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all eyes

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Ceaseless Watcher, Turn Your Gaze Upon This Wretched Thing 👁

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"Hey, is it true that the Archivist is back?"

"Oh, uh, yeah, but Mr Bouchard said that the Archives are off limits. Something about the Archivist needing to reacclimate or something..."

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uh oh guys, this is looking like a problem even two cups of english breakfast tea can’t solve

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It starts with a low, tinny whine, coming out of the speakers of a computer that has long since given up its ghost. For the first time in years, its monitor jumps to life, displaying scratchy static and an indecipherable image, flickering on its screen.

Then its brethren join in. One by one they start whining, a sound that scrapes against a human brain like fingernails on sunburnt skin. The screens flicker and crackle and pop and that same obscucre image shows up, but as the cacophony reaches its crescendo, it reveals itself to be a picture of an eye, widening in fear or surprise or pain.

The smell of burnt plastic and flesh fills the room. Something sparks and then smoke bleeds out like water, spilling through fan slits and out of speakers, ports and any openings it can find, pooling onto the carpeted floor full of old stains.

As the performance reaches its climax, it abruptly comes to a stop as all at once, the power cuts out. The world is plunged into deep, impenetrable blackness. The silence that follows is perhaps louder than the earlier screaming of the machines.

A pause. And then the sound of a body hitting the floor hard, the dull thump followed by a muffled gasp as they are unceremoniously dumped onto the carpet. As the lights flicker and return, they reveal a disheleved, dirty man in old ratty clothes.

His long dark hair is matted and his dark skin marred with scars, both new and old. His jacket is torn right over his heart, showcasing the dried up spot of blood - judging from the amount and location, it is a miracle he's still alive at all.

The man stumbles to his feet, sways and then grabs onto the nearest desk for halt. He looks dazed, perhaps drunk, definitely lost, green eyes searching desperately for anything familiar.

Yet he is alone in this strange place, without a sign that anyone was ever there with him, save for the wedding band on his hand and the blood stain over his heart.

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win for traumatised individuals! local eldritch horror is here to rip it all out free of charge

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smoking with my ex's cat because he's chill like that

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Eye nako

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supple-MENTAL am I right-

I love how fast Jon spiraled between seasons

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Please…

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long hair not in a girl way but instead in a head archivist of the magnus institute way

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Hell Followed With Us, Andrew Joseph White

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Mary Oliver, “Summer Morning” from Red Bird

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I am tired of being a ghost, (...). I am tired of being a mystery. I want to take form, to appear, and one only gains visibility by action.

Anais Nin, Mirages: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin, 1939-1947

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sarah kane