress what we rely on most. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of subtle tricks they embedded into these walls. A spell? A mechanism? Or maybe something much simpler, like the weight of constant observation. Whatever it was, the absence of noise in my head felt louder than any commotion ever could.

"I'll be assigning partners," our proctor announced, glancing down at the clipboard in his hands. A collective groan rippled through the room, though none of us were particularly surprised. Of course, we couldn't choose for ourselves — not here.

"Hagarin and Ezra."

Ah, yes. The radiant beacon of my existence. How fortunate I am.

From behind me, I heard the unmistakable twin reactions of Clara and Clarence — a synchronized oh that carried both sympathy and amusement. I turned to them, silently pleading for some form of rescue, but all they offered in return were sheepish smiles and helpless shrugs.

Before I could plot my escape, a hand clamped down on my shoulder, spinning me around with unnecessary enthusiasm. "Aren't you the luckiest? Partnered with me!" Ezra's grin stretched ear to ear, radiating the kind of chaotic energy that could set off a fire alarm just by existing.

"More like a curse," I replied, shaking my head. "You cling like a wasp that refuses to die."

"And you," he said, utterly unfazed, "are the honey — all sweet and easy to mess with."

"Dear god..." I muttered with a cringed reaction etched on my face, turning to walk away, only for him to seize my wrist and pull me back into his orbit, cackling like a villain in a low-budget play.

He's going to be the death of me someday — that much I'm certain of.

The proctor continued announcing the other pairs, though his voice felt distant, like a soft hum beneath the weight of my own thoughts. Soon enough, it was time to begin.

We were instructed to sit across from our assigned partners, knees barely apart, eyes locked. No masks, no objects to soften the edges of our abilities. Just direct eye contact, until the world around us dissolved into memory.

The rules were clear, spoken with the sternness of someone who had undoubtedly witnessed the consequences of disobedience: Do not touch anything. Do not move anything. Do not allow yourself to be seen. Do not speak to anyone. Observe, nothing more. A quiet ghost in the river of time.

I met his gaze, and for a brief moment, I forgot how to breathe.

His eyes — mismatched and striking — were a story in themselves. One a rich amber, warm like sunlight spilling through ancient windows; the other a deep, stormy blue, like the sky moments before thunder shatters the silence. They pulled me in, gently at first, then all at once, like falling into a trance where the edges between past and present began to blur.

Somehow, without meaning to, I found myself wondering — if eyes could hold someone's entire history, what kind of story would his tell me?

A blur crawled into my mind, cold and relentless — like fingers dragging me under the surface of a frozen lake.

The flood of memories didn't arrive gently, nor did it feel like a tender unveiling of his past. It was violence wrapped in silence, the kind of silence that pulses against your ears when screams are too hoarse to escape. Whispers slithered through the cracks in my consciousness, fragmented mutterings, desperate pleas, the sound of skin hitting skin, the begging — oh god, the begging to live.

And that is the story of Ezra.

A boy born into the middle ground — not poor enough to be pitied, not wealthy enough to be spared. His life was average in the cruelest sense, hovering just above ruin, surrounded by people too broken to love him properly. Those smiles and bursts of manic energy were a carefully crafted mask, because the truth was too ugly to show.

Deliberately ignored by the very hands meant to protect him, Ezra learned survival the hard way. His mother — the woman meant to fill his stomach and soothe his fears — turned to drugs instead, letting substances take the place of responsibility. The house became a prison, the walls soaked with the stench of neglect. And when she wasn't a ghost, she was a monster.

She made sure his body bore the weight of her frustrations. Bruises blooming like rotting flowers, bones learning to break before they could fully grow. There were nights he couldn't walk, mornings he woke up wondering if his legs would ever carry him again.

And yet, here he sits — bright-eyed, loud-mouthed, and relentlessly alive.

But now I know the truth.

Every smile is a desperate defiance. Every laugh is a scream buried under his tongue. Every careless act of chaos is a child daring the world to break him again.

And in this flood of someone else's pain, I realized: some people aren't born survivors — they're made into them.

I wanted to help him.

It wasn't a fleeting thought, nor some heroic impulse — it was instinct, primal and unforgiving. My bones screamed at me to reach out, to shatter the rules, to tear through the veil that separated my reality from his.

But I couldn't.

Because the rules are absolute.

Do not touch. Remain unseen. Just watch.

So I watched. I watched as he collapsed onto the cold, filthy ground, limbs trembling from the weight of bruises layered over bones too fragile for this kind of life. His breathing was shallow, the kind of breath that doesn't expect to last.

