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thebanishedreader · 5 months ago

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Ongoing Book Review: Dead Inside (Chandler Morrison) Pt. 1

I take way too long to finish books since I read like 7 at a time, so I have decided to start posting my thoughts and reviews as I go along. Also, that way I can actually commit to posting these reviews once I finish the book, which is yet another thing the commitment devils have kept me from accomplishing.

Anyhow, though, here we go: the first ongoing review will cover what I have read so far of Dead Inside by Chandler Morrison.

(CW: mentions of necrophilia, cannibalism, and sex. NSFW I guess).

Description by Seller (amazon.com): "A young hospital security guard with a disturbingly unique taste in women. A maternity doctor with a horrifically unusual appetite. When the two of them meet, they embark on a journey of self-discovery while shattering societal norms and engaging in destructively aberrant behavior. As they unwittingly help each other understand a world in which neither seems to belong, they begin to realize what it truly means to be alive... And that it might not always be a good thing."

Here I am, 15% through the book. I know it's not far, but honestly, it's far enough. All I have to say is-- wow. Wow.

This book kinda sucks. Just an all-around drag. A bore, but not the pleasant boring drawl of a lecturer putting you to sleep. The harrowing, suffocating boredom of having to work a shift with that coworker that you hate, that makes you cringe so hard that it's not even entertaining to hate them anymore. Get me out of here. That's how this book feels.

For a book constantly boasting how readers say it's "not for the faint of heart," it's surprisingly underwhelming. I'm frankly disappointed, and yet this book keeps embarrassing itself so much within only 15% that I can't even be angry at myself for falling into its trap.

My reasoning falls into 3 categories: Let-Down, Cringe, and Excuses.

First things first - I was expecting something raunchy, something gruesome and disturbing. I'm not one of those people who shies away from Dead Dove content, far from it. I love that shit. Literature is a place to explore the dangerous, the taboo, the fucked up-ness of being a person. So, finding a book that pledged it was disgusting, disturbing, and medically horrifying? Sign me up. This book is... not that.

What was promised to be a horror novel that pushes the boundaries of what is too much horror, what toes the line between gratuitous and entertaining, this novel relies on one thing: shock value. And the biggest bummer for that tactic is this: if your audience is not shocked, then there is nothing left supporting the narrative.

Dead Inside relies entirely on the audience not being familiar with horror stories or even true crime stories involving necrophilia or cannibalism. The concept of a perverted security guard using his power to violate corpses is supposed to be mortifying, unbelievably despicable. Yet for a seasoned horror fan, it's nothing short of lame. Juvenile, almost. There is hardly any risk when our security guard goes into a morgue which he holds the key to, wherein there are no security cameras, where he can do whatever he pleases, lay on the floor afterwards, and go back to work-- in a tiny, unbusy hospital. It's boring, it's lame, who gives a shit if this weirdo gets his rocks off in weird ways; it's horrible to think of it happening in real life to the body of a loved one, certainly, but this is horror literature. Stephen King would have had worms crawling up the dude's dick and blossoming into a parasite that whispers in his ear until he castrates himself. Chandler Morrison just has our (I hate to even call him this) protagonist fuck a corpse. Cool, I guess.

2. Number Two. Let's talk Cringe Factor.

This narrator is unbearable. Unbearable. He sounds like the stereotype of a discord edgelord who is narrating this book with the sole purpose of scaring off the normies. He relishes in saying gross things, being gross, all while acting as if he is so much more sophisticated than he is.

It doesn't help that the book is narrated in first person. This goes back to how I described the experience of reading Dead Inside to be equivalent to working a shift with a coworker that is very much not your friend who disrespects you the same way a friend would tease. It's just plain oblivious. Our necrophiliac incel narrator is the epitome of the Riverdale meme where Jughead says "I'm weird. I'm a weirdo. I don't fit in. And I don't want to fit in." Like, Christ man, we get it, you don't shower and your hair is greasy and people don't want to be around you not because you're "weird", but because you're inconsiderate and unhygienic and put 0 effort into anything whatsoever. Having to listen to the narrator's commentary on how he's aware how disturbing his own actions are, how he knows the ordinary person would see him as a freak, it's just so lame. That's the only word I have for it, really. Just completely and utterly lame. This novel reads with the same tone as a Reddit incel jerk-off posting about Elliot Rodger. It's just pathetic, but there's no pity there. It's entirely self-induced patheticness that the narrator excuses as being "unique."

