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phantom-z0ne · 1 year ago

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"The facts of the case seemed clear cut. And yet, they still called on him, Xavier thought idly, resting his head on his palm. He flipped through the papers before sighing, placing the folder down and looked around the station indifferently. Why the local police couldn't solve this on their own, he didn't know." Or, A renowned detective is called to a small town to investigate the murder of one Carl Prescott. Unfortunately, the town of Falinton holds many secrets, most deeper than he would ever know. Will he solve the case and keep his perfect record clean or face his first failure?

WC: 5509

CW: Minor Character Death, murder, description of a corpse

August 6th, 1985

The facts of the case seemed clear cut. And yet, they still called on him, Xavier thought idly, resting his head on his palm. He isn't yet sure why he came for such a simple case. Perhaps it was because he was bored, he hadn’t had any cases delivered to him in some time. He’d have to talk to his assistant about that, he noted as he popped a piece of gum in his mouth.

He flipped through the papers before sighing, placing the folder down and looked around the station indifferently. Why the local police couldn't solve this on their own, he didn't know. He shouldn't have agreed so quickly. The shabby motel bed he slept in caused his back to ache fiercely, he thought grimacing internally as he rubbed his lower back. Spotting one of the officers walking by, Xavier quickly flagged him down.

As the officer approached, he spoke, “Yes, Detective Garcia?” The officer was dressed in the standard uniform, pressed neatly and without a wrinkle in sight. His fluffy brown hair peeking out from his peaked black cap. Those bright eyes of his peering at him.

“Think you could take me down to the scene, officer…” he paused, looking at the officer questioningly.

“Ah! Jason Wan, sir.” Officer Wan smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wouldn't mind guiding you. This is an important case.”

“Officer Wan. Yes, well, let's get on with it then. I'm sure you have things to do after.” Xavier stood up, gathering the folder in his hand and tucking it under his arm as he grabbed his coffee cup. His exaggerated ‘lead the way’ received an amused huff.

The drive didn't take long. It wasn't a very large town, after all, just barely reaching 3,000 people total. He had been told it was a tight knit community, but this murder proved otherwise.

Driving into the driveway, you could tell the owner enjoyed himself. The house was large, four stories high and elegant pillars holding a tasteful balcony, a large garden curving around the house. A smaller building lay beside it, to hold any tools the owner would need, he reckoned. The inside was just as lavish. Paintings hung on the walls, lined with gold or gems, and a bejeweled chandelier hung above them. It wasn’t something you would expect for such a small town. Hm.

The illusion was broken by the yellow and black tape surrounding the hallway. There were still little cards numbering anything thought of as evidence laying about. Crossing over the tape alongside officer Wan, he took in the scene. An ornate bedroom, drapes flowing due to the open windows. There were small trinkets here and there, you could tell that they costed a pretty penny.

Stepping inside, he slowly tracked across the room, looking for any little clue that he could find. Officer Wan shifted in place, watching him like a hawk when he began opening drawers and closets. Presumably to make sure he doesn’t pocket anything. There must have been a theft here recently, or else he wouldn’t have such an intense reaction, Xavier mused.

He was to close the inner closet’s door when he spotted a large wooden box at the top of the closet. Officer Wen had informed him earlier that they hadn't gone too deep in Carl Prescott’s possessions in respect of his privacy. This must have been one they missed. He dragged the box closer and lifted it, almost tipping over from the unexpected weight.

Dropping the heavy box onto the bed—which officer Wen made a face at— he unlatched the lock and opened it. Inside were rows and rows of cassette tapes. Pulling one out, it read ‘June 19th, 1985’. About two months ago. Looking up at officer Wan, he looked equally surprised at the appearance of the cassette tapes.

“Any chance your group confiscated a tape recorder?” Xavier asked.

“Oh! Let me just…” Officer Wan shuffled around the room, “It was right around… here!” He held up the tape recorder, making his way back to Xavier’s side, a smile gracing his lips.

Placing the tape inside, they began the recording.

‘Today is June 19th, 1985. Around 7:00 pm, just as always. The weather was quite nice today, not too cold or too warm. I arrived at my appointment with ten minutes to spare. Doctor Moore was quite pleased with that. He gave me my injection and we finished early. I think he was glad he had a break so soon, god knows that man loves to slack off. I met with Dan after. He was heading towards the market before we bumped into each other—’

They stopped the recording there, before pulling out another one and slipping it into the tape recorder.

‘The date is July 1st, 1985. I've checked, it's 7:06 exactly. I had a lovely breakfast, fried eggs with cucumbers and bacon on the side. It was absolutely delicious. The mail had arrived but it had nothing important. Onto better news, Bianca said she would be harvesting the honey soon! I am quite excited. After all, her honey is always amazing. I don't know what I would do without it. The quality is just different than any that is store bought—’

It seemed that Carl Prescott would rather record his diary than write it. Or at least, that's what it seemed to be, a record of his daily life. Officer Wan gave no indication that the police knew of this little hobby when Xavier asked.

He searched the room once more, just in case he spotted something he hadn't earlier, before leaving to check out the other rooms of the house. Though it seemed he didn't have much time to do so, he thought as he looked out a passing window. It was beginning to become evening and he still hadn’t gone around to interviewing the main suspect of the case and the caretaker that had found Carl’s corpse.

Checking out the rest of the rooms was quick. Those without personal belongings had been thoroughly searched so he didn't find anything substantial. The last room he had to search was the kitchen. It hadn’t yielded much, but with the amount of dishes in his fridge made with honey, you'd think he was a beekeeper. In his pantry too, there was a jar of honey, just slightly open. Reaching over to put the lid back on, he caught a whiff of it. It was almost like the standard honey, a sweet and syrupy scent and yet it smelled slightly… bitter? Why would it—?

“We are done, yes? We’ll have to get going if you still want to interview Dr. Moore and Mrs. Campbell.” Officer Wan interrupted.

“Oh! Yes, I hadn’t forgotten.” He can't believe he had gotten lost in thought just like that.

“Is there something wrong with that?” Officer Wan pointed towards the jar. Xavier had been staring deeply at it from his perspective, hadn't he? How embarrassing.

“No. Just not a fan of honey.” Xavier replied, quickly setting the jar down and covering it with the lid.

“Then I’m guessing you wouldn't be a fan of Ms. Taylor either.” Officer Wan chuckled, his eyes twinkling in mischief.

August 6th, 1985

The interview with the doctor and the caretaker was a bust, Xavier thought glumly. When the police officers thought Prescott died from an injection, the first person they suspected of the murder was his doctor, Blake Moore. It was known that Prescott had high blood pressure and that he took injections to combat it. The scars on his inner elbow and his recorded tapes proved that. When the doctor was investigated. There wasn't any evidence he tampered with the injection dose. They did find him selling some medicine off to the side but it only earned him a misdemeanor.

Not to mention the caretaker. She didn't have anything substantial to say about the case. She knew Prescott since he was a young boy, she used to babysit him lots, she said. She was close to him as they grew and eventually became close friends. It's why she was asked to take care of him before his sudden passing.

She did explain the frankly ridiculous amount of honey in the house, though. Apparently, the older Prescott got, the more of a sweet tooth he gained. He didn't want to eat anything unhealthy, so he experimented. Eventually, he struck gold with honey and ever since, he never stopped. He even managed to convince the caretaker, Mrs. Campbell, to incorporate it into a dish almost every day.

As nice of a story that was, it didn't bring anything of use to the case. That was why he was back at the police station, going through the files again and requesting authorization to examine the tapes he had found earlier in the day.

According to the case files, Carl Prescott died five days before he had arrived, on August 2nd. Before that, it was reported that Prescott had been acting differently. Confused and twitchy, as if he was on his last rope. It seemed that Prescott’s behavior had gotten significantly worse the closer to his passing he was.

When being inspected, his body had rashes all over the body along with pupils so dilated you could barely see what his eye color had been. His first thought upon seeing this case was that Prescott had been poisoned as the symptoms Prescott had experienced were a telltale sign of poisoning. But the local police want to rule that Prescott had passed from tampered medicine. Most likely because they couldn't believe that anyone would poison Prescott and they couldn't find any evidence of the poisoning. Xavier had heard that Prescott was a central part of the community in Falinton and was widely beloved.

There had to be a reason for Prescott’s death, though. Why would someone murder Prescott? What would the reason be? He had already had a background on Prescott, it was pretty ordinary for a civilian. Though… that house of his was pretty suspicious. In such a small town, how did he manage to have such a luxurious house like that? The surrounding neighborhoods—that he had seen—weren’t nearly as lavish. Plus, he had only moved to Falinton thirty years ago. That's not enough time to embellish a house like that. He would need to investigate that. The background he was given only had the bare bones of Prescott's life.

“So you're that famous detective? The one that solved the Mushroom Killer’s case?” A voice sneered down at Xavier. He startled a bit, not expecting to be torn from his thoughts.

“And you are?” Xavier asked, a thin polite smile stretched across his face. He set down the case files, folding his thin reading glasses and placing it on top.

The man’s eyebrow twitched, a frown beginning to settle on his face. He crossed his arms and replied, “Marcus Woolf, the lead officer in this case.” Oh? It seems someone’s ego has taken a hit because a detective was called. Hopefully, Woolf won't be too much of a bother.

Xavier angled his body towards Woolf, “Is there something you need me for?”, he asked pleasantly.

Woolf pursed his lips before answering, “Nothin’. Just introducing myself. We’ll be working together after all.”

“Well, then I’m pleased to meet you.” Silence hung in the space between them. “Is there anything else?” Xavier began tentatively before checking his watch. He hadn't realized how much time had passed while he was piecing together the case in his mind. “It’s a bit late and I have to go soon.”

A sour look crossed Woolf’s face before he took a step back. Tossing a “I’ll see you tomorrow.” over his shoulder before he strode away. Good. He greatly preferred officer Wan anyways. At least Wan was polite.

He organized the files on the desk he was using, jotting down some notes in the margins, and shoved them into his briefcase. He quickly stretched, feeling some bones popping, before shouldering his briefcase and headed to the door.

“See you tomorrow, Officer.” He gave a small wave to his—currently, he hadn't really met much of the local officers—favorite officer, Wan, and walked out of the building.

Hailing a taxi, he gave the driver the location of the motel and leaned back into the seat, watching the streets fly by. Hopefully, he would be given access to the tapes soon.

August 7th, 1985

‘— she’s there, I know it! I’ve seen her! She's always at the edge of my vision, just standing there. Everytime!’ A quiet voice is heard in the background before the sound of shuffling is heard. ‘Blasted woman! Don't—’ The recording ended there.

Going through the tapes, there was an obvious pattern. The closer to his passing, the more incoherent Prescott became. He began talking about ‘her’ around six tapes before this one. It coincided with the timespan Mrs. Campbell had said that Prescott’s condition was deteriorating. This tape was recorded around a week before his death. He only had seven more tapes to go through. Hopefully Prescott would elaborate on who ‘she’ was.

The police station had authorized him to go through the tapes the day after he made the request. They must really want this case solved, Xavier mused as he removed the cassette tape and inserted the next.

