#gravetone

[shuttergremlin]

[possessedpasm]

The Gravetone Spirit Box: Let's You Hear... From BEYOND.

[Commission for Spectrelope]

[pythonxyz]

An Ocean Of Venomous Tides: Chapter Two

Word Count: 905

Warnings: Death, kidnapping, mentions of cannibalism

The search had been called off days ago upon not finding any clues. The sheriff sat in his office, alone, and that was how he preferred it, alone with his thoughts. The moonlight peered through the blinds of the dirty windows, the bright white light beaming on the floor. The only sounds that could be heard in the room were the sheriff's deep breaths. A faint sound caught the sheriff's attention as he had thought no one was still at the station.

He slowly stood up from his seated position, his gun strapped onto his hip. He made his way over to the door and gripped the handle. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and peeked his eye out. Pulling the door completely open, he walked into the room where the cells were. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, there was no person there and no source of the sound. As he began walking out of the room, something slowly made its way toward him from behind the shadows.

As the item finally reached the light, the sheriff noticed that it was a small tricycle peddling towards him with no one on it. The tricycle came to a stop right at his feet, then a red trail of what looked like blood appeared behind the tricycle, the trail disappearing into the shadows a few meters away. Clutching the gun in his hand, the sheriff followed the trail into the dark. The blood ended abruptly beside the last cell, and a large pool of blood sat at the end.

Out of nowhere, the sheriff was grabbed from behind and forced to the ground. What felt like claws were digging into his scalp, dragging him back further into the darkness where no one could hear his desperate screams for help. He couldn't see who or what had a hold on him, all he knew was that it was strong, strong enough to pull him with what seemed to be a minimal effort on it's part. His throat became raw as his screaming was to no avail, no one could hear him, and no one was coming to his help.

Three Weeks Later

The investigation of the missing sheriff had hit the papers, yet no one had found anything about where he could have gone, or who had been behind his disappearance. It was like he had simply vanished into thin air without a trace, never to be found again. The days that followed the disappearance were dark and dreary, there seemed to be no sunlight in the skies, trapped behind the dark clouds with no means of escape.

The day had begun as all the previous ones had; the townsfolk got up at the crack of dawn and went to work, most of them working in the town mines. However, this day was different; there were five newcomers. Three sisters and their two brothers had moved into the old Welsh manor atop the highest hill in town. No one in town dared to go to the manor, some say the place was haunted, and others just found no interest in the old home.

Needless to say, no one knew that the Welsh's had relatives. The whole town knew Mary and James Welsh as the old couple who lived alone with no kids. In the entirety of them living in the manor, no had ever visited them, no relatives, no friends, no one. When the group of five entered the small town of Graveton, Texas, they spoke to no one, made no stops in town until they reached the manor, and didn't show their faces to anyone.

The gravel crunched under the tires of their truck as they reached the manor, parking right in front of the old place. Leilani was the first to get out of the car, her jean jacket clung tight to her body, and a small smile formed on her pink lips. Soon enough, everyone was out of the car and hauling their bags up the creaky manor steps and into the home. They all carried their bags to their own rooms, no one even speaking to one another.

The siblings came to the manor after hearing news of the old couple's passing, deciding to pose as their long-lost children in order to get the house to themselves. Of course, they weren't really related to the couple, merely needing somewhere to hide. To do this, they had to use names that weren't theirs and act differently than they usually did.

Their biological names were Leilani, Asena, Aurelia, Dreagon, and Dante Dragomir, better known in their hometown as the "Children Of Satan." Their mother and father had left when they were all still mere babies, opting for them to their the truth about themselves on their own. They weren't human, no, they were something much more dangerous, something much more feared than a human, sirens.

While they had been tormenting the small town for months at this point from the dark waters of the ocean that the town rested near, they all thought it was time they finally settled into a home in the town, of course, that didn't mean they weren't going to stop their hunts, no, if anything the hunts would be more frequent now. Their taste for human flesh and mischief filled a majority of their black hearts, but the sisters still felt something, or someone, missing from their lives.