It's fine to have characters in books that are frustrating, irritating, that make you just want to smack them upside the head for yapping too long. But it's never a good sign when the person I want most desperately to shut the fuck up is the narrator. It's not good writing if my method of making the narrator quit talking is closing the book and contemplating whether or not it's even worth finishing. Extraordinarily poor quality character. But it's not intentional - we are supposed to find this character disturbing, threatening, and eerily fucked up. We're supposed to wonder why he got this way, and what it will take to break him. We are supposed to hate him, and relish in his demise. I feel nothing but exasperation from this man. The simplest way to resolve my hatred for him is to close the book and put it away. I don't give a fuck what happens to him. I don't think he even deserves my attention, and he's the narrator. This is bad.

3. And finally. Excuses.

This complaint is a short, but prudent one. The writing quality is mediocre at best. One of the biggest rules of any creative work, but particularly writing, art, and filmmaking, is that your audience is smarter than you think. Leave things open for interpretation. Leave opportunity for ponderance, and analysis. Show, don't tell.

Dead Inside is all tell, with nothing to show. Our narrator is a loser, but Morrison doesn't let us own it. Instead, excuses are made; the most infuriating example of this is after our narrator has finished fornicating with a poor, lifeless victim. The section goes:

"... but my lovers are all equipped with the best birth control the world can offer. As in, dead reproductive systems. I know that goes without saying, but I like to say it." (p. 21)

If it goes without saying, then don't say it. The segment would have been entirely fine without that last remark; if anything, it would have been better, and bolstered the narrator's character as a whole! And this is only one of the outright examples I have of this characterization.

The bitter, dark humor of our narrator would have been brilliantly given if the quote ended at "dead reproductive systems." We would have been left with the pure objectification and lack of emotion our narrator possesses, how he sees dead bodies purely as anatomical tools for his own peak control and pleasure, his own performance. We as the audience would have been victims of him as well, subjected to listen to the gross things he says and does and entirely unable to resist it-- pure puppets for his sick fantasies, just like the corpses he violates. It would have illustrated an actual level of mystique and unsettling nature to the relationship between narrator and narrated and audience. The novel's ongoing themes of fetish and object, the definitions of violation, it all would have been so interesting if only the narrator didn't say something so juvenilely self-aware every five seconds, like he's vying for our attention and approval. Look!!, Morrison makes our narrator constantly wave his hands in our face like a child, Look!! Isn't that fucked up!! Look at how fucked up I can be! Tell me I'm gross, tell me I'm weird!! Look at how gross that is, right!! That's scary, right??

No. It's annoying, and it gets old before it even got a chance to start.

Again, I'm 25 pages into a 191 page book. It's mid as fuck. I hope it turns around, but I don't think it will-- I can see from only 15% where this story is going, I bet I can plot out most if not the entire rest of the book. I think the concept is one spooky "what-if" that goes no deeper than that. Honestly, I'm really disappointed. I wanted to be disturbed. I don't have much motivation to keep reading this book except the pervasive nagging of my soul to finish most books I pick up. Plus, I want to know if I'm wrong about how dog this has so far turned out to be.

If you made it this far, holy shit. Congrats. You're running the Athens marathon by reading this. You're amazing. I'm giving you a small kiss on the forehead.