And when I thought that was the end — that this was where his story would end in a puddle of blood and neglect — she came.

An old woman with shaking hands and kindness carved into every line on her face. She scooped him up like he was something fragile and precious, like broken things were meant to be cared for, not discarded.

She gave him warmth, food, and clothes that didn't hang off him like skin he was waiting to shed. She gave him a home, not just a house. And for the first time, he tasted love. Real love — the kind without conditions, without fists hiding behind smiles.

"What's a wife?" young Ezra asked one day, small fingers tugging at her sleeve as they sat by a hearth that crackled softly — the only sound that didn't hurt his ears.

The old woman smiled, gentle and sad. "A wife is someone you'll love — someone you'll never turn your back on. She's like a seed you plant, one that grows into something beautiful if you care for it properly. Promise me, Ezra. When you find someone, treat her right. Be the kind of man your father never was."

And for a while, it seemed like fate would be kinder to him.

But trauma doesn't disappear — it festers. It finds ways to seep into every crack, even when you think you've sealed them shut.

So Ezra grew up with kindness in his heart, but madness wrapped around his mind like a second skin.

He became a man who laughed too loudly and too often, because silence was where the ghosts lived. He turned himself into a living spectacle — an insane clown wearing tragedy like face paint. But beneath the chaos, beneath the theatrics, he was still that little boy asking what love was, praying someone would show him how not to break it.

Ezra is a good man.

Just one who was built from broken things. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 3,743 words

Next Chapter

my car crash heart

My thoughts on

The Midnight Club (2022)

I just finished watching The Midnight Club last night and couldn't help feel how it was like a beautiful work of art left unfinished. When I started the show, I was really impressed by the way the foundation was laid but several things were left unexplained but we'll get there later.

First off, let's talk about the true essence of the show; the stories. While I absolutely loved the way the characters expressed their unconscious/concious desires through the stories knowing that they wouldn't come true, that the future they paint will continue to remain trapped behind words, I couldn't help but feel that we could've been introduced to this world in a better way.

By the time we learn about Natsuki's story regarding the Japanese myth, it's already progressed into a "frenzy of jump scares" which completely ruined the atmosphere for me and I found myself wanting it to be over as soon as possible.

The next thing I wish to address is Ilonka's character. She is a complex teen who is unable to accept the terminal nature of her life and that she cannot be saved. Initially, I liked her drive to survive but as the episodes carry on, we see her completely lose herself in the desperate attempt to grasp what's left of her life. Her character itself had multiple flaws which were further enhanced by the fact that so many things about her were left unexplained.

Why was Ilonka having visions?

Was it because of her medication? Maybe. But it could also, be due to her being most open to the spiritual aspect of the place. She openly sought to achieve wellness through the nature and was engrossed by the past which might've manifested in the form of visions. Maybe her sharing these thoughts with Kevin was the reason for his own visions.

Another aspect of the show I really wanted to see were the stories coming together in the end (as we had in the haunting series) but was really underwhelmed. There were too many plot holes which raised a lot of questions.

Who is Dr. Georgina Stanton?

In the final episode, her ties to the Paragon are hinted at. I personally found myself drawing ties between her and Regina Ballard (Aceso). Regina, upon performing the ritual had lost her hair which kinda made me think if Stanton had also tried to do the same for her son (resulting in the loss of her hair, being the only survivor).

Who are the old ghosts?

This really got me scratching my head finding answers. Maybe they're yet again manifestations of the negative emotions arising in the kids but I'm not sure. Also, how is Kevin connected to the old woman and why does Ilonka keep seeing her where Kevin is?

All these are left unanswered which really irks the viewers to know more.

(I have not read the books and all my interpretations are solely based on the show)

Play it as it lays.

Okay so I'm sitting here waiting for the wash on my mini to dray and I started thinking

(Aplogies to any non Fnaf fan followers, my old love once more resurfaces and is taking hold)

But I have to say the FNAF movie was kinda a B- (I know the most Luke warm take), but I have to tell someone this idea i had so ur all my victims.

The Movie, fantastic casting, literally couldn't have been better. The special effects? Phenomenal!! The fact they got Jim Henson company to help make the animitronics was a ture stroke of genius (I'm biased as I adore practical effects) but the writing? Eh.

I know that's not groundbreaking comitary/ nothing no one else had said. But, and I know I'm not the only one to think this, but this would have been a phenomenal TV show/ series.