The next few tapes contained the ramblings of an unwell old man. They just repeated the same thing over and over, that Prescott was being haunted by a part of his past. It was clear that the woman who he talked about in the tapes was someone who he had done ill to. He had alluded to harming her if you read between the lines, Prescott being surprisingly smart enough to avoid confessing his crime on tape even in his confused state.

He was listening with half an ear, speculating on who the woman being constantly brought up could have been, before he heard a name. Nadia. He hurriedly paused the recording and winded it back a couple seconds back.

‘—She’s here again. Just standing there. Watching. Nadia, please—’ Prescott’s voice cracked at that before pausing, the recording going quiet. Xavier stopped the record, mind whirling over the new information.

“Nadia?” Xavier murmured, rolling his chair over to the nearest computer. Typing in the name in the police site resulted in one result. Clicking on it, he was met with the smiling face of a young woman. Scrolling down, the name read Nadia Elin, deceased at 26. Last known residence… 314 Sandrow Drive. The same address of the late Carl Prescott. This can not be a coincidence. He knew the house was fishy but this… He would have to visit the house again. But first, he had to see how young Elin fit into this puzzle of a case.

Nadia Elin passed away 30 years ago, on August 12, 1955. Her parents six months before. Officially, the causes of death was pronounced as a suicide, though it was written in the notes that there were strange bruises on her wrists. It was most likely a sign of a struggle, though he couldn’t be sure unless he saw the images himself. For all he knew, it could have been something completely unrelated.

The case was closed quickly, only a day after Elin’s body was found. He grabbed a paper from his folder, checking the date Prescott moved into the house. Only a week after Elin’s death. Interesting.

A presence leaned against the table next to him, looking over, It was officer Wan. His hat was off today, his floppy hair framing his face and neck. Xavier raised his eyebrow, receiving a smile from the officer.

“Officer Wan.”

“Jason.” Xavier blinked a few times. “You can call me Jason.” Officer Wan said cheekily, a grin spreading across his face.

“Only if you call me Xavier.” Xavier replied pleasantly.

“What are you searching for?” Officer Wa— no, Jason spoke curiously, his eyes lingering on Xavier's own pair before turning to the clunky computer.

“Nadia Elin.” Xavier watched Jason’s strange expression, perplexed at the reaction.

“Her? Why?” Jason asked, tilted his head as he crossed his arms.

“She came up in one of the tapes.” He paused before continuing. “You knew her?”

“No. She passed away when I was young, around eight or nine.” Xavier gestured for Jason to continue when he hesitated. “There are rumors. Said that her family offended someone big. Her family went from riches to rags in one day, it was big news back then. After her parents died, I heard that she tried to get help from others but she was denied. She even went to the police and they kicked her out! Apparently, whoever her family offended was big money, to be able to do that.” Jason visibly shivered.

“I see.” Xavier said thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair began to piece the puzzle together. The house the late Prescott acquired was the largest residence… and it belonged to the Elin family. It seemed that Prescott took offense to that and most likely tried to buy it from them but was declined. That likely set him off and caused the Elin family to become bankrupt. Though he probably hadn't thought that they could have still possessed the house even if they weren’t rich anymore. This set him off again and he tried to get rid of the family. Looking at the suspicious deaths of the whole family, it seemed likely. He took out the parents but failed to get rid of the daughter, who then tried to expose him. Though, in the end, he succeeded in his goal; getting rid of the Elin family and gaining the house.

That happened thirty years ago, so why was he suddenly targeted now?

“Xavier?” Jason waved a hand in front of his face, snapping him out of his thoughts and giving Jason an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, I was just thinking.” He explained. Xavier stood up, draping his coat over his shoulders and turned to Jason. “Do you know if anyone was close to young Elin?”

Jason blinked before answering, scratching the back of his neck as he did so. “Nah, It's been so long. Though you could ask around? I'm sure there were others who knew.”

“Would you be able to accompany me?” Xavier asked as he put his things away, placing them into his briefcase.

“Unfortunately not. I'll be busy filing papers for the rest of the day.” Jason responded regretfully. He would have preferred Jason’s presence.

“That’s too bad. I'll see you later then?” Xavier suggested as he walked away, looking back to wave goodbye. He received one in return along with a confirmation.

Making his rounds around the neighborhood, Xavier interviewed the residents about Nadia Elin. Some of the elders of the community responded with their sadness over her passing, saying how she had so much to look forward to, and others shut the door in his face when he brought her up. Then there were those who didn't even know who she was, though it was mostly the younger residents.

When he did ask about Prescott, the residents had much more to say. They had been worried about his behavior recently, it had seemed he had gone mad, and were shocked at his sudden passing. Many said that he was close to one of his neighbors, Bianca Taylor.

Checking his watch, he walked up to the porch of the last house he had to interview, belonging to one Bianca Taylor. The beekeeper Jason had joked with him about. She was also referenced in the cassette tapes of the late Prescott for supplying him with honey the month before. Said to be close enough to Prescott that she had the keys to his house.

The door opened after he knocked, an older woman appearing in view. She wore a cream colored dress that was covered by a frilly flour-covered apron. Her dark complexion was framed by two beaded braids, the rest presumably tied behind her back in a low ponytail.

“Bianca Taylor?”

“Yes? You are?” She questioned, her gaze moving up down his body, assessing him.

“Detective Garcia. I’m investigating the death of Mr. Prescott.” He pasted on a polite smile and gestured to the door, “May I come in?”

She frowned, rubbing her hands on her apron and closing the door slightly, leaning against the doorframe, “I didn’t have anything to do with that.” She was obscuring the inside of her house. Of all the people he questioned, she was the most defensive from the get go. Interesting…

“It’s just procedure, I’ve already questioned the rest of your neighbors. This was the last house I’m visiting.” He reassured her.

It worked, he could visibly see her get less closed off though she still had a shred of defensiveness.

As he was let in, he noticed how many jars of honey were arranged in her kitchen despite the brief look he had. He was led to the sitting room, decorated in warm yellows and blues. Taking out his small notepad, he began his interview, beginning with basic questions and jotted down her answers. Taylor was relatively calm during those questions, though her eyes flit around the room the longer he stayed.

“Have you been supplying Mr. Prescott with the honey you produce?” He asked casually, the last question about Prescott he needed to ask.

She seemed startled at that question, “How did you know?” The hands that were rubbing her dress clenched, her eyes staring at him sharply. He hadn’t expected that kind of reaction from her, it was a simple question… unless something was wrong with the honey?

“It was recorded by Mr. Prescott, in his diary.” She relaxed at that, letting go of her firm hold over her dress and smoothing it out. She frowned a bit at the mention of the diary before hastily fixing her expression into a polite smile.

“I see.” Bianca spoke neutrality, her gaze straying from his once more.

“Last question, then we’ll be finished.” Xavier smiled back, looking at her from under his eyelashes, studying her expression as he asked, “Do you know a person called Nadia Elin?”

Her face twisted in grief, clenching her fists tightly and ducked her head. She was obviously not expecting that question, if her reaction was to be trusted. When she brought her head up, her expression was back to neutral.

“Yes, I did. She was a previous classmate. We weren’t close. Was that all? If so, I’m busy cooking.” That was a lie if Xavier ever heard one. Her previous reaction couldn't be explained away as not knowing Elin. Not to mention her clear dismissal after he brought Elin up.

“It is. Thank you for cooperating with me, Ms. Taylor.” He stood up, giving her a quick but firm handshake before exiting the house. He stretched in the cool night air and began his walk back to the station. He needed to submit his findings for processing.

She was definitely involved in the case. If not the main offender, then an accomplice in the murder. Looks like he’ll have to visit the Prescott residence soon.

August 8th, 1985

The morgue was dimly lit, Xavier’s footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway. Reaching an office, he knocked on the doorway, gaining the attention of the mortician. She looked a little surprised at his presence but welcomed him all the same.

“Mr. Garcia, we weren’t expecting you so early.” She greeted, her name tag reading ‘Mrs. Jo Carter’.

“I’ve had some time. I'm here to see Mr. Prescott’s body, Mrs. Carter.” Xavier requested, the case files were sparse with details about the corpse. He had to examine the body with his own eyes rather than only relying on what a piece of paper said. He’s done this plenty of times before.

“Of course, I'll take you there. It's really a shame what happened to him.” She said, keeping up the conversation. They made small talk for the time it took to take out Prescott from his assigned mortuary cabinet. He lifted the cloth covering Prescott’s face, Carter lingering in the back.

Peeling open an eyelid, the pupils were still dilated from his death five days ago. Xavier moved the cloth lower, exposing Prescott’s chest and abdomen. Purple and pink rashes were spread over Prescott’s arms and lower chest. Rashes weren’t a symptom of an overdose.

Mrs. Campbell had told him that Prescott experienced convulsions, vomiting, and labored breathing. Not to mention the deterioration of his mental facilities… Those were symptoms of poisoning, just as he first thought when he saw this case.

He covered Prescott’s body with the cloth and turned to Carter, “Has his blood been tested?”

She jumped, not expecting to be suddenly called on. “It has. The test showed that Mr. Prescott had Hydralazine in his system at the time of death.” She hesitated before continuing, “It had some unexpected results though. There was an extra element recorded but we couldn't tell what it was.”

“That’s all I needed today. Thank you.” Xavier stepped away from the examination table, waiting for Carter to put Prescott back into the cabinet and walked her back to her office.

Exiting the building, he drove the police cruiser towards Prescott’s residence. Xavier invited himself inside, heading straight to the kitchen. He had thought it odd that for a supposed overdose, Prescott was affected for weeks before his passing. The only thing that he consumed daily was honey. The honey that was gifted to him by Bianca Taylor.

Prescott stored the new batch of honey he was gifted at the front of his pantry. He tugged on plastic gloves before reaching out and snatching the lid off the jar, taking a sniff. Just like last time, a bitter smell was infused between the sweet scent. He took another jar out of the pantry and smelled it too. It smelled like regular honey. Testing the other honeys, it seemed that there was only one jar of poisoned honey.

Xavier returned to the cruiser and put the two jars of honey into separate evidence bags. He started his drive, radioing the station and asking for an evidence processor to be readied. Of course, Woolf had to object. By the time he arrived at the station, the processor still wasn't ready.

He walked in from the front door, Woolf waiting for him with his arms crossed. As Woolf opened his mouth, most likely to lecture him about who was in charge of the case, Xavier cut him off. Holding the bags up, he said, “I found evidence. It needs processing. If you could be so kind…?” He gestured to the room behind Woolf, the evidence processing room.

Woolf scowled before moving to the side, following behind Xavier as he walked into the room, nodding to Jason as he passed.

Woolf snatched the evidence bags out of his hand, putting them into the processors while mumbling about insubordination for some reason. They sat down in the seats at the edge of the room, Xavier placing his bag on the table. It would take some time for results to show, so they would have to wait.

Xavier shuffled through his case files while Woolf grabbed a book to read. Xavier stood up abruptly, going to grab himself a coffee. Sitting in one place and waiting was going to drive him crazy. He didn’t deal well with boredom. It was the entire reason he was even on this case to begin with.

Ordering three coffees, he handed them to Woolf and Jason, who thanked him. Woolf just gave him a grumble and a nod from his head. Xavier and Jason started chatting, time flew past quicker with a conversation partner, Woolf chiming in occasionally.