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inglenookinhabitants · 4 months ago

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Added some stuff, took away some stuff, what do we think? Untitled - Chapter 1

I lifted my arm to adjust the wire frames slipping down my nose, the subtly fogged lenses weighting them exponentially, to the point of which gravity habitually tugs them by invisible strings, nudging them back into their supposed natural resting spot on my bridge; supposed, as if it was, would they not stay put? Moisture clung to the thin skin of my face, beading into a layer of sweat, no matter how much I sponged it away with my fingertips and palms, which were just as, if not, more, greased and sullied as my face. As soon as I’ve dropped my arm, a light itch begins to grow on the back of my ear, but I’ve an overwhelmingly wary sense that drawing unwanted attention, for reasoning I can’t decipher myself, is prohibited so I let it fester into an unbearable intolerance rather than make any other sizeable sequential movements that could cause a ruckus. I stared out the window instead, sheets of rain pouring down onto the steamy pavement, pounding the asphalt like a rhythmic drum. The humidity, now tangible, hung like an obstruction of thickly woven tapestries under the midnight moon, and the hope of a breath of a cool breeze was nothing more than an absurd idea, concocted by wishful dreamers. No wind that even attempted to cut through the smog of the thick, wet atmosphere could withstand morphing into a furnace blast of heat and perpetual icky dampness. With overwhelming irritancy, I struggled to sit still. As if an unsettled energy flowed through my veins, keeping my nerves jittery and on guard, I shifted my weight, as unassumingly as possible, from side to side, attempting to ignore the ever-growing incessant itch, my bones refusing to settle into the plush, yet tattered sofa; I felt like I was being watched.

Gargantuan windows, with cloudy glass panes held together by darkened steel framing, aged from neglect, that could have potentially allowed washes of golden sunlight that’s been consigned to oblivion to dance along the hundreds of leather-bound spines that rested in haphazardly unorganized defiance to proper alphabetical arrangement upon thick, dark, wooden shelving, sprawling throughout the quaintly sized space, were the only deviations from the uniformed dark, wooden walls of the building. My fate was seemingly to be suffocated by the very air I breathe; the smell of ageing paper, warm and wet leather, and moist, practically rotting, wood mingled together in a waltz, each one threatening to usurp the other in potency and offense, as they hopped through the damp stagnancy of the room and invaded my nostrils. I attempted to rub off the grime that’s accumulated on the surface of my palms, a thin layer of dirt and guck, attracted by the dank film of sweat that’s been slowly congealing into a jelly congealment on my skin; to no avail, my efforts were futile.

I don’t remember when I entered this purportedly abandoned library, or when I sat in the corner of the west wing in silence, atop a dilapidated, brown leather loveseat. Tears in the seat cushions suggested a dully serrated blade had been drug through the fabric, haphazardly and violently from the lack of precision and awkwardly inconsistent depth in the incisions below me. It was as if my consciousness began from the point in which my glasses started to slip down the trickling waterslide that is my face, I have no memory of entering this space, nor why I am perched atop such scraggly upholstery.

Enough time has lapsed between the last time I moved more than a considerable inch, rendering it permissible for me to take care of that itch, or so I thought, as the moment I reached the limb upwards, a crack from the east side of the building echoed through the narrow halls. A sickening impression, dripping with the notion that it was intentionally created, not an accidental occurrence, that shot fear straight through to my bones. It’s officially time to go, I reckoned, finally bowing to the indomitable sense that I am not welcome in this nook. I’m up and on my feet before I can even finish scratching that itch.

I know nothing of what made the sound, or why it’s jarred my subconscious to the point in which I feel like fleeing; with my footsteps intentionally light and in a sophomoric fashion, I caper around weakened boards underneath me in a facetious attempt to not make a single sound. I have no possessions to collect, my hands free to grasp the outward-sticking edge of a roughly splintered banister, appearing to be part of what might have once been the staircase to the basement, except for the lack of an abundance of actual steps, after a particularly overzealous leap across a hacked-up gape in the flooring beside a mishappen doorway, bordered in similarly darkened, rotting wood. Rather than smooth, polished mahogany as they once could have been, the two and a half of the steps left at the very top were now worn and warped, with rust ladened steel nails jutting upwards from them. The basement quickly removes itself as an option before it can even be reviewed for consideration, I don’t want to know why it has been torn up starting from the bottom, rather than the top, nor would I survive the leap down; perspective or not, the dank flooring, emanating neglect and even misuse, seemed miles away from the floor that my knees were beginning to buckle atop of due to the call of the void aching from the drop below. Another deafening crack resounded through the invariable silence, followed by a disgustingly wet squelch, and I have no choice but to exit onto the street.