A thriller series that follows the mad man Wiliam Afton himself (still played by Mathew Lilard) in a Dalmer/Breaking Bad/ Hanibal style.

Or we could follow Henry Emily and see from his point of view in an open secret cat and mouse game with William.

But also have a b plot that flashes to "the present" with grown-up Michael tracking down and cleaning up his father's messes. All in an attempt to save his brothers soul and stop both his dad and his sister.

I definitely want Elizabeth/Baby to be an over arching villain for Mike in the present, Think Sister location esque (season 1 - 2a)

Also, it'd be so fun to get someone who Matthew has really good chemistry with to play Henry Emily. Because you know, before all the child murder and burning alive, they were as close as could be (I always liked to think of them as platonic soul mates, or maybe more) but yeah maybe a 3-4 season show, though I could see it being a tight 2 seasons if written right.

Also, the same practical effects are absolutely nessasary, and I really need them to change the spring locks back to how they're described in cannon because that is way scarier than whatever the fuck the FNAF movie claw ribs have.

Thank you for coming to my Ted talk.

Refueling at Europa

So this is a short sci-fi story i wrote 2 to 3 years ago. I'm still learning, so please give me whatever constructive criticism you can.

I'll also be posting a few more of my stories while I'm currently working on that one lesbian bug alien romance story I posted about before.

Synopsis: A Blackbox from a group of Voyagers’ is recovered after their starship is found destroyed. It reveals that refueling off of the water from Jupiter’s moon Europa may not be the best idea.

“AY-005 to command.” the terminal crackled and the image of Lt. Pallin faded into view through the static. “One moment Pallin. Gotta clean up your image.” I replied into the microphone as I twisted the dials that lined the terminal. Slowly Lt. Pallin’s face became more clear and her voice lost some of the accompanying grain. “Alright go ahead.” I was eager to hear her report, usually being on night shift I rarely get any first hand contact. It's all told to me by the previous shifts or in emailed memorandums, this was a welcome surprise. “Right,” Lt. Pallin began “We found the black box that belonged to AX-004.” My heart leaped in my chest. This was astounding news, AX-004 had been destroyed a few months ago, and we only found out thanks to some routine telescopic searching. “That's fantastic news, Pallin. Send it in.” The loud clicking of my key-board nearly drowned out my instructions as I prepared the terminal to receive the blackbox’s contents. “Copy.” she replied and moved just off screen. I went and made myself a fresh pot of coffee as the data was being transferred, my shoes sticking and making awful squelches as I walked. They really need to clean this place. 

I made my way back and sat down with a new mug of coffee steaming, the pot set next to me. The terminal’s processor revved and the fan spun, working hard to complete the download. Finally the green bar with a ninety-nine percent hovering over finally filled and presented “DOWNLOAD COMPLETE” and Lt. Pallin’s face returned. “I’ll review this right away. Thanks Lieutenant. Be careful.” I praised, and I readied myself for a long night. Her chuckle was distorted as the feed gained more interference. Before she cut out I heard her say “All G— will con— need to refuel. Planning— Europa’s ocean.” Then she was gone. Honestly, I was surprised her communication had lasted as long as it did. These terminals may have been the latest and greatest in light-year communication, but even they have their limits. I queued up the file, only an audio log accompanied by descriptive text of the ship's onboard computer system. Sadly the AX series of ships were just old enough to not be equipped with cameras but were equipped with auditory receptors allowing the crew to use voice commands. That way they needn’t travel to a ship terminal just to adjust the temperature or run diagnostics. I grabbed myself a snack from my desk, my notepad, and settled in.

<SCS> 00:30 running diagnostics. Fuel low. Reserve error. Waking Captain…

(Capt. Love): Computer, what’s happening?

(SCS): Request not recognized.

(Capt. Love): God dammit. Computer run diagnostic.

(SCS): One moment. Diagnostic report: Engines- fine, shields-fine, landing gear- fine, life support- fine, Fuel - Low, Fuel Reserve - Error

(Capt. Love): So it's a fuel problem. Alright, damn. Computer, scan for possible fuel sources, enough to complete the mission.

(SCS): One moment.

<SCS> Scanning…

(SCS): Large source of H2O found. 325 miles from current position. Location: Europa.

(Capt. Love): Huh, okay. Computer wake crew. 

(SCS): One moment.

<SCS> Waking crew…

(Cpl. Benings): Awww, come on. What now?

(Pvt. Dell): What's going on? Are we here? 

(Dr. Ve): Well that was a nice nap.

(SCS): Captain, crew have been awakened.