A sharp ding sounded throughout the room. That could only mean one thing; the processor was done. Standing up, they rushed to see the results. Xavier grabbed the paper, holding it so all three of them could see. The officers in the background staring curiously at them.

There was one word written on the processor.

Nightshade.

August 9th, 1985

Xavier watched Woolf interrogate Taylor through the darkened one way mirror. After it was confirmed the honey she gifted Prescott was poisoned, an arrest warrant was sent out. Three police officers were sent to her house to arrest her but it was found empty. An officer who was retrieving more jars of honey from Prescott’s residence for evidence happened to find her and arrested her on the spot. He had found Prescott’s keys in her possession. It was just her misfortune to be caught by an officer.

The interrogation was quick once all the evidence was laid out in front of her. She truly realized she had no way out of this at that point and broke down, explaining why she targeted Prescott.

She murdered Prescott due to an old grievance, the death of Nadia Elin thirty years ago. Taylor and young Elin were close friends, they met in middle school and stuck with each other ever since. When the Elin family were being targeted, Elin came to Taylor for comfort. They became even closer after the Elin parents passed away, leaving young Elin with only an empty residence in her possession.

Elin shared who she thought targeted her family, going around from house to house. She was called crazy and thrown out of homes. She was even laughed out the door when she asked the police for help. Thus, when Taylor believed her she was shocked but happy.

It wasn't too long after that Elin passed away. Taylor was distraught. Of course she would be, the person she was closest with had died. She hadn't even been allowed to identify the corpse or attend the small funeral. She became very angry after, wanting revenge for her friend. She knew that Elin wouldn't have killed herself, especially when Elin wanted justice for her parents.

Taylor then began to investigate who was after the Elin family, and why. She quickly narrowed it down to two men, Dan Brady and Carl Prescott. Dan Brady was taken off of the list swiftly. The only grievance he had with the Elin family was too small for him to murder someone over. That left Carl Prescott.

She had her suspicions but didn't act on it, deciding to search for evidence before she accused him of a crime willy-nilly. What she did find was incriminating, but when she tried to anonymously give the evidence to the police, it ‘mysteriously’ disappeared. That's when she knew she couldn't trust anyone but herself to bring Prescott to justice.

Taylor took up beekeeping at first as a hobby, and then had an idea to poison Prescott. But first, she needed him to trust her. She decided she needed to be in his good graces and fast. It took her twenty five years for Prescott to trust her again, since he undoubtedly knew she submitted evidence against him to the police. He had the entire police force in his pocket back then.

Prescott had given Taylor the keys to his house, and she thought that if she got rid of him so soon after she received them, she would get caught. So she waited. And waited. And waited some more. After five years, she decided to act. But when she finally got her revenge, she was caught just a week later.

And just like that, case closed.

Xavier saw Taylor off, for once not feeling pleased that he solved a case, a frown resting on his face. It was really a pity. If the police weren't as corrupt and the young girls were taken seriously, none of this would have had to happen.

A shoulder bumped into his, Jason handing him a mug of coffee which he grabbed with enthusiasm. The ending of the case had really taken a toll on him.

“How are you feeling?” Jason asked, genuinely curious.

Xavier took a moment to really think about it. The case wasn't as clear cut as he thought it would be. There were many people involved that could have prevented such a tragedy from happening and yet, they didn't act. He wondered, if this case wasn’t solved, would something like this happen again? He wouldn't let that happen!

As nice of a place this town was, it had many secrets. Much of which were still unearthed. He wasn't oblivious to how suspicious many of the townspeople were. If he stayed, would he have the opportunities to unearth some of those secrets? But he couldn't stay, could he? He still had a life outside of this town. A life that consisted of traveling from case to case…

“Im…as good as I can be.” He answered with a shrug and sipped his coffee. Jason gave him a small smile, his crow’s feet becoming more defined.

His eyes lingered on Jason’s face. Perhaps he could stay a while longer. I couldn’t hurt, could it?

This took two days to write, which, new record!! This was originally a school assignment that spiraled so now im throwing it out into the world :)

I didnt expect it to get so long tho :/

Ao3

#original character #murder mystery #ats #mystery #halloween #murder #implied romance #implied male oc x male oc #implied female oc x female oc #original work #no beta we die like men #posted on ao3 #tw death mention #sorry for the rushed ending :(#tw corpse #wwob #romantic tension #wip: my attempt at a quick detective story

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pseudomonacarriea · 2 years ago

Note

"Rainbow."

To say that catching up with her would be impossible for a normal man was hardly an understatement, Jeno was simply fortunate to be incredibly skilled in terms of physical feats whether in parkour or acrobatics. Finally managing to land before her after having made sure to keep her in his view in her busy trek around Lower Lumopolis, the ringmaster has a modest white box in hand. Of course, it carries chocolates.

"I finally caught up. You didn't turn around when I called you several times, so I believe I can safely assume that you hadn't heard me above the din."

He speaks matter-of-factly as per usual, a trait that allowed for and Yuebai to oft get along--But that is hardly his reason for having pursued the young woman so vehemently, enough that a few were whispering considering the impressive acrobatic maneuvers he'd used to rapidly close the distance.

"This is for you. I already gave the triplets their share."

... Yeah, he still definitely doesn't get it.

"Happy White Day, Rainbow--I only thought it fair to return your kindness from last month."

White Day -- Accepting until March 18th -- @pseudomonarkaerenea

While their trip took them to Lower Lumopolis, Rainbow had a list going in her head. While some of them were staying on Soroz until repairs to the Emerald could be finished by yours truly, as well as finding the funds to do so, she wanted to gather trinkets for the triplets and some of the crew. While their 'quality' wasn't as high or as expensive as what Lumopolis proper offered, she was fine with this. Pinching pennies is something she did on the side for quite a long time.

"Huh?"

Hearing her name before seeing the ringmaster land so gracefully, she stands still. There's a wave of surprise that comes first, followed by a wave of slight embarrassment from the display and the crowd whispers. While she couldn't pick up on a good majority of them, she noticed how a few looked this way. Cheeks became rose colored as he handed the box over.

Upon hearing the triplets getting their share, followed by his declaration of it being a White Day present, the smile only grew wide. For a ringmaster, he was sweet. His fellow circus performers were always treated fairly by him. That's why so many respected and loved him. Ah, but she was quick to notice something when he spoke. It, along with his words, caused a giggle of joy to come forth and flutter.

"Thank you Jeno. C'mon, let's share them! I don't think I can eat all of these by myself."

A break from shopping sounded nice. Thankfully, most of the things she had ordered or got could be shipped to the Colossus right away, so there were not many bags to impede her cheery self. Working the crowd with her charm to dissuade them from coming over or looking, she takes his hand with one of hers. The other held the box of chocolates close to her heart.

"There's a little garden area that I want to show you. I think you'll enjoy it."

Ah, he doesn't get it. I suppose I'll have to explain it to him later.

#🌊; rainbow: ic #∘Alchemy Stars #∘Question #c RIES??

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karltface · 2 years ago

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I warned you, didn't I?

Boom. Bogleech box. And we're gonna have some mysteries on our hands.

First up, some gimmicky fun. There's a busted pumpkin with a second Jack-o'-lantern face inside of it. Said face rotates (vertically, interestingly enough) to reveal three other faces- a classic Jack, a slightly flame-like face, and Basically Kool-Aid Man. Hopping Pinkeye is kind of hilarious, and the Pocket Screamer doesn't actually scream, but laughs menacingly. My last copy was deader than disco, so this was a fun reveal.

Well, that's interesting. I feel like I remember these stick dolls, but damned if I know where. Hot Topic is probably a safe bet. Anyway, mummies are always cool, and this one looks absolutely stellar within the confines of the line. The skull, I believe, is from one of those excavation kits in the STEM section (it sounds pretentious, but every one is listed as STEM online). Fun, but not the real thing. I'm liking the amber tint of that superball, too.

Proper action figures, kind of. The Ovion hails from Battlestar Galactica, 1979, and while short the bit of doily it used to wear, still looks good enough for the time. All six limbs move, though the head doesn't.

And then there's the Tangle Twist-A-Zoids. McDonald's toys, yes, but fully compatible with the Tangle system, a wide array of curvy tubes that connected to various fanciful body parts, looking like noodly marionettes that could stand under their own power. There could be an enormous, badly-proportioned parody of a bird sprouting from that orange dude's mouth if you wanted. Madness, I tell you.

Apologies for the bad photos, I'm trying to keep these things from scratching each other. Pins this time around were Elbow Squid (and that completes the set!), Mothman, and Mothman Larva. Glowy eyes across the board, I believe. Good stuff.

Figurines, part one! Stoplight Head can't really stand (I'll work something out), so he's just linking arms with Mark the Skeleton like a couple of drunks helping each other out of the bar. Mark is tired of being bonked on the head.

I think I finally got a duplicate Tiny Kaiju, and that's out of like 10 by now. The dogu is blatantly King Joe, finally nailing down their origin: it's all Ultraman characters I haven't seen. Which is a pretty wide umbrella.

And that exhausts all I know about these. The bugs are total unknowns (it's a very wide world of these things), the evil...sumo... Snake Man? No idea.

Part two! An adorable turtle in a cute hat is legitimately fun (oh no, I'm old!), but look at that fishman! The rat-dragon is no slouch, almost big enough for some sort of articulation and very nicely painted. The only things I actually recognize are Axew and Magnemite, which is a good thing in that the rest can fit in just about anywhere.

All in all, worth every penny as always. Even the stuff I don't want will make someone happy; I always have a handful of trinkets on hand for anyone that makes my day brighter in some way, or could use a treat themselves.

Still a few of these to be had, but if you're on a budget, there are still the mini versions as well.

https://www.etsy.com/shop/scythemantis

#mystery box #toys #bogleech #vintage toys

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im-in-love-with-pizza-bites · 2 years ago

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My Best Friend's Family: Chapter 3

Christopher Herrmann x Teen!Fem!Reader, Herrmann Family x Teen!Reader

Series MasterList

Series Summary: When everything seems to be falling apart your best friend, Lee Henry and his family are there to help.

Chapter Summary: CPS comes to talk to you, Cindy, and Christopher.

Series Warnings: Single parent, death of a parent, foster care system, adoption

Chapter Warnings: Foster Care System, DCFS

Reader's Age: 16

This chapter is short but next one will be longer.

You were silent for the next hour. You sat there zoned out staring at the wall. You didn't want to talk you wanted to curl up in bed and cry. But you'll probably never get to go home, let alone to your own bed. Herrmann updated the firehouse before going back to sitting with you. Soon DCFS came and pulled Cindy and Christopher off to talk to them. Lee Henry stayed with you keeping a hand on yours

"My mom and dad will make sure you're safe." Lee Henry assures looking over at where his parents were. "I'm pretty sure they love you just as much if not more than their own kids." He says.

"Whatever you say Lee." You mutter following his eyes to the adults. Herrmann and Cindy both look a mix of relief and worry.

"" He tells you squeezing your hand. Before Herrmann waves you in. You and Lee both get up and go over.

"Y/n? Do you happen to know if your mother had a will?" The DCFS lady, Penny asks.