[doyourememberrocknrollradio]

Tell Tale Heart · The Gravetones

[recidivist]

Gravetones In St Edward's Churchyard

Read more about St Edward’s Church in Cambridge, here.

[fallbabylon]

Monument to Elizabeth Russel  Died 24th July 1584- Westminster Abbey, London 

[kvmedia]

(Caballito Netlabel)

This project is so special to me. I’m super excited to have been invited by Caballito Netlabel to create this original mix for them. Gracias por el apoyo! De Chicago pal’ mundo #Karennoid 

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Visit

(I found this prompt while cleaning out my inbox and I’m so sorry I missed it the first time, Anon! With more than 150+ messages I am finding all kinds of treasures I missed when they came in!)

Prompt:  "10. True tenderness is silent and can’t be mistaken for anything else" for Chris? <3

CW: Referenced death of whumper, referenced parental death, grief of an abuse survivor/whumpee, religious abuse, frank discussion of death, referenced past child abuse and survivor anger

Essentially a follow-up to this piece after Oliver’s death

Jake borrows Nat’s truck for the trip out to the cemetery, the old stick-shift Ford better able to handle the steep hills outside the city than his own beat-up four door. Chris sits next to him, pale and silent, and it’s a callback to a version of Chris that hasn’t existed in years, not since he was a frightened child.

This is a different kind of silence - heavier, it muffles the music from the radio, makes it seem like static and not songs at all. Jake doesn’t turn it up, or change the channel. He lets the silence draw out.

It’s not the same kind of silence, in the end.

The gates, wrought-iron and looking a mix of delicate and eerily strong, are open for them to drive inside. The rumbling engine of the truck catches the attention of an older woman laying flowers on a gravestone, who looks briefly up at them as they pass, but doesn’t wave.

She only looks.

Chris doesn’t look at her. His hands are folded in his lap, his hair caught low at the nape of his neck, the blue captured by a pale gray clip that holds it back from his face. He asked Jake to get him a suit, for this - he’s never owned one before.

Not since he left the bastard’s house.  

Jake didn’t ask why - he just took Chris shopping, and they bought the suit. It’s black, with thin gray pinstripes that match Chris’s hair clip. His button-up and tie are perfectly done - Chris had done them up himself, the vestiges of training he still remembered. He’s wearing black leather shoes, shined up just for this, and he took out all his earrings, the perfect emptiness of the skin making Jake’s stomach flip at the way Chris has removed nearly all of the ways he made his body his own.

Jake drives around a curve on the little paved road, and finally comes to a stop.

The grave is unmistakable - the dirt is still fresh and soft, and hasn’t fully settled. It’s just... dirt, and behind it a little marker stuck in the ground. A simple name, date of birth, date of death. That’s all. The real stone hasn’t come in yet.

OLIVER WILLIAM BRANCH DOB: 09/09/1966 DOD: 04/02/202X Chris stares at the pile of dirt, and Jake sees his knuckles turn white. He’s not rocking, not tapping, not humming. Just... silent, and still. Like he’s carved from stone.

Statue boy, Chris used to whisper, when he was scared. Be a good boy, statue boys don’t move, stillness is better than what I do, statue boys stay still...

“You-” Jake’s voice cuts into the silence, a knife into skin, and he flinches at the sound of his own voice. He’s just wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and suddenly he wonders if Chris wanted him to wear a suit, too, if he’s disappointed Jake didn’t think of it on his own. “You don’t... have to do this, Chris.” His voice drops, stays lower.

Chris doesn’t look at him, only looks at the grave. His beautiful face is pale, and looks young - more like when he first showed up - and the blue hair suddenly looks wrong, like he shouldn’t have it yet. It should still have its coppery new-penny shine. The roots are hinting, just a little, at the color it used to be. “Yes, I, I, I, I do.”

Jake swallows against a lump in his throat, and slowly nods, turning off the engine and sitting back. The radio continues to play, pulling on battery power, while the two of them look at a pile of soil that covers a dead man whose life is still carved into Chris’s mind. “You want me to get out with you?”