My skin was soaked through within minutes of being underneath such a torrential downpour, the sickly sticky sweat amassed on top of my flesh swept off ceremoniously by cool, fat droplets of rain; the blackened clouds above remained static in the air, overly plump and surging uncontrollably onto the earth. A heavy slam followed behind me as the hefty Roman doors, splintering through from the top and down to the midway point of their structure, sprinkled with the remnants of stripped dark maroon paint, slammed the entrance to the library shut. A sliver of that midnight moon peeked through in the form of a dull, fading light behind the thick cover of the shadows, casting a dim illumination that proved just enough for my eyes to discern a path through the unnamed and unkempt stone buildings that lined the dark pavement like labyrinth walls, creating winding passageways of uncertain choices. I did not stand still, nor meander tranquilly underneath the night sky, rather I made the heftiest of attempts to scramble, like a mangy fox cub making a mad dash for its foxhole, caught in the act of existing by the eyes of the great hound. The air was far more potent with viscous humidity out here than it ever was indoors, which in itself is a dubious claim, rendering it difficult to move swiftly just from the sheer viscosity of the air entering my lungs, my legs weighted, as if attempting to lug through the ocean’s waves. I couldn’t have been more than a hundred metres away from the library I came from, the first and last place I could remember occupying entirely, when a nauseating thud obliterated the rhythmic lull of the storm surrounding me, and echoed through the ramshackle stone village, causing me to regretfully turn my head back towards the source: that damned library.

Grotesquely thin, with pasty white skin pulled taught over its sharply elongated bones, a crouched form leaned laboriously against the windowpane of the library, the very one I was gazing out of earlier in a feeble attempt to elicit a reason as to why I was here. Its massively curved spine heaved up and down stiffly, as if it took a great effort to execute each breath, its elliptical skull cradled between its gaunt knees, crumpled inwards in an excruciating effort to fit its gangly, interwoven limbs, knotted together amongst themselves resembling the widened body of an albino Amazonian anaconda, and an expansive, plowed field of torso into the dusty nook in which I had just sat. What it is so fascinatingly fixated on, I haven’t a clue as of now, and whatever it called itself, I was fixated on it, as if I’d entered a trance, attempting to coerce me to find a winsome attraction to the malformed organism in front of me. I was being beckoned to follow the intrigue that has blossomed out of such a sublime manifestation of all things wretched, as titillatingly offensive slurping noises continued to emanate from the building at an outstanding volume; this thing was consuming something.

After quite some time of being deluged by the storm, a puddle of crystal-clear rainfall was beginning to pool around my bare feet and ankles, yet my concentration remained fixated upon this fanatical display of desperate famine. It had somehow robbed me of my movement, not even a twitch could exude from my muscles as I held my stance; though, unbeknownst to me, it was almost finished with its task at hand.

Achingly, the creature reared its awkwardly oblong skull from between its gnarled knees. A spattering of some glistening red substance coated its gaunt ribs, dripping from its sunken chin, and coating the area around a cavernous opening on its supposed face, lined with a singular row of barbed teeth. The fingers adorning this creature were long and willowy, double the length of its little palms in comparison, and they were clutching what could have once been a bone of sorts, fissured along its oblong shape and leaking the same red substance that the creature was drenched in. It raised its snack to those horrific jaws, elongated a blackened snake of a tongue, and began to messily slobber upon the bone, just as fixated as I was on it. Where its eyes should have been perfectly visible, if we were to judge this abhorrence by the standard proportions of humanity, was a thin veil of skin, too clear to be translucent, though a tad too much opacity to be fully transparent; its dark black oculi loomed through the papery sheets overtop hazily, and fixated on the very front of its face, a tell-tale sign of apex predatory behaviour ingrained in its genetic code. This was not a meal I reckon I would want to be a part of under usual circumstances. The wire frames of my lenses had slipped too far down my face. Before I could reach to save them, they ceremoniously leapt from the tip of my nose and clattered to the pavement in a spectacular clamor. I no longer had a choice in whether I wanted to continue watching or not, for the show was over. The creature’s head whipped in my direction at such speed, the crimson slobber from its gaping maw splattered against the windowpane in a dramatic fling.