"Yeah she got it redone like two years ago."

"Do you happen to know if she put in the will what will happen you?"

"No she didnt tell me anything about her will. Just where to find it." You explain.

"Okay. So unless her will says otherwise the Herrmanns are filing for guardianship of you as long as you want that."

"Yeah thats what I want."

"Okay well grab your things. I have to bring you down to the office." You nod going to the chair and grabbing your bookbag.

"The will is in the top drawer of her desk it's in the living room." You say handing Christopher your keys to the apartment.

"Okay. Bye kiddo." He hugs you. You hug Cindy and Lee Henry before following Penny.

———

Cindy picked up the 4 youngest kids and went home while Herrmann and Lee Henry went to your apartment. It was Herrmann's first time being there. It is a quaint little place. Just big enough for you and your mom.

"Hey go grab anything you think Y/n would want kept safe." Christopher says to Lee Henry as he walks over to the desk. Lee goes to your room. Chris opens the drawer, there's a binder labeled important documents sitting at the top of the drawer. He pulls it out before sitting in the desk chair.

He opens it skimming through before he makes it to the will. He reads through it, everything would be yours at 18. Then he sees the part regarding you. He reads it's over before putting it back in the binder.

"You get everything?" He asks walking into your room.

"No." Lee Henry says as he digs through your bedside table drawer. He pulls something out and shoves it into an old ratted suitcase. Herrmann looks around you room before his eyes fall onto your dresser. There's a few picture frames, one of you and your mom, one of you, your grandma, and your mom, one of you, him, and Cindy, then one of you and Lee Henry from middle school. He grabs the one of you, him and Cindy, it was at the middle school talent show. You and Lee Henry put on a dance together for it. You two didn't win but it was fun. He grabs the pictures and put them into the bag.

"I'm gonna go grab her mom's jewelry box." Henry says after putting the stuff bear from your bed.

"Okay kid I'll finish in here." He says as his phone dings. It's your asking him to grab the small girrafe trinket from the bookshelf in the living room. He goes out and grabs it fiddling with it. Lee Henry comes out with the bag. "Ready?" He asks putting the girrafe in the bag.

"Yep."

TagList: @i-spaced-sorry @slutfortaylorswiftandzendaya @luckyladycreator2 @smoothdogsgirl @samanthavitale @aaliyahsinger @random-multifan @queen-ofthe-nerds10 @emery--nicole--morrison @ratcatcher2world @roseelone @justtheodore1 @emme-looou @sande5098 @paieege @levineace @sydkid @thevelvetseries @bisexual dinosaur @fullmoon-94 @transparentparadiseglitterzombie @muffinlimelight @tracysnook @spikerose15

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milstrim · 3 years ago

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Home Is in My Arms

Tony Stark had had a daughter.

Her name had been Penelope.

She had had superpowers.

And he hadn't seen her in four years.

The ten year-old had last been seen on March thirty-first, 2012. The day of the Chitauri invasion. Tony had seen her that morning, and he guessed he could at least be grateful that their last interaction hadn't been like his own with his parents. Instead of a fight that was never resolved, the two had giggled on the couch of the newly furnished tower, him and Pepper with glasses of wine and Penny with her mint milkshake. Pepper had side-eyed them exasperatedly, as though their laughs and jokes had been the worst ruckus anyone had ever made.

And then Coulson. And then Steve. And then Natasha and Bruce and a God he had learned about in history when he was younger. And then Loki and the Helicarrier and explosions that had left Tony's head ringing--but nothing had hurt more than the loss of his friend.

Everything had gone by so quickly, so desperately, there had been no time to do anything about anything except gear up and go. The biggest reassurance he had given himself was that his homework had caused Pepper and Penny to leave the city for a couple of days while the girl was on Spring Break. It meant they were safe from everything was about to happen, and that he didn't have to worry past New York.

And they had won. The Avengers had been formed under desperate circumstances. They had saved the world.

And Penny had been gone.

Pepper had left on the plane, but Penny had managed to convince her godmother that she should stay at her friend's house for a sleepover. The aliens hadn't even been able to make it past the perimeter and into Queens, but the hectic of it had been enough. Or maybe she had run off to help. Even at ten she was braver than he was. Better. And equipped with superpowers from a field trip's rogue spider that made her stronger than even Captain America.

But it hadn't been enough.

No body was ever recovered. No trace of her was ever found. No footage or DNA or witnesses. There was nothing. Nothing for him to even try and grasp onto what had happened to her. How she had died. The best anyone could do was assume that a Chitauri weapon had vaporized her and to try to grieve from there.

And by God did he try.

After the Mandarin and almost losing Pepper, he'd put in more effort than he ever had. He visited the grave where no body was buried, leaving flowers and trinkets and books he knew she would have loved. He talked. To people who had known her like he had. Pepper and Rhodey and Happy and even Natasha.

The two had been so close when the woman had spied on him. Closer than he had been, still trying to change and learn to be a father better than his own after Afghanistan. He'd been dying and hadn't focused on anything but himself. About what he wanted to do before he was gone, instead of what would happen to his family afterwards.

So Tony tried. He tried a lot, but trying didn't always end in success. No, sometimes it ended in helicarriers made for HYDRA to control. Or a robot meant to protect only trying to destroy. Or in the fracturing of the Avengers, with Natasha and Steve on the run while the others sat in a max security prison that he spent every living moment trying to get them out of.

Except for now. Or maybe now too. Tony didn't know why Natasha had texted him. Only that she had betrayed him and texted only a couple of weeks later with a location out in Birmingham, England and nothing else but the message 'Get here quick.'

And he had. With nothing but a quick word to Pepper to keep Ross off of his aching back for a day, he'd stepped onto his plane and arrived in just over six hours. From there the billionaire had stepped into a waiting car and zoomed towards the address the spy had sent him, his heart racing just as fast as the vehicle's as he curved through city traffic.

Tony's thoughts strayed to Steve and Barnes and what had happened the last time he'd zoomed off to help his teammate. He swallowed down on his stuttering fear, reassured partly by the guantlet-watch sat snugly on his wrist and partly because he knew Natasha. Well, he knew her better than he ever had Steve anyway. Him and Natasha had fought, and there'd always been room for disagreements and anger, but at the end of the day they knew each other. And they were family.

The mechanic pulled up outside the run-down apartment complex, giving it a onceover before parking, pulling a baseball cap on low, and stepping out.

There was a drizzle, light and cold for the summer, even in England. He frowned, but only pulled his hood up with a shiver and stepped through the rusted metal gate, allowing him access to the first floor of apartments and a set of spindly stairs that he hoped didn't lead to any kind of locked door. He didn't exactly have a key, and Tony would prefer to not draw any attention to himself while here.

The man didn't need anymore grief from Ross. Not while he was desperate to pin something on Tony, and meeting with a violator of the Accords wouldn't exactly do much for his public image.

Biting on a sigh, Tony headed up the stairs towards the apartment number that Natasha had sent him. Thankfully, there was no locked door in his way, and the only person in the hallway that the stairs had led him to seemed to be much too out of it to pay him any mind. Quicker than he really would have liked, Tony was outside Apartment 9B, the number rusted and close to falling off of its hinges. Sucking in a breath, he knocked.

It only took a few seconds for the door to click! and then crack open just enough for him to catch familiar blue eyes and cropped platinum hair interrupted by a second lock's chain.

Natasha let out a short breath of relief, unlocking the door fully and opening the door just enough that he could slip inside. He glanced around the apartment once as she locked the door back up, surprised to see it was basically exactly what he had expected. It was small and old, orderly but not quite well-kempt, with evidence of past fights staining and fracturing the walls.

"Nice place," he commented. "Very runaway."

"Very last minute," Natasha responded. "It's not as easy as you think it is to get an apartment when everyone's trying to arrest you."

"You seem to slip away no matter what. By the way, how did you get away from Ross last week? I've got to know your trick on that, because I could use some pointers."

Natasha stopped beside him, a small smile tugging at her lips as she crossed her arms over her chest. Despite his forcefully loose and nonchalant posture, Tony felt himself freeze up looking at the Avenger. Her expression, no matter what it was, had always been hard for Tony to discern when she was practically the perfect spy. But now, this smile--it was sad and joyful and regretfully guilty.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice dropping to something softer. Rarely sincere.

Natasha glanced away from him to stare at a door for a moment before glancing back at him. Her lips twitched and her eyes threatened tears in a way that he hadn't thought she would express to him.

She swallowed. "Penny's alive. And I found her."

Tony--

Tony didn't react. Not for nearly a minute. Instead he stared, his entire body stilling--even his damaged heart--before he seemed to come back to life all at once like a broken wound-up toy.

The man stumbled back a step, falling into the nearest gray wall. One lonely breath coming in in a strangled gasp as he willed for something--anything--to make sense.

"She's alive?"

Natasha nodded.

"How?" he demanded. "How--in England? From New York? There's no way anybody could've just taken her while I was--"

The man cut himself off, dragging in another wheeze that rattled through his entire chest. His legs began to collapse under him, but his friend caught him, managing to maneuver him onto the floor slowly. Tony leaned against the wall as Natasha sat beside him, her head propped up against the wall beside him.

Neither said anything. Not for a few minutes at least at Tony's shaking and gasping ebbed. Not until he could force out images and nightmares of Penny his mind had tortured him with for years. He locked them in a box and dropped it in an ocean of useless thoughts, because his daughter was alive. Because she wasn't dead and none of it--a painful death full of fear and confusion while Tony was only blocks away that he had been tortured by for years--had ever happened.

Natasha spoke up when he'd finally managed to take in eight consistent breaths.

"I was raised in the Red Room," she started. "I was taken from my family and tortured for years. I tried to make a family there, and I did. For a little bit at least. But that family was taken too, replaced by the only world I had ever known. One based on pain and dictated structure. A cruel trick to play on a child, but it was normal for the Red Room. What wasn't normal was me not only succeeding more than they had ever dreamed, but succeeding past them. Escaping and deserting. Killing Dreykov was the last step of my defection to SHIELD. It was revenge and justice all at once. The others would be freed and I could clear out my ledger in a life I chose."

She swallowed, taking a moment.

"I failed. I failed and I didn't know." Natasha turned from staring ahead at the wall to stare at Tony. Suffering blue met broken brown, tired and guilty reflecting. In a whisper, she said, "Dreykov lived. He lived until a week ago. And the Red Room, and every Widow in it, lived under him."

Tony was touched to be trusted this much. To be trusted with even a sliver of what his friend had gone through in such a time of suspicion and betrayal. But he was scared. He was terrified, because Natasha never shared just to share. Everything she said had a point, a reason, a direction.

He tore his eyes away, shoving a hand over them and letting his head drop onto his knees. Unwillingly, he croaked, "No... Nat, please don't tell me--"

"Penny's a Widow."

Tony bit his lip, chewing on his cheek so harshly there was the tang of blood in his mouth. He took a moment, letting his head fall against the cracked and stained cement wall. Penny was alive. And she had been trained--no. Natasha's descriptions, however few and miniscule they had been, could not be described as simply training. Penny had been tortured. For four years. And what had he done but grieve and give up? If only he'd known. If only he'd found out sooner.