(Capt. Love): All hands to the bridge. 

(Cpl. Bennings) What’s going on Captain?

(Capt. Love): Low on fuel and the reserve is malfunctioning. I found us a good refueling point, at least enough to finish the mission. Europa.

(Cpl. Bennings): Alright so we just fly down and grab some water, easy. I’ll go check out the reverve, see what's up. Though why’d you wake up these two?

(Pvt. Dell): Yeah I was gonna ask the same thing. I'm no engineer.

(Capt. Love): Good experience for you Dell and I figured the Doc wouldn't want to miss landing on a moon made of ocean.

(Dr. Ve.): Thank you.

(Capt. Love): Computer chart course for Europa

(SCS): One moment.

<SCS> Charting course. Ideal landing zone found. Engaging Autopilot. Engaging engines…  

<SCS> 01:20 Deploying landing gear. Intciating landing…

(SCS): Please be advised. The temperature on Europa is currently -260℉ or -160℃. Thermal suits are recommended.

(Cpl. Bennings): No shit sherlock. Oww, sorry.

(Capt. Love): Alright, Everyone ready?

(Cpt. Bennings): Yep.

(Pvt. Dell): Yes Sir.

(Dr. Ve): Almost. Okay.

<SCS> All crew members have left the ship. Switching to remote communications.

(Cpl. Bennings): Holy shit, I thought my mother in-law was cold. 

(Capt. Love): Imagine it without the thermal suits. Now Dell, bring that over here. Alright This is literally the definition of plug and chug. We insert the drill, it drills the ice, sucks it up and puts it in the reserve. Then when we reach the water below the surface, that will fill up our main tank.

(Dr. Ve): Would you look at those geysers? Amazing.

(Capt. Love): Hey Doc don't go too far, the surface is very unstable from the shifting currents. 

(Dr. Ve): Oh right. Sorry.

(SCS): All members be advised. Large life-form detected. Proceed with caution.

(Pvt. Dell): What?

(Capt. Love): Computer, elaborate.

(SCS): Sure. Lifeform location 85 miles below the surface. Lifeform appears to be 360 

feet in length. Weight estimated to be 467 tons. Creature’s thermal signature indicates it is an endotherm.

(Cpl Bennings): What the fuck? Really? First alien life we encounter and this type of shit. Great.

(Capt. Love): Hold it together Bennings. Computer, track lifeform. Warn us if it's within 2.75 miles of the surface. Dell get the Doctor back to the ship, I'll finish here.

<SCS> Lifeform movement 63 miles from surface. Fuel 54% complete. 

(Pvt. Dell): Watch your step Doctor. 

<SCS> 2 of 4 crew members on board. Lifeform movement 34 miles from the surface. Fuel 65% complete.

(Clp Bennings): Come on Sir. I don't like this, it's too quiet. 

(Capt. Love): Just as quiet as before Bennings. 

(Clp Bennings): Yeah but now there’s a fucking leviathain beneth us.

(Capt. Love): What? 

(Clp. Bennings): Nothin’. 

<SCS> Lifeform movement 22 miles. Fuel 78% complete

(Capt. Love): Dell get the ship ready for departure. We are not waiting to see this thing, understood?

(Pvt. Dell) Yes sir. Computer, prepare the cockpit for liftoff.

(SCS) Sure. One moment…

<SCS> Initiating manual piloting system… 

(Capt. Love): Computer, Fuel status update.

(SCS): One moment… Fuel 86% complete

(Clp Bennings): Alright. Alright, we making progress.

(SCS): ALERT! ALERT! ALERT! Lifeform within 2.75 miles of surface. ALERT! ALERT! ALERT!

(Clp. Bennings): Fuck.

(Capt Love): Run!

(SCS): Lifeform 2.00 miles from surface.

(Dr. Ve): Come on! Hurry!

(SCS): Lifeform 1.52 miles from surface. Warning surface becoming unstable.

(Capt. Love): The Ice is cracking, come on Bennings! Dell start lift off!

(Pvt. Dell): Yes Sir!

<SCS> Manual liftoff engaged. All control to pilot.

(Clp. Bennings): Oh Shit! Guys Help! Fuck thats cold!

(Capt. Love): Shit Bennings! Fuck! Dell get this thing off the ground so we can get him!

<SCS>3 of 4 crew members onboard. Gaining altitude… (SCS): Lifeform within 0.46 miles of surface.

(Clp. Bennings): Oh shit I think I see it! Fuck, I think it sees me!

(Capt. Love): We’re coming, Bennings! Get to a high point!