There’s a quiet, as Chris thinks.

Then he whispers, “Please,” as his thin fingers find the handle to the door and open it up. His other hand grips onto the bouquet of roses they’d picked up to bring out here, wrapped in crinkly paper and tied with a thin string.

Immediately, birdsong filters in, intrudes on the silence, demands their attention instead.

Jake is out of the truck in a heartbeat and around to meet Chris as he slowly steps down. He looks like a child dressed for a party, even with a suit carefully chosen to fit. Or maybe Jake just struggles to see him as anything else, in moments like this one.

Chris leans towards him and Jake slides an arm around his shoulders.

He doesn’t regret this man’s death, only that it couldn’t have been half so painful as what the bastard deserved - but Jake keeps that to himself, because he can see the tears standing in Chris’s eyes, and that’s not what Chris needs to hear right now.

Instead, he just says, softly, “I’m here.”

Chris nods, bumping into him once, twice, three times - a reassurance, a reminder. Then he starts to walk, clinging to the roses in his hand, and Jake walks beside him, narrowing his own long strides to match, so he won’t pull away, so they’ll move together.

There’s no one else here, in this part of the cemetery. It’s just the two of them, walking towards the grave marker, the laid-in dirt. Somewhere, six feet down, is the man who once made the width and length of Chris’s world so narrow that it was condensed to a single hallway, a basement, to the shape of tears.

Jake stands slightly back when Chris steps forward on his own. He doesn’t offer platitudes - he can’t hope that Branch is in a better place, he’s still got his fingers crossed that hell is real just so people like Oliver Branch can experience it - he can’t say everything happens for a reason and then ask himself what possible reason there could have been for Chris to lose everything and be given his own hell in return.

He can’t say it’ll get better or time heals all wounds or you’ll find a way to forgive him or God has a plan because Jake has lived with those words branded in his soul from a thousand well-meaning relatives and church people and his mother’s so-called fucking friends and none of those words did shit, they never helped, they only made it clear that no one wanted to sit in silence with the weight of what had happened, only talk over it until Jake and his mom pretended the pain wasn’t there anymore.

No one deserves forgiveness - you make the choice to forgive, and it’s got nothing to do with whether or not anyone deserves it, you forgive for yourself - not for them.

Time didn’t heal shit, and he’s never forgiven the man who nearly killed his mother and would have kept hurting him if he never got bigger, stronger, better able to fight back.

He can’t say God has a plan, because if that’s true, then it’s a shitty fucking plan, isn’t it? To steal a child from the love that should have been the foundation of his life and hand him over to wolves to be devoured instead?

He can’t say any of it, because he doesn’t believe it, and all those well-meaning words are just knives that tear you open and then demand you comfort the people who can’t stand the sight of blood.

All he can do is give Chris his silence and his presence while he watches Chris lay a dozen roses on top of freshly turned earth.

Chris speaks, and his voice carries just enough, and Jake’s jaw sets, trembles, sets again as he pretends not to hear. As he tries, and fails, not to listen.

“I tried,” Chris whispers, in his slow-stone voice, the one he was trained to use, that he can still slide into as easily as he might throw on a shirt in the morning. “I tried... to be, be good, Sir. I was... I was good. I loved you, and... I didn’t... leave because I didn’t love you-... I... I didn’t deserve to be hurt, Sir. But...” He trails off, and Jake forces his gaze to wander.

A bright red cardinal stares back at him from a tree branch nearby, flits away, lands on a different gravestone. Jake stares at it, wondering with a strange unsettled curiosity if it’s the same cardinal, if it followed them out here somehow, but of course that’s... not possible.

There are cardinals everywhere. Cemeteries just make everything seem haunted.

The gravestone the cardinal rests on has been here a while - there’s a single spray of flowers laid on one side, and nothing on the other. It’s one of those double-stones for married people, Jake thinks.

Chris is still talking to Oliver, and Jake forces himself with all his strength not to eavesdrop, just to be here, to be the strength Chris needs. So he stares at the cardinal, and the gravestone.