Natasha continued.

"The Red Room..." She took a breath and licked her lips. "After I escaped, they changed their whole system. Their method. How they hid and how they trained and--and how they controlled the women."

Something about the way Natasha said the last part sent a cold feeling down his throat.

"What did they do to her?" he croaked.

"They um...well, for lack of my understanding of it, they mind controlled her."

"They--Nat what? How would they even--"

"They controlled the brain’s neuropathways through external manipulation," came a new voice, their accent thick. Tony whipped his head around to stare at a woman he had never seen before. Like Natasha, she wore a regular hoodie and sweatpants but still looked as though she could take his life in less than a minute. There was an intensity about her, from her stance to her tied back hair to her ghostly blue eyes that stared at him suspiciously. "It was based off of blueprints for the Winter Soldier. Me and Natasha were part of the mission to retrieve them when we were young."

Despite the insanity of every new piece of information shot his way, he managed to piece it together in his head quickly enough that he opened his mouth to respond with a snapped remark, but Natasha managed to speak before he did.

"What are you doing out here? You're supposed to be looking after Penny."

"I was, but then I heard how badly you were explaining everything and I came to help." Natasha glared. "Relax. I finished braiding her hair and now she's pretending to be asleep so she can listen to everyone talking."

The last part was said with a pointed look down the narrow apartment hall, but everything after Natasha had said "Penny" didn't seem to make sense anymore.

"She's here?" he asked, already scrambling to his feet. He glanced between Natasha and the woman desperately. "Penny's here right now?"

"We found her yesterday," Natasha answered cautiously. "Me and Yelena just started to free the Widows deployed around the world. We managed to give her the antidote during a shootout in Estonia. After that a friend of mine managed to get us here."

"A shoot--is she okay?"

"Just a couple of burns," Yelena said. "She may be enhanced, but she still has plenty to learn. She could still kick your ass, though."

"Thank you. Truly," Tony said, a bite of sarcasm to his voice, before turning back to Natasha, his desperation bubbling. "Which room?"

"Tony, I don't think you need to just go bursting in there. Let me--"

Tony stopped listening, every word his friend was saying dying out on his ears as he spotted a brunette and wide brown eyes poking around the corner over Natasha's shoulder. He felt his breath catch in his throat as their eyes clicked.

Penny had grown. She'd sprouted almost an entire foot from the short ten year old she had been, awkward and gangly limbs that the girl had always seemed to struggle with were replaced by obvious muscle and carefully controlled movement as she stepped out from behind the wall, their stare still holding. Despite the sharper angle of her chin and jaw, she still held baby fat in her cheeks that dwindled the look of her down by a couple of years, not helped at all by the familiar roundness of her deeply brown eyes.

He swallowed. His voice broke.

"Penny?"

—-

“Penny?"

It had been years since Penny had seen her dad. Since she'd heard him. Anything about her father not privy to missions had been carefully shielded away from the teenager for years. Sometimes on the few missions she had been sent on she would catch news clippings and pictures on TV channels before she had to move on or that terrible voice in her mind would force her to ignore him. But, despite the scarcity of which she was allowed to know about her father, she had always thought about him.

Penny had swam in her memories whenever she could. Whenever she needed. She'd think about the games she and her dad had used to play. About lessons he'd taught her and days they'd spent together. About hugs and braided hair and kisses to her head. The memories had felt faint and washed away underneath everything, but she'd clung to them like a lifeline.

That being said, she hadn't expected Dad's voice to sound like that. For him to look like this. He was always so put together in her mind--so strong--even when he was messy from the lab or tired from a long day of work, always accompanied by fond child-like adoration. But now he didn't look it.

There were bruises on his face, faint but still noticeably purple. His hair wasn't as dark or thick as she remembered, growing back just a little higher on his hairline, and more lines grabbed and pulled at his face. But that wasn't what ruined her memory of strength and warmth, people aged after all, that was just reality. It was the expression on his face and glossing over his eyes. It was the way he'd said her name, so unsure and weary.

Penny, finally, looked away from Dad, instead glancing over at Yelena and trying not to look like she was too desperate for help. Yelena stared back, raising her brows and gesturing to Tony with a slight nod of her head, as if telling her to not be a coward. But Penny didn't know how to do that. Not now.

Thankfully, Natasha took over.

"I'm going to go get us some dinner. Yelena?"

Okay, so not the kind of help she'd been looking for.

Yelena gave Penny one last glance, nodded, and then followed the Avenger out of the door.

The door clicked shut and then it was just father and daughter.

"Penny," he tried again.

She hid a flinch at how small and tired his voice was, how broken he felt standing only feet from her. She hid her shock and her fear and apprehension exactly how she'd been taught, schooling her features into something easy and bored. She let her shoulders drop and her posture loosen, but the hardest part was hardening her stare. That had always been the biggest complaint of her handlers. Her senses had been sharp but her expression always so readable by her eyes.

"Hi, Dad," she said, her voice cool and casual on default. The words felt terrible leaving her lips, so she crossed her arms in an attempt to feel more stable. "It's been a while."

He chuckled, short and sad. "Yeah. You could say that."

And then there was silence. It trickled in, slow, awkward, and tense between them. Penny tried not to let it get to her, but she couldn't deny that she wasn't tired and disappointed. When Yelena had smashed the antidote beside her, it was the first time the teenager had seen clearly in a long time, and her first thought had been of her Dad. There had been worries about if he missed her and if he'd been okay, but a fear had stabbed at her so strongly that she was still thinking about it.

Would he still love her? After all she'd done? She had hurt people. She had killed people. Not in defense. Not in good reason. But in fear and control.

"I, uh..." Penny blinked at her dad's voice, beating away her thoughts and instead focusing back on the bruised and stuttering man in front of her. "Sorry. I would've thought of something better to say if I'd known I was going to see you again. Maybe some presents too. Do you still like those peanut butter cookies?"

"The ones we used to make?" she asked. "With the Hershey Kisses?"

"Those are the ones."

She shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't had them since I was with you."

"Oh. Yeah. I guess you wouldn't have..." he trailed off, glancing down for a moment. She stared at him, watching his expression carefully as he loosened and looked back up at her. "Well, we can't make them again? At home?"

"Sure. Sounds fun."

Penny couldn't stand how dull her voice sounds, like she couldn't care less about something that really made her want to cry in happiness. But...she didn't know what else to do. What to say. The Red Room had made sure she always knew what to do and what to say, but that had been for politicians and businessmen and people she was supposed to trick. She didn't want to trick her dad. She just--she wanted to--

Dad stepped closer, brows furrowed and mouth pulled down in a deep and concerned frown. She kept a wary eye on him as he approached, trying to force down feelings of apprehension and fear that she had become familiar with whenever anybody was in her space. But he stopped about a foot short, his reached out hand halting just away from her face as he whispered, "Oh, piccolina. It's okay." His voice broke. "It's okay. I'm gonna make sure it is... I promise."

And finally she broke.

And it hurt. It really, really hurt.

Penny leaned her cheek into his open hand as hot beads of tears caught on her eyelashes, allowing for Dad to cup his other hand around the back of her head and tentatively pull her in. It took the teenager a moment to adjust, so wired on the need to fight and never let her guard down, but then she just--crumpled.

Like a switch had been flicked, Penny buried her nose into his neck and wrapped her arms around him in a tight squeeze, swallowing down tears. Dad pulled her in tighter, his nose pressed into her tightly braided crown.

And then he sobbed.

It was a strangled, inhuman kind of sound that rumbled from his chest to escape the back of his throat. He cleared his throat, as if embarrassed, but Penny wasn't an idiot. She could still hear his heart thumping and feel a tear slip from his chin onto the back of her neck. It all shocked her, but the sound found itself ringing in her ears painfully more than anything.

She flinched in his hug.

"Oh, Penny. I'm so sorry," he apologized, his voice sore with tears. "So, so sorry."

"For what?" she asked. "Not finding me? You wouldn't have been able to, Dad, even being you. Draykov made sure of it."

"I don't care. I should've done something! I should've--I should've--"

"Dad." He fell silent as she pulled away from him, crossing her arms back over her chest as she came back to her training. Dad stared at her, his dark copper eyes as guilty as she felt. "Please, just... Don't be sorry. Because I'm sorry, and if you're sorry then we're both sorry and we can't both be sorry it's--"

"What on Earth do you have to be sorry for?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Penny--"

"I'm not ten anymore, Dad. I don't think I'm even a kid anymore... I've--I've done too much harm. I have a lot to be sorry for."

Dad stared at her, a familiar sadness in his eyes. He chewed his cheek, brows furrowed in thought, and she was brought back to a time when she would watch him solve problems in the lab, or try to answer one of her inane questions that she never seemed to be able to stop asking.

"Let me ask you something," he started. "Do you think I'm a bad person? That I'm at fault for losing you?"

"No," she answered immediately, because her dad had always tried, no matter what. She'd known he wasn't perfect, and that a lot of people hated him for the mistakes he'd made, but she'd always known how much he really cared. How much he really cared and tried for the world. For the Avengers. For her.

"Well, then what makes you a bad person? What makes you not a kid anymore?"

Penny could only stare. She could only answer, "I've hurt people."

"I know. And I have too. But you don't think I'm a bad person, so you're not a bad person either. And what about Nat? Or your new very scary friend?"

"I forgot how much I hated arguing with you," she deadpanned.

"'Trying' to argue with me," he corrected, a smile pulling at his face. Surprisingly, she managed to smile back. Even more surprisingly, it didn't feel fake. Sure, it was small and tired, but Penny couldn't remember the last time she'd actually smiled. "See? Everything's going to be okay."

"How do you know?" she asked. "I'm a violator of the Accords. If it ever gets out that I was part of the Red Room--what I did for the Red Room--almost nothing could keep me out of prison. You'll have to explain how you found me and it would make you a violator--"

"I'll handle it," Dad said. "I always handle it. And just because you don't feel like a kid doesn't mean you aren't one. There are protections for you. And we found protections for Nat. Wanda too, if she would've taken them." He muttered the last part under his breath, the words emotionless but regret and guilt clear in his eyes. He cleared his throat and looked back at her with a raised brow. "And how do you know about the Accords? Do they have a current events class in the Red Room?"

"We do actually have to keep up with some events for missions. But, no. I've been reading old newspapers. Did you know you were on the front page for almost two weeks in June?"

"No. Nobody reads the paper anymore. Unless you're a dinosaur anyway."

"Uncle Rhodey likes the paper," she said with that still small but still real smile. "For the crossword puzzles."

"Yeah. Like I said: Dinosaur." With that, the jokes seemed to slide away as he took on a more serious tone. "But I'll handle it. I've already been trying to handle the Accords. You'll be safe, and free, at home, Penny. I promise."

"I can really come home?"

Dad paused. "Did you think you wouldn't?"

Penny shrugged. "I don't know. I wanted to. I want to. But I just... I didn't know how safe it would be, and I know how to live by myself. How to avoid suspicion. I was...I was prepared for other options."

"If you were planning on running, why did you meet with me?"