The creature, as if on thinly sheathed stilts, monumentally rose up to a standing position that dwarfed everything surrounding it. I tilted my neck back farther and farther to follow its ascent with a worrisome expression masking the macabre pleasure I derived from the sheer tantalization of an epic multi-directional tragedy that had every opportunity to unfold before me. As its shoulders pass the highest border of the massive, murky windowpanes whilst an abhorrent crumple of the rotting, steeped ceiling beams protruded a ghastly smooth, akin to porcelain finished, head, its grubby jaws masticating splinters of the rickety library’s structure, caught in its svelte teeth. Two lanky sets of fingers, with tiny half-palms, creased heavily with leathery desiccated corium, grasped the edges of the building, sagging them down as it pushed its abominable skeleton upwards into the stagnant black of the clouded atmospheric ceiling above. Compared to the crippled once-been library, with its single above-street story, omitting its cavernous cellar stretching vastly beneath the surface, the creature surpassed its height with adequate significance. With a thunderous stomp, it freed itself, one gargantuan stilt, ending with a gargantuan foot, was set outside of the structure. A second thunderous stomp, and I was caste fully in the shadow of what many religious sectors would consider to be the harbinger of the apocalypse.

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mywaysthehighway · 1 year ago

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creeps-and-pasta · 2 years ago

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a little paper man :^)

#my posts #creepypasta #laughing jack #creepypasta art #my hands/eyes have been hurting recently so ive been trying to do new forms of art #i made this at like. midnight while rewatching quinton reviews icarly videos #anyway i really enjoyed making this so there'll probably be more in the future

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the-habbit-reviewer · 5 months ago

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Artificial Intolerance | In over its head.

This is a series I bingewatched today. Like almost every New Gen series, I didn't like!

It does all of the tropes you'd expect. Hell, it even has a HABIT/Patrick ripoff. It takes a lot from MLAndersen0 actually. I'd describe the series as an overbloated MLAndersen0 clone.

The videos are overly long, where nothing happens for most of the runtime. Ted is vlogging, that could be used to show how the characters interact with each other, watching them do whacky stuff. But nope. It's just stretches of silence while Ted walks around doing nothing, or it's Ted talking to the camera for 10 minutes. If a series is JUST gonna be talking, or have entire videos where it's just blocks of text, then it shouldn't be a Vlog. Just make a blog. Which AI also has, but it's useless.

It doesn't feel like it has an end goal. Nothing in the series feels like it's leading to anything. It doesn't feel like the people working on AI have any passion for the series.

1: The Pacing

Obnoxiously poor. Every video is just a snoozefest.

2: The Characters

Flat pieces of cardboard. You never get a sense on who they are or how they feel about each other. None of them have any personality.

3: The Story

It has no plot. I struggled to understand what exactly was happening. I just kept thinking, "Oh that's like MLAndersen0" or "Oh, that's just like Marble Hornets"

Final Thoughts:

1/10. Yet another series that does nothing interesting. If you've watched this, you've watched 96% of the modern Slenderverse.

#Artificial Intolerance #Slenderverse #Slenderseries #Creepypasta #ARG #Unfiction #Slenderverse Review #New Gen Slenderverse

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babybatxxx · 2 months ago

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So I don’t read books, only occasionally yuri books, but my mom recommended this book to me titled “before she was found” and OMG it was amazing!! It’s based of the slenderman murder incident and stranger danger online. It has all different povs from different characters but the only kid out of the three is Cora and her pov is in diary entries from months before. If you like guessing killers from clues like scream movies have you do you’ll like this book! The ending is shocking.