Each side has a little clear plastic heart, and Jake knows what those are - the gravetones where you can put a photo of the person inside, and see them, and he thinks those are creepy as hell, but... but he can see why you’d buy one.

A woman and a man. Jake squints. They have the same date of death, he thinks, and his heart twists. Car accident, maybe? That sucks. Chris said once that he remembered his parents died.

He wonders who misses these two, who left the flowers.

Life is not forever - but love is. Beloved parents of-

Jake feels Chris press up to him, cold nose against his neck, hitching in sobs that are nearly soundless, gasping for air.

“Do you want me to talk to you about this?” Jake asks, gently.

Chris shakes his head, twisting his fingers into Jake’s shirt, rocking now, for the first time since they left. His voice, broken, starts to hum to try to drown out his own tears, and Jake slides both arms around Chris’s shoulders and holds him tightly.

“D-don’t, don’t talk, don’t-... don’t don’t don’t, I just n-need, I need, I-”

Chris tenses and then lets out a wail, echoing off the trees, soaked up in the ground around them, a half-scream of stifled pain he’s carried since he was seventeen years old.

“Hurts, h-hurts, hurts, it hurts-”

“Sssshhh, I know, I know it hurts, Chris, I know.”

“It hurts!”

Across the cemetery, the old woman doesn’t look up from her careful care of the stone she is tending, giving them space, a kind of tenderness all its own in allowing them their privacy.

Jake just holds on tighter, giving Chris an anchor, a steady presence he can scream into until all the sound is out of him, until the scream is gone.

Then, it’s quiet. They stand, for a while, in silence, other than Chris’s slow avalanche slide into outright weeping for the man who did nothing but try to destroy what spark he had left, and Jake doesn’t say a word.

He’ll probably cry when his abuser finally dies, too. Assuming anyone tells him.

When Chris, red-eyed and sniffling, pulls back to get in the truck, Jake lets him go, climbs into the driver’s seat, and brings the old truck rumbling to life.

Chris’s knuckles are still white, but as they drive around the curve again, he starts to rock, back and forth, back and forth.

When Chris starts humming, Jake turns the music up a little to give him something to hum along to, and Chris flashes him a tear-stained, trembling little smile in gratitude.

A dozen roses in brown paper lay on top of the grave of a man who could never deserve the grief that Chris so freely feels for him.

The cardinal watches them go, and then hops down from the top of the gravestone to peck at birdseed scattered on only one side of the double-stone grave of two people who died on the very same day when Chris was fifteen years old.

---

Tagging: @burtlederp​, @finder-of-rings​, @endless-whump​, @whumpfigure​, @slaintetowhump​, @astrobly​, @newandfiguringitout​, @doveotions​, @pretty-face-breaker​, @boxboysandotherwhump​, @oops-its-whump​ @moose-teeth​

[unclescary13-blog]

Listen/purchase: Take my hand by The Gravetones

first long time enjoy. It’s free!

[madonaperra]

https://caballitonetlabel.bandcamp.com/album/graveton-iv

[skylinesandturntables]

Don't get me wrong The rise in awareness Is beating a stigma that no longer scares us But for sake of discussion In spirit of fairness Could we give this some room for a new point of view? And, could it be true that some could be tempted To use this mistake as a form of aggression? A form of succession? A form of a weapon? Thinking "I'll teach them" Well, I'm refusing the lesson It won't resonate in our minds I'm not disrespecting what was left behind Just pleading that "it" does not get glorified Maybe we swap out what it is that we hold so high Find your grandparents or someone of age Pay some respects for the path that they paved To life, they were dedicated Now, that should be celebrated

-Neon Gravetones, Twenty One Pilots

[justiisms]

"There is... a normal amount of ghosts. Maybe." *kaito says this mostly to himself as he's walking past a graveyard, eyes narrowed and fists ready in case anything Scary suddenly pops up...*

Phanty had secretly followed Kaito to the graveyard. So he, of course, will absolutely take this chance to scare the life out of him. He's wearing a worn looking outfit, along with a skeleton mask. He first makes quick footsteps before hiding, to first unnerve him with the sound of feet quickly running through the grass.