"I don't know," she said. But truthfully, there had been a hole in her heart. A knot in her stomach. She'd just--she'd needed to see her dad. To apologize and let him know she was okay. She'd missed her family for so long, she had to imagine they'd missed her too. In fact, Penny had wanted nothing more to know they'd missed her. That those years in the Red Room wondering where her family was hadn't been because they didn't care.

Realistically, Penny knew Dad had missed her. Had loved her enough to grieve and look for her, but being there for so long--so terribly long--had been enough for seeds of doubt to sprout and root itself in her mind. But the teenager didn't tell her dad that. That would make him upset, and Penny was tired of being upset. Instead, she said, "Just missed you. Wanted to know that you're okay."

"Well, now you're gonna know every day," he said. "And you're going to know that Pepper is okay. And Rhodey and Happy. And you're never going to miss us again."

"Never?"

"Nope. Well, maybe when you go to school. But we can homeschool if you would prefer that. Would you?"

"Oh, uh, I don't--"

"Yeah, never mind. You don't have to know right now," he said with a wave. Then he smiled at her again, that genuine smile that squinted his eyes and pulled at his wrinkled laugh lines. "Right now, why don't we just go home?"

"Yeah," she said. And suddenly no other thought occupied her mind. Home was all she could think of. Of tall New York skyscrapers and the bustling city. Or maybe they'd go back to Malibu, even if his house was gone. Either way she'd see her uncle again. And Pepper. And Happy, who were all family to her. Family she hadn't seen in so long. "Let's go home."

Dad smiled, his eyes misty. Penny smiled back, taking his hand and leaning against him in another hug. He readily accepted, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a light kiss to the crown of her head.

The best part: Nothing about him whispered danger. Or discomfort or uneasiness. There was just...comfort.

Just home.

It was the best feeling in the entire world.

—-

“Should we tell Uncle Rhodey we're on the way?"

"Nah. He loves surprises."

"He hates surprises."

"Exactly!"

Penny laughed. And the sound, the feeling, was just like home.

#peter parker #tony stark #female peter parker #irondad #irondad and spiderson #iron man fanfiction #spiderman fanfiction #marvel fanfiction

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buckybarnesthehotshot · 4 years ago

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Hey love! Can you do a fic where the reader and Bucky are teens in the 1930s and they run around making mischief and cute fluffy stuffs?

Trinkets (bucky barnes x reader)

word count: 1520

warnings: just a guy being an ass

A/N: tysm for the request holy shit quaratine’s been really boring and hopefully this is what you requested :))

“Buck, c’mon!” y/n, her eyes filled with excitement, intertwined her fingers with Bucky’s as she pulled him through the busy streets of Brooklyn.

“Doll, what are you up to this time?” Bucky chuckled, wondering how she managed to pull him through crowds with the shoes she wore and the restricting blue skirt she wore.

“Whatever I want to do, Buck. And this time, you are going to go along with it,” Y/N grinned, peering around the streets for something to do. When she told him, she wanted to go out for a walk, Bucky was skeptical. Y/N L/N just going out for a walk? He should have known she was up to something when she decided to drag him along with her.

“I thought we were going out for a walk,” Bucky chuckled, admiring the look of determination on Y/N’s features as she looked for anything she could do. He chuckled, knowing damn well nothing good—for anyone who was not Y/N—would come from her antics, yet he allowed it.

“We’re walking, aren’t we?” Y/N grinned, slowing her pace as she still searched the streets for something to do.

He noticed the way her eyes lit up at the sight of a small boutique along the sides of the street. Like a lion finding its prey, Y/N ran to the boutique, her grip on Bucky’s hand tightening to make sure she didn’t lose him in the crowds.

“You’re going shopping?” Bucky questioned, peering through the windows of the small store. Y/N nodded excitedly as she rushed into the store. For the umpteenth time of the day, Bucky smiled at Y/N’s antics as he followed her into the boutique.

“Can you hold this for me?” Y/N flashed Bucky her best puppy dog eyes as she held out a stack of clothes in different colors. It had been mere seconds since she entered the boutique; how did she manage to pick out that many clothes?

“You’re buying all this?” Bucky raised a brow at Y/N in shock. She chuckled, shaking her head.

“I’ve been saving up, and I decided I wanted to help out in the community. These clothes? I’m donating them all after I buy them,” Y/N smiled proudly. This was one of the many reasons Bucky enjoyed Y/N’s company; the girl had a heart of gold. She made him want to be a better person.

“You’re one hell of a gal, have I ever told you that?” Bucky smiled warmly, taking the stack of clothes into his arms.

“Every single day, Buck,” Y/N chuckled, turning away from Bucky and picking out more clothes. Y/N’s father was a wealthy man and whatever she must have saved up from her allowance went into buying the clothes seeing as she happily picked things off the shelves.

After a while in the boutique, Y/N eventually stopped picking articles of clothing off the shelves, and stood in place when she came across a glass display case, her mouth agape. Bucky could barely see what she it was that caught her interest because of the massive amount of clothes he held in his arms.

“Whatcha looking at, doll?” Bucky questioned, still somehow balancing the stacks of clothes he had in his arms.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I don’t think I’d have enough money to buy it anyways,” Y/N flashed him a sad smile before leading him to the counter where Y/N paid for everything she bought into large shopping bags, all looking full and heavy.

Y/N picked up two of the bags, while Bucky held onto the rest of them. When they got out of the store, Bucky noticed a tinge of sadness in Y/N’s expression. She must have really wanted whatever it was she saw in the boutique, but he knew she was too selfless to spend more on herself than she had to. It was then an idea crossed his mind.

“I think I left my cap inside. Would you mind if I go get it, doll?” Bucky questioned.

“Buck, I don’t remember you wearing—” Y/N spoke confusedly, only to be cut off by Bucky once again.

“I was wearing one when I went in. Wait right here, I’ll go look for it first,” Bucky sped off, barely leaving Y/N any time to respond. She mumbled a quick ‘I guess I’ll just sit here and do nothing’ to herself before making her way onto a wooden bench placed conveniently outside the boutique.

When Bucky got inside, he rushed to the same spot Y/N stood in earlier, and looked through everything in the glass case.

“Can I help you with anything, son?” a feminine voice came from behind the glass counter. He averted his gaze to see an older lady, clad in a uniform, smiling up at him.

“The girl I was with, do you have any idea what she was looking at earlier?” Bucky questioned, his hands tapping nervously on the glass.

“I believe she was looking at this,” the woman pulled out a small box, a shining silver locket. Bucky picked up the box and took in the intricate carvings on the heart-shaped locket.

“I’ll take it,” Bucky smiled, pulling his wallet out his pocket. He didn’t dare ask for the price; he was willing to spend every penny he had to see Y/N happy.

The lady took the box from his hands and she wrapped it in a delicate blue ribbon and handed Bucky the box, a smile on her face as he handed her the payment for the locket. He headed out the boutique, expecting to see Y/N waiting patiently for him. He should have known better.

“I don’t care! With all due respect—which you clearly don’t deserve—I don’t owe you anything, sir!” a familiar female voice was the first thing he heard. He was then met with the sight of Y/N standing angrily in front of a man he’d never seen before.

“I’m just saying, you shouldn’t be out spending your husband’s money this much,” the man snarled at Y/N.

“I’m not married, prick!” Y/N yelled dropping the shopping bags onto the ground and taking her shoes off her feet as though getting ready to attack the man. It was an all too familiar sight.

“You should really fix that, then, eh?” the man, clearly disappointed upon hearing Y/N wasn’t married, snarked.

“That’s none of your business,” Y/N chuckled darkly, taking off her other heel and getting ready to attack the man. Before she could move out of her spot, Bucky rushed to her side and held her back.

“You better keep your girl in check, you’re clearly spoiling her, bud,” the man chuckled before walking away. Y/N was fuming and fought against Bucky’s grip but to no avail.

“Bucky, let me go, please” Y/N spoke more calmly, all evidences of anger leaving her body. She didn’t even bother to try wiggling out of his grip. Little did Bucky know it was his arms being around her that calmed her down.

“Do you promise not to run after that man if I let you go?” Bucky raised a brow firmly.

“Yes, yes, whatever. He isn’t worth it,” Y/N flashed a tight smile and Bucky chuckled before letting go of her. He went to pick up the paper bags she left on the sidewalk while Y/N put her shoes back on her feet with a dissatisfied grumble. She could have easily shut the man up herself.

“I got something for you,” Bucky smiled widely, holding up the small box. Y/N’s eyes widened in shock; she wasn’t expecting to receive anything that day.

“Buck, you shouldn’t have,” Y/N frowned as she stared blankly at the box.

“Come on, I saw you staring earlier and I figured you deserve something nice for deciding to help out others,” Bucky insisted, handing Y/N the box. She reluctantly accepted the gift and unwrapped the ribbon, opened the box, and chuckled.

“You’re pretty observant, but the only reason I was staring at the locket was because my mother had one like it. I borrowed it when we went to Coney Island last week and I dropped it when we were on the cyclone,” Y/N admitted shyly, her hands tracing over the patterns on the silver.

“So, you were planning on buying this to replace the one you lost?” Bucky chuckled, combing his fingers through his hair.

“Pretty much,” Y/N nodded, smiling shyly. Bucky nearly fell to the ground in a fit of laughter when the words left her mouth.

“I think you should keep it as a reminder of the day we went to Coney Island, don’t you think?” Bucky suggested, pulling a smile from Y/N.

“I already have you to remind me of that day, Buck, but sure, I’ll keep it,” Y/N smiled warmly, lockig Bucky in her embrace while the silver chain dangled in her hand. They stayed like that for a moment, blocking out the world until they heard a familiar voice utter very familiar words.

“I could do this all day.” Bucky and Y/N gave each other knowing looks before rushing to the alley from which they heard the commotion.

TAGLIST: @spatium-viatorem / @sxphiiwrld / @captainamerica-is-bae

#bucky #bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes imagine #winter solider imagine #winter solider x you #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier imagine

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greenbeany · 4 years ago

Text

TEAM JTBLK DORM

Lemme describe this to you a lil because it's all kinda chaotic and I don't think anyone but myself actually understands the full image.

From the left, Jynx sleeps in the bottom bunk. Black sheets and pillow, owl plushie (Crimson learned not to touch the hard way), and curtains because Jynx clearly needs more privacy than the rest of us. The rule is that if the curtains are closed we can't come in without asking. Beryl has broken that rule many times with no consequences. Key tried once and ended up with an axe wound in her shoulder.

Above Jynx is Crimsons bed. The colour theme is the same as her outfit, and she has a Totoro plush, but mainly for the aesthetic. There's a bedside table next to her with a lightbox and a funko pop (idk let's say it's a Penny funko). Her bed doesn't have a ladder which is bad news in the morning, but she usually gets up by jumping off the windowsill.

Next to Jynx, Beryls bed has white covers and an abundance of fluffy soft things. She added extra pillows and keeps a teddy on hand. She also has a mouse plush that nobody touches, and because it's Beryl people actually respect that rule. There's a dreamcatcher hanging down above her bed. Beryl doesn't particularly believe in dreamcatchers, being able to walk in dreams, but it reminds her of nests and it feels homely. On the windowsill above her, she usually has a coffee mug and a notepad.