(SCS): ALERT! ALERT! ALERT! Lifeform has reached the surface. ALERT! ALERT! ALERT!

(Clp. Bennings): Holy— how many eyes does this thing have?!?

(Capt. Love): What the fuck? 

(Dr. Ve): Oh God.

(Capt. Love): Dell, you see him? Avoid those tentacles! 

(Pvt. Dell): Holy shit! Holy shit! Why didn't I just go to College!

(Capt. Love): Keep it together. Bennings grab my hand!

(Clp Bennings): Ha, got ya! Ok, now pull my ass up!

(Capt. Love): We’re trying! Not our fault you're a mountain of muscle, lay off the gym will ya?

(Clp. Bennings): I’m Sorry! 

<SCS> All Crew members have returned to ship. Sealing outer doors…

(Dr. Ve): Alright let me check you over. 

(Capt. Love): Ha, good Flying, Dell. Now get us the Fu–

       *End of all downloaded information*

I leaned back in my chair sweating, exhausted from simply listening and reading the recount of what happened. My mind spun with billions of horrific images, attempting to grasp what they had encountered. In the end I only succeeded in conjuring a headache, and took a swig of my forgotten coffee, now chilled by the AC unit running full blast. I sat in silence for minutes that stretched for hours, shudders and chills ran up and down my spine. Then a thought pierced me, spurred me into frantic action.

 I twisted and pulled on the terminal’s hard unfeeling dials, typing command after command to the point I thought the keyboard would break. I had to reach the Lieutenant, warn her. I know they didn't have the correct equipment to have seen what I had seen, read what I read. I finally got the signal out. One minute turned into two, two to ten, ten to thirty. But the Terminal only displayed static.

Fall Out Boy💚 The emoji background though😂👌❤️ This makes me so emotional❤️

Monster (2004)

Spiral

I’ve been working on this project of my for so long, so many changes BUT I’m now happy that it picked its final results!:)

Hope you all enjoy <3

NIGHTMARE PLAY CENRE

𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐜𝟑_𝐕𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝟑

You are Vincent Maxwell a 21 year old who is starting the nightshift at Robin’s Playcentre, A Playcentre known for it’s variety of mascots and huge Playcentre however something about the mascots seem off…

Chapter one: the beginning of a nightmare?

*beep beep beep* i awake to the sound of my alarm beeping, i turn it off taking a glance of the clock. 11pm, i drearily get out of bed and grab my phone, [one email] i tap on in and enter my password. The email reads:

Hey Vincent I’ll already be out of the building by the time you’re there use the keys to get in best regards Aria G.

I throw on my uniform, brush my hair and throw it in a half up bun. I grab my keys and exit my house. After a 20 minute drive I arrive at the place, Robins Play centre. When i applied to work at the play centre i was hoping for a dayshift so i could work with the kids and parents, however i got the nightshift which means sitting in a dusty office most of the night occasionally broken my doing laps of the place. So work is gonna be pretty boring. I unlock the door and step in turning my flashlight on, I lock the door behind me as I walk through the main centre passing by all the different mascots to get to the security room. I sit in the dusty chair staring at all the cameras figuring out where they are, I begin to bore so I examine the office; posters, drawings and photographs are stuck to the walls, the calendar reads 28th of July 2011. After reading and staring at everything in the room i begin to bore again, *THUD!* I get up and grab my flashlight. “Damn did something fall” I think to myself as I exit the office and walk towards the noise, It came from where the mascots are. I shine my flashlight on the mascots, “nothing different, huh” I think to myself as I look at Kasey, the short frog mascot, her arm is up. I get a bad feeling about this…

To be, or not to be, brother

Oscar Isaac as Jack in Mojave (2015)

Battle Royale

Elijah and the Northwich Killer

Gods I love them ❤😩

(Also, if anyone could tell me where the movie in the second picture is from, that'd be awesome thanksss)

bruh this movie had potential, I wish it came out differently. I have an idea of how it might've come out different and I want to write out this story differently to see how it might've been better in my opinion, but I write slowly.💀

Now Watching:

The Exorcism (2024)

“A troubled actor begins to exhibit a disruptive behavior while shooting a horror film. His estranged daughter wonders if he's slipping back into his past addictions or if there's something more sinister at play”

Stay Spooky!

'JAWS' (1975)

i just watched The Exorcist for the first time,,, 8.5/10. Very good but i almost fell asleep at the end + it made be a bit squeamish a few times. That's the goal with horror tho, so i fw it.