He'll eventually hide behind a gravestone in the distance, and when Kaito eventually approaches it or is right nearby it... Phanty will pop up from behind!!!

"WhAAaAAaaAAT AAaaAARRRrrRREEE YoouuUuOoU DOOOOInNG HHeeEEeeEEEEEeeRREE??? COMEeeEEE TO ROOOB MY GRAAaaAAAaaAAAVE~?"

And before he can try to react, leaps over the gravetone to lunge at him, cackling like a skeleton!!!! "CAAAACKACKACKACKAAAACK!!!!"

[razorsadness]

last night, i put my hermit ways aside and went to a rockabilly show at the fireside bowl. i dressed up and everything; there's no way i could allow myself to be surrounded by all those fine psychos and billys and greasers without getting all dolled up - i had on a leopard print dress and was wearing far too much lipstick for my own good.

we got there way too early, so maggie and i sat at a nearby park and downed a bottle of bitters, watched everyone else who had also arrived too soon, and stalked around the building, looking at various tags that friends of ours left a long time ago. m. (his band is the whole reason we were there) hugged us and referred to us as his "two favorite chicago gals."

it was too fucking hot inside, warm even for the fireside, everyone was close together and the sweat and heat and cigarette smoke made it humid and sticky and hard to breathe. i was off-kilter, dizzy from the booze. it was so fucking hot and the whole place smelled like paint and glue, it was even smaller than it used to be. they've blocked off the entire bowling section now, not just the lanes - because they ripped out those old, carved-up wooden benches and replaced them with real bowling seats. part of the charm about the whole place was how shitty it was. who needs real bowling seats?

i ventured into the bar for a cold beer. i took pulls off my pbr while leaning against the wall at the back of the room. i bummed a cigarette (a lucky strike, no less) off a cute, short greaser boy. i made eyes at a boy with tan skin, a dark brown pomp, tight black jeans, a wifebeater, and a leather vest, who looked like he stepped right out of the outsiders. i had the urge to go up to him and say: stay gold, ponyboy. he probably would've punched me.

then a couple guys from the heavies and the gravetones were like: don't just stand there by yourself! come talk to us! so we made small talk for a bit, and it was nice to be included; to know that people give a shit. i finished my beer and stumbled out of the bar to watch m.’s band. they were fucking good, despite the fact that they've only been a band for about a month. they played a misfits cover ("where eagles dare"), and a cover of the song "somebody's gonna get their head kicked in tonight." most of their originals were about drinking and fucking; they had a song called "dead babies." i tapped my foot and wiggled my hips to the beat. swayed from the booze and the heat. about halfway through their set, maggie was about ready to pass out, so she had to retreat outside. and then, when their set was over, i went to go find her. there's no re-entry at the fireside, not anymore. i hugged m. again, and was sorry i didn't get to see the other bands. it was starting to rain, and i found her sitting in the park, smoking.

we went to clarke's.

it's funny. i feel like i have changed so profoundly over the summer, like i have gotten so much older. when i do things, now, like see a show at the fireside or eat at clarke's, it's just not the same. those used to be things i loved to do. it's not that i don't like them anymore, it's just that now, it feels like pure nostalgia, that i'm visiting the places i spent my teenage years, watching the ghost of my old self jump in the pit or drink her coffee. the kids at the shows keep getting younger, and the fireside is being renovated, and clarke's has daily specials now.

i feel like a visitor in my own past. chicago doesn't feel like home anymore. i'll always love it, probably end up here ultimately, but it's not fitting right.

& another thing, the thing i say all the time, lately: i want someone. a boyfriend. a girlfriend. someone to be with. please?

[journal entry, 8/19/04]

[doyourememberrocknrollradio]

The Gravetones In Cold Blood

[swforester]

The old decaying gravetone. Ancient Burying Ground 2018

[fairly-out-of-context]

Clock Mun [Thanatos]:

roll for gravestone

that couldn't go wrong at all

Stillafangirl [Kuzu]:

>rolls a 20

>gravetone now S/O