#books #books and reading #book review #book #booklr #book recommendations #book reccs #creepypasta #slenderman case #slenderman #before she was found #before she was found book #mystery #mystery books #:3 #battys blurbs

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jaspersreprise · 1 year ago

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Laughing Jack retrospective and rewrite

(WARNING:) This content BRIEFLY mentions of interpersonal situations, negligence, implied misanthropy and nihilism(?), deaths and gradually worsening hallucinations! I am not here to GLORIFY real life misfortunes as that is viewed derogatory and disgusting towards people that had fallen victim to the content here that I state down; if it turns out that way, I am so sorry.

This is quite inspired by @freezingmcxn and @seireitonin! I recommend following them, they both make great content, analysis, and hcs.

I do not really like the sound of his backstory as it doesn’t make sense. I wont lie, every Creepypasta stories does need a retrospective and a little rewrite considering that they’ve been made from years ago, and especially when its mainly published by minors! So I do not blame them, haha

also, I am not supporting his creator. I just like his character. And I’m glad that I’m not the only one that thinks his story and creator share some similarities.

Apparently, Isaac was so, so lonely that a guardian angel had to manifest an IMAGINARY FRIEND for him. That is embarrassing, Isaac Grossman

Well, lets change a few things here, in this version, Laughing Jack had still been manifested by a divine being and had been sent to Isaac; but to add more sense to it, lets just say that Isaac had developed a profound fascination with whimsical clowns when he was still a youth, especially a clown he called ‘Laughing Jack’. In his time of solitude, he’d usually draw the brightly colourful man to convey a more joyful demeanour. Which he wore suspenders and baggy pants, and is perceived to be excessively tall. To Isaac, Laughing Jack served as a comforting and solacing figure, providing entertainment in the midst of Isaac’s hardships.

Isaac’s inability to form true bonds made him yearn for more, the absence of love and affection in his life made him crave an interpersonal relationship. And with his parents becoming more preoccupied with hating each other rather than loving their child, Isaac felt an increased sense of loneliness.

As Isaac’s longing for affection grew, he began incorporating Laughing Jack into his drawings as a replacement for the familial bond he longed for. Soon, these illustrations caught the eye of a divine being, manifesting the being Isaac wished to be real. The angelic figure sent him as a jack-in-the-box on Christmas, and then you know how it goes. Isaac rotated the crank as it plays a familiar nursery tune, playing ‘Pop goes the weasel’. Then, once the tune hits ‘Pop’, nothing came out. The box just opened, but there was nothing in there which led Isaac to release an exhale of disappointment. He left the box in his room for now, doing whatever shit he does instead of staying in his room, then coming back to see Laughing Jack. (I am so sorry you can tell that I’m not writing all this stuff 😭)

You know how it goes here. They played pirates, sometimes hide and seek, and share some laughs!!! His parents took him for an overactive imagination that later manifested when Isaac began to get completely immersed in the fantasies he made up, and once Jack had accidentally killed a cat, Isaac used his imaginary friend as an excuse to the cats death which his parents responded with skepticism. And as to discipline this child, they somehow managed to get Isaac enrolled into a boarding school despite being poor af?? Lets just be ignorant of them being poor at this time and say they gained money somehow. Blah blah blah you know how it goes again, 13 years of solitude in Jacks box, his brightly coloured attire gradually faded, got insane and adapted the same way Isaac did when coming back to inherit his aged home.

Then Isaac died 😂

Few of these statements are not canon but it is how I depict Laughing Jack. As a result to how he mutilates and disembowels his victims, he would develop an extensive understanding of human anatomy and utilises it to inflict agony upon his victims. Not only that he is interested in human anatomy to efficiently harm people, but because he doesn’t have his own internal organs considering he is a stuffed clown. This one is quite inspired by @freezingmcxn! He would be ‘an organised-disorganised killer’ according to the FBI’s Crime Classifications! This means that he is someone who plans his crimes very meticulously and is driven by fantasies, but also is somewhat disorganised, messy, and leaves a lot of evidence behind at the scenes of his crimes. He would have become more methodical and cautious in his approach, learning from past mistakes and using his intelligence to plan out his killings with greater precision. He is often portrayed as incredibly intellectual and skilled in the art of psychological manipulation, able to prey on his victims’ fears and weaknesses before striking. The the idea of him being an organised-disorganised killer is greatly pertinent to his cunning character.