Eden sleeps next to Beryl. She kept the regular Beacon bedding like a nerd, but she has a glitter covered dragon on her bed. Key made it for her, saying "now we can sleep together platonically too!" Jynx has not let Eden live that down. Eden is a sensible child and has the group alarm clock above her bed. She also keeps a calendar next to her bed so she can schedule the entire team because Jynx and Crimson don't plan on doing that any time soon. Eden didn't notice this at first but she now knows after experience that her bed is perfectly situated for Key to jump onto every morning. Eden has many regrets.

Above Beryl and Eden, Crimson and Key hung a hammock between their beds and added pillows. The two had intended to use it for midnight feasts while Eden wasn't able to tell them off but it quickly became the group pile on hammock. Many times has Beryl nursed the team to sleep on it. The group have had MANY cuddle puddles on the hammock, but it has also been liability to many pillow fights. It has never fallen down somehow. Key has also hung bunting on her side of the hammock.

Key sleeps on multicoloured sheets on a bed surrounded by tinsel (accidental Jynx repellent). She has lighter sheets because dragon but often she just steals Eden's because turns out Vale is a lot colder than Menagerie. She keeps weird stuff around her bed, like a Rubix cube (she uses it as a fidget toy but somehow she solves it in the process. Crimson and Beryl don't understand.) She also keeps a bunch of shiny pennies and pens by her bed. And a grandfather clock. It chimes loudly at lunch time. Everyone else hates it.

On the bookshelf, each team member has a shelf. Top shelf is Key who keeps more random trinkets on her shelf. To note is a mini coffin box, a replica of Ozpins glasses, literally just a bucket, and a bowl of mettalic fruit. Crimson has the second shelf, she uses it to keep bath bombs and like 50 tubes of bubble bath. Beryl keeps sketch books and pencils on her shelf. Crimson doesn't know if she draws or not but they look cool. Eden has text books on her shelf like a nerd. Jynx' shelf is a box.

Jynx belongs to @judgemental-frog

Eden belongs to @mynameisactuallyten

Key belongs to @insulationsun

Beryl belongs to @ozpins-coffeemug

@adventures-of-the-opps-teams

#Jynx (curtains are CLOSED CRIMSON) Cetus #Beryl (I'm very cute) Blaithlyn #Key (TINSELTINSELTINSEL) Lime Pie #Eden (fml) Lain #Crimson (Totoro is the best thing ever) Teal #oc #Opps teams #i drew this 🦑#jtblk my beloved

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cagestark · 5 years ago

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Winterspider prompt if you're game! There's a meme about a poor college student being robbed; the robber, upon learning just h o w poor, stopping and giving the (empty) wallet back and being sincerely concerned. "You... you live like this?" What if the winter soldier/bucky barnes breaks into struggling college student Peter parker's apt and all his pre-serum steve instincts are triggered by the state of the place and how /tiny/ Peter is (abo/soulmates/soulmarks/werewolf au for spice up to you)

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five

This prompt came into my house and stole my money. This is CHAPTER ONE. Because I was so inspired that I’m officially making this my first multichap fic. I hope this will appease you for now…And I hope you can forgive me for making it winterironspider (I’m a sucker for starker/winteriron so it all just clicked together nicely). Please come back into my inbox and let me know what you think so far.

Warnings in this chapter: graphic descriptions of being poor. Bucky says fuck A LOT. Peter is 24 but Bucky keeps calling him “kid” because he’s so small. Sickness. 4.1k

Bucky can pick a lock in ten seconds flat.

It’s a science: tension wrench goes into the keyhole, the slightest torque is applied, then his favorite pick—the Bogota with three rakes, as of late—goes in and he scrubs the hell out of it until the plug turns. Easy as fucking pie.

The hard part (and he’s not counting the guilt, the horror he would feel if Tony ever discovered how Bucky makes the money he uses to buy his lover trinkets) is scoping out the right apartments. He sticks to NYU residence halls, early mornings and late at nights because the security is usually lax enough to let him through without even checking his ID—if they ask? Oh fuck, I left my wallet in my Uber. Maybe he hasn’t left yet, one sec—and then he’s out of there.

Today, it’s the Lafayette Hall between China Town and TriBeCa, reserved for graduate students seeking their Master’s Degrees in science fields.

It should be empty. On campus is an expo featuring innovators from Sphere Fluidics, Fasmatech, AcouSort, and NanoTemper Technologies which—according to the flier Bucky read online—are huge names in the science industry, all displaying their scientific discoveries from the last business year and scouting for fresh blood.

Any science major worth a shit will be there, he imagines. But it’s mandatory for NYU grad students. Score.

Content that the apartments will more than likely be empty, Bucky chooses the first hit at random after taking the elevator up: apartment 2B. It’s furthest away from the security camera at the other end of the hall—not that Bucky has ever left behind a reason for those cameras to be checked. It’s the principle of the thing, really. He keeps his back turned, hair in his face, both hands gloved (thank God it’s always cold and dreary in NYC, so his gloved hands don’t draw any attention) while he scrubs the lock. It takes him no longer than it might for anyone with a legitimate key, and then the door is open and he is in.

Bucky can see decently in the dark, the light from the hallway disappearing as the door is carefully closed behind him. Holding his breath, he stills himself, calls upon his enhanced senses, and listens: but there are no sounds coming from the apartment. Empty.

Then he actually takes in the place, and he realizes that that word fits in multiple ways.

The apartment is vacant, he thinks at first. There is the basic furniture all the NYU apartments come with: a refrigerator, a couch, a coffee table. But there is no television, no end tables. There are no curtains on the window across the room—and wow, what a lovely view of the brick building across the alley. The entire place smells musty and unused. Maybe it really is empty—

But no. Little signs of life appear. There are shoes by the door, ones that saw better days many, many days ago. On the wall, a photograph is tacked there, unframed, of two boys on either side of a pretty, dark skinned girl. A plastic grocery sack is dangling off of the drawer handle of one kitchen cabinet, sagging with contents that he can’t make out through the opaque plastic.

Someone does live here, they’re just terrible at decorating.

With careful, silent steps, Bucky moves deeper into the apartment. He doesn’t bother looking for a wallet—that will be with the owner—but usually there is money somewhere else. If he’s really lucky, he’ll find whatever he’s looking for.

Today, he wants blank CD’s. Last night, Tony showed him a movie where the teenage love interest burned—(“why’s it called that, Tony? You don’t burn the thing, do you?”)—a CD with love songs. It was real romantic shit; something Bucky never got to do. Something that he longs to do with this amazing man in his life. He can imagine the look on Tony’s face when he listens to a compilation of all the awesome music he’s introduced Bucky to, and it makes his heart race.

The Best Buy downtown sells a pack of five CD’s for $6.99 plus tax which brings the total to $7.61. That’s all that he needs. He could probably take that and more from any one of these apartments and the occupants would never notice. He isn’t hurting anyone. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

Then—jackpot. On the counter is a line of change: neat stacks of quarters and dimes, taller piles of nickels and pennies. Palming it, he cups one hand under the counter and slides the coins home into his hand. A quick count tells him that it’s just $2.30. It’s probably change for the vending machines downstairs, maybe fare for the bus. Nothing that will break this grad student’s bank.

For a moment he contemplates leaving the apartment. He’s almost got a third of what he needs for the CD’s. But breaking into another apartment just escalates the risks he takes, unnecessarily so when the rest of the money could very well be in the bedroom or even in the pocket of some jeans resting on the bathroom floor. No. He’ll press on.

Walking silently, he brings up the floorplan of the apartments in his mind (NYU had all that shit online; didn’t they know how unsafe it was? This world made information so available). The bedroom is on the left, past the kitchen. In the dim light through the window, he can see the door, open, a dark gaping mouth that he slips through soundlessly. It is even darker here, and he stands still waiting for his eyes to adjust further. It’d be no good to go fumbling around in the dark, knocking into furniture.

It only took moments, but as soon as he could make out dim shapes, he heard it. A little whimper. The rustling of sheets. Everything in him went still except for the blood in his veins, propelled by his furiously pounding heart. Someone is here. Bucky broke into an occupied apartment. He is standing in the doorway to a bedroom and there is someone sleeping in the bed.

He gets a glimpse before he can slink back into the living room, and what he sees stops him in his tracks. It is a boy—or a very small man, perhaps, considering these apartments are for graduate students only. The boy is wearing just a pair of boxers, some dark color—red or navy or even black, perhaps, since colors are distorted in this low light—but there is no hiding or distorting how thin he is. The shadows between his ribs are little valleys to the pale, jutting mountains of bone, rising with his fast, shallow breaths. The collarbones protrude, limbs fine-boned and so skinny that Bucky could probably wrap his fingers around an entire ankle or bicep. His face is smushed against one pillow so features are indistinguishable, but the mop of messy curls on top is unmistakable.

There is no bed. There is no bedframe, no mattress, no box spring. A pile of threadbare blankets and sheets are entwined into a makeshift nest, like the kid is some little bird.

After taking in the sights, he takes in the smell. It’s strong—damp and musty, like the windows have never been opened. The pungent scent of sweat. The overly sweet scent of cough syrup, though the two bottles on the nightstand are upended and empty.

Mostly, the acrid smell of sickness. A bucket is beside the bed, and the smell of vomit gets stronger the closer he comes—why is Bucky walking forward? He should be walking away, far, far away.

The boy whimpers again, rolling onto his back more. Sweat coats his skin, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest is even more pronounced in this position, tummy a hollow little thing. This boy is sick, very sick from the smell and the heat that Bucky can feel when he places his hand above the boy’s head, hovering over the skin.

“Ben!” The boy shrieks. Bucky jerks away and nearly topples the trash bin of vomit. His heart is pounding, thinking I’m so sorry Tony, so sorry that I’m going to get caught and get arrested and that you’re the only person in the world I’ll have to call, and if you don’t want to bail me out I’ll understand, I really will—but the boy sleeps on, lips moving. He is dreaming the feverish dreams of the sick.

Carefully, Bucky stands. He backs from the room. On his way out, he takes in more details even if he doesn’t want to: a name-badge for the building and NYU campus (which he takes, which he should have seen on his way in and known that it would be wherever the student was—complacent, he’s gotten too fucking complacent), the silver duct tape on the bottom of the kid’s shoes which holds them together. The past-due notices on the refrigerator. The paper plate resting in the sink, plastic cutlery that has been washed and re-used countless times. The kid is poor. So fucking poor.

And he can’t help that it reminds him of another sickly poor boy from nearly a hundred years ago. He remembers it like it was yesterday, fuzzy memories that Princess Shuri helped turn clear: a thin pale Captain America, the chest-deep coughs that would rattle his whole frame when he was sick, sitting by his best friend’s side through the night just to mop his brow and make sure he didn’t choke on his own sick. His stomach aches, twisting inside out with phantom hunger pains. Stepping into that apartment made him feel like he’d entered a time machine back to the Great Fucking Depression.

Another thought comes: what if the kid needs a fucking ambulance? What if he’s in there, brain frying from his fever? What if he throws up and aspirates? That will be on Bucky. There’s no way that he can walk away from this—not if it could add an(other) life, like a notch, to his murderous bedpost.