He would scrutinise his victims demeanour and/or appearance to perceive if they have traits that were pertinent and ideal conditions of manipulation, most commonly seen in children he comes across to murder. A technique most killers use to lure their victims’ to their death is what we call ‘insincere’ or ‘superficial charm’, which works efficiently as people still remain naïve and don’t possess self-preservation when they are unbeknownst to the fact that a killer is in front of them. This technique is most helpful and advantageous towards killers as it doesn’t let people apprehend their truest intentions.

This is a headcanon I made up! When he was first manifested, he did not have bandages around his waist, wrist, and palms. He started wearing bandages after a few situations with the involvement of sharp murder weapons he used to disembowel his victims. He is a stuffed clown with porcelain skin, but he had been created to be physically strong as to not make him very frail. So, when few of his victims have not been prevented from moving, they took that as an opportunity to swiftly grab the nearest object and slice Jack in the wrist, palm or waist. Mainly on the waist, though. It did inflict harm but it wasn’t enough to make Jack stumble down, this simply made Jack furious as his psychological state ever since was very unstable. After finishing off with his victims, he sewed up where he was imperceptibly torn off at; additionally using bandages as to prevent the fluff from getting out easily.

Jack resents the guardian angel who created him. He has a profound grasp of the impurities inherent in mankind, and his sole predestined purpose was to provide assurance and company to those children who have been hurt. The first child his purpose was made to look after for was a child who left him for a decade before returning as a morally bankrupt and deranged person. He was exposed to violence and perverted behavior, which initially left him adapting to the behaviour as well. He spent his life amongst children, which instilled a childish demeanour and an immunity to emotions like remorse or guilt when manipulating others. He lacks empathy and finds fulfillment in pursuing his own desires as he does possess Machiavellian tendencies. Whilst he finds his life’s purpose worthless, he sets his own meaning and prioritizes his needs. Still, Jack questions the purpose of his own existence, his motives, and why he was created. Although he tries to ignore these existential thoughts, as he continues to pursue his ongoing goals (which is literally murdering people)

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The hallucinations

From a psychological perspective, hallucinations are typically a symptom of certain mental illnesses, such as schizophrenia. In such cases, the person experiencing the hallucinations may experience sounds, sights, or sensations that appear to be real but are not. The brain may create these hallucinations as a way to make sense of its surroundings, or as a result of an underlying condition that affects the brain's processing abilities.

Being familiar with Laughing Jack’s character and the made-up stories of him, the experience of hallucinations would likely be particularly intense and jarring. Laughing Jack is a demonic entity that is originally known for causing a variety of disturbing and unsettling experiences, including hallucinations. His presence would likely create a sense of confusion, disorientation, and fear, which would be compounded by the distorted perceptions and experiences that the hallucinations would cause. These distorted perceptions would likely include distorted sounds, sights, tastes, and sensations, which would be further warped by the presence of the demon.

Example:

The visual hallucinations would often depict an antiqued-like jack-in-the-box. It would suddenly appear out of nowhere, often leaving behind a ghostly silhouette that can be sighted at any moment. His claws may leave scratches on tables and walls, an ominous reminder of his presence.

The auditory hallucinations induced by Laughing Jack's presence are even more disturbing. Macabre and piercing, his laughter is a haunting echo that is often heard. A distorted rendition of Pop Goes the Weasel periodically plays, further escalating the fear and tension. Cries of suffering children, voice boxes of crying dolls and messages sent to the subconscious mind are intended to drive the victim insane, sometimes the messages could be like this: „Oh, poor little lass.. not even psychological institutions can help you with your situation. Well, boohoo, that’s too bad now!! Ehh off you go then. I’ll come back another time!!!” ☠️

This is all the information I could provide you guys with for now, I am thankful if you had perused all of this. I hope that there are no mistakes here, and I’m aware that it is not as perfect, but I had fun writing all of this down! It’s enjoyable delving deeper into complex characters.

#laughing jack #isaac grossman #creepypasta #retrospective #headcanon #imaginary friend #Spotify #Retrospective #rewrite #review

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