Palms sweating, he looks down at the badge he left with. Peter B. Parker. It’s a cute name—Bucky’s always had sort of a thing for alliteration. The picture of the kid is shy with the closed-lip smile and the rampant curls falling onto his forehead. He was skinny to begin with, but not malnourished like he is now. The badge will let him come in through the back doors. Because apparently he is planning on coming back.

Bucky pulls out his cellphone, mostly unused, and makes a call. While he talks, he takes the stairs down so that he doesn’t lose the call in the elevator.

Tony picks up on the second ring. “Hey Bucky, everything alright?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” In the background he can hear the sound of a door closing, and Tony’s voice grows more familiar, softer and more comfortable. He must have been around company but left.

“You only ever call if you’re about to break the law,” Tony says fondly.

Is he really so predictable? Well, in this case, he’s already broken the law, though that’s hardly a point that he wants to make. “No. it’s—nothing like that. I was just wondering about the credit card you gave me.”

“Oh? Thinking about blowing the dust off it?”

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters. He hates it—hates being like the other million people in Tony’s life who just take his money. The fear that this man who has helped Bucky salvage himself, salvage the will to live life, to carve out a life he wants to live…the fear that he’ll think Bucky is just with him for the money is unconquerable. Tony gave him the leather wallet and the credit card years ago, and Bucky has never once used it. “Just a bit. Twenty dollars. Thirty at the most, Tony, and I swear I’ll pay you back—”

“Hey, hey, no need for the freaking out. Mi dinero es su dinero, polar bear. Buy whatever you need.” He pauses. “Are you in any trouble? I don’t know if you need me to emphasize this, but there’s probably no trouble you can imagine that I can’t get a person out of.”

“I’m not in trouble,” he says, hoping Tony doesn’t notice the unconscious inflection on the word I’m. “But I’ll remember that. I promise.”

“Okay. Great. That’s all I need to hear. Thai, tonight?”

Bucky can’t help but smile. He pushes open the back door to the building and steps out into the street, angling his face away from the security camera at the alley entrance on instinct. The wind is blistery, whipping his hair around his face. “I’ll be there.”

Tony hums. “I can hardly wait.”

They exchange declarations of love and say goodbye. Bucky feels a little choked up, how he always feels after hearing Tony say that he loves him. His eyes sting—but that’s just the wind. Honest. Down the street is a pharmacy and Bucky ducks in, head down. There’s an entire aisle for cold medicines, and he takes far too long examining all the bottles. Thank God there are ones that seem to treat everything: headaches, fever, nausea, cough. Everything except for the kid’s destitution.

He sees the chicken noodle soup and he grabs some of that as well.

Checking out is awkward; Bucky slides the card upside down at first. Then he’s unsure: credit or debit? He clicks credit since it’s first, but then he has to sign and he has a new dilemma. Should he forge Tony’s signature or put down his own? The card has his name on it, but it’s Tony’s money. In the end, he writes his own name. Forging feels too…familiar.

With less than twenty dollars spent, he trudges back down the block to the apartment building, and it isn’t until he’s swiping the key to get into the back door that he realizes he has no fucking idea what he’s going to do. Knock on the kid’s door? Hey, I broke in earlier and saw you were sick and out of medicine, here’s some. I’ll put the change I stole back on the counter. Sorry to fucking bother you?

Bucky Barnes, former assassin for Hydra, absolute dumbass.

Absolute persistent dumbass. Because he knocks on the door. He really fucking does. And when no one answers, he knocks again and again until he hears movement on the other side of the door (a chest-rattling cough that makes him shudder) then the door is cracked open and a bloodshot, honey-brown eye is staring out at him.

“Hi,” Peter croaks. His voice is wrecked, and it immediately does things to Bucky. Things that are wrong, especially considering that his voice isn’t croaky because of a cock nudging too persistently at the back of his throat, but because he is fucking sick. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to help you,” Bucky says. Peter’s eyebrows furrow. It’s cute. He’s wearing a shirt that is far too large for him, and pajama pants so long they slip down past the backs of his heels. “I’m—visiting one of your neighbors down the hall. You’re keeping everyone up with your cough, kid. I brought you some medicine.”

Peter opens the door wider, so that Bucky is seeing all of him instead of just a two-inch section. He rests against the doorframe because he’s swaying, struggling to keep on his feet, and he is so tiny, so, so tiny. The smell of him is foul, but Bucky would never mention it. “Gosh,” Peter says, and Bucky is horrified to see tears, real fucking tears fill his eyes. “I didn’t know I was keepin’ everybody up.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Bucky says. People say that, sometimes, to horses that are likely to buck off their rider or men who pull out guns in gas stations. Bucky figures that he should probably use either of those situations as reference for what to do now, because how to comfort a crying kid was not in the Winter Soldier’s repertoire. “Don’t shoot.” Fuck. Try again. “I mean—it’s not your fault. You’re sick. Obviously.”

Fat tears roll down Peter’s cheeks. It impedes his breathing even more, until Bucky is afraid that he’s going to choke on his own phlegm. When he speaks, he tries to keep his voice even and clear through his hitching breaths. The shirt slips off his shoulder, bones protruding. “I-I-I know. It hit m-me a-all of the sudden. But now it won’t go away.”

“Have you tried going to the doctor?”

Peter’s smile is downright tragic. He looks like he wants to reach out and pat Bucky on the cheek, call him a sweet summer child, ask him what pipe he smoked to have such a dream. “I d-don’t have insurance. I’m still trying to p-pay off my debt from last year when I had my tonsils removed.”

“And they—what—they won’t treat you? Just because you needed treating once before? They’re fucking doctors!”

“I know,” Peter whines, rubbing a wrist at his leaking nose. The door opens even wider. “Would you like to come in?”

Bucky sees the irony. He really does. A half hour ago, he was in this apartment robbing the kid. Now he’s standing at the kitchen counter watching Peter make ramen noodles (“my aunt always said that when someone is in your house, you should treat them like they live there”). He nearly burns his hand on the pan, and that’s when Bucky moves to take over, stirring when appropriate, adding a packet of flavoring. Peter pulls one bowl down from the cabinet—the cabinet that is unbearably empty from the quick glimpse Bucky gets of it.

“I only have one bowl, I’m sorry,” Peter says, face red, eyes downcast. His hands shake while he ladles the soup and noodles in. He gives Bucky one of the plastic spoons—it’s clean, he knows—but the whole thing is so fucking sad. When Peter glances over the counter, muttering something about some missing rent money, that’s it. That’s it for Bucky.

I’m taking him home with me, he thinks, nudging his spoon against the noodles in his bowl.

“I’m Peter, by the way,” the kid introduces himself. Then his face goes white, shaking intensifies. “Excuse me.”

Bucky hears him vomiting even through the walls between them. There isn’t much to come up, but the retching lasts forever it seems, the boy dissolving back into tears. Instinct says to go to him, but Bucky doesn’t want to be anymore of a fucking creep than he already is. When the vomiting turns to coughing and then to gasping, Bucky decides fuck it. He is a fucking creep. But he’s not going to let the kid pass out and crack open his head.

Peter is in the bathroom, bowed over the toilet, curls matting to his forehead with his fever. Bucky goes through drawers until he finds a washcloth and wets it from the sink, the water stinking of iron, to at least dab at the back of the kid’s neck. He shivers, but sighs into it, his wheezing breaths slowing.

When at last he leans back, his cheeks are red and wet. “Thanks,” he croaks. Bucky just mops at his forehead, avoiding the comical look of relief and pleasure on his face.

“You need a doctor.”

“Can’t afford it,” Peter mutters, reaching out to flush the toilet. Bucky practically carries him back to the kitchen-living room combo, setting him down on the threadbare couch.

“I’ll pay,” Bucky says. Then he winces—because it isn’t really his money. It’s Tony’s money. How can he just promise Tony’s money to this kid? But he can pay Tony back. No matter how long it takes or how hard he has to work. He’s got decades and decades left to live. He’ll spend them all trying to repay Tony’s kindness and love as it is. What is this one extra debt?

“What?” Peter asks, his eyes glassy with fever. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“A trip to the doctor costs hundreds of dollars, not to mention if I’m really sick, I’ll need medicine which will cost even more. I’m not taking that kind of money from you.”

“I’m rich,” he half-lies.

Peter looks him up and down, the worn boots, the soft but unremarkable jeans, the gloves that he’s still wearing even though they are indoors. While he doesn’t look destitute, the idea comes across loud and clear: Bucky sure doesn’t fucking look rich.

He sighs. “Fine. It’s my boyfriend. He’s rich.”

“You want me to take your boyfriend’s money? I’m—what? I don’t know you. I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Bucky,” says Bucky. “And my boyfriend is Tony Stark.”

Peter’s mouth clicks shut. His eyes clear a little, the name cutting through the sickness. “Tony Stark.”

“Yeah.”

“The billionaire.”

Bucky can feel himself smile against his will. “Genius, billionaire, philanthropist, superhero. Yeah, he’s the one.”

Peter reaches out and puts his burning hand against Bucky’s forehead. “Maybe you’re the one who is sick,” he teases weakly.

“I’m serious,” Bucky says. He pulls out his phone and Googles it—hopes the kid doesn’t see the tab of Lafayette Hall dorm room floor plans that was previously open. Then he brings up the tabloids. He and Tony aren’t in the news as often as they were years ago when they first started leaving the Tower together to do couple-things, but the articles last forever. There’s a nice one detailing all about Tony’s promiscuous love life, how everyone thought the bisexual ways of his youth were just a phase. Until Bucky.

The pictures are clear. Peter’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “You’re dating Tony Stark. Oh my god. I’m—I’m his biggest fan. Oh my god. I think I’m going to pass out. I’ve—” the kid goes red as a beet, “I’ve had a crush on him since I was like, like this tall.”

Judging by the height of his hand when he holds it up, Peter’s been harboring his crush on Tony since ever. And yeah, Bucky gets it. His lips can’t help but quirk upwards—Peter is so fucking cute, even with he way his cheeks are hollow, eyes sunken. He lights up when he talks about Tony. Bucky is the same way. Tony inspires that in people.

“I’ll pay for you to go to the doctor. See? I can afford it.”

Peter gnaws at his lower lip. “But why? I don’t get it. Because I’m keeping everyone on the floor up? That doesn’t—this is weird.”

“Because you remind me of someone I used to know. My best friend, from when I was a kid. He’s—he’s not around now. But you two would have gotten along well, I think. And he would’ve kicked me in the ass if he knew I just walked away when I knew you need help.” He can see the indecision on the kid’s face, the wavering teeter-totter of what he wants to say (yes yes yes) versus what he thinks he should say (no, but thank you). Bucky has an ace up his sleeve: “Why don’t you come back to the Tower with me? Meet Tony. He’ll tell you all this himself.”

“I couldn’t!” Peter nearly shrieks. He coughs, and Bucky waits patiently for him to finish.

“You could. You totally could. You will. I’ll call a car—”

“Oh my god,” Peter whispers under his breath, his whole tiny body going lax and weak like a woman from Victorian times, likely to swoon at any moment. Where are Bucky’s smelling salts? “Oh my god,” he says, soft and to himself. “I’m going to meet Tony Stark.”

Bucky can’t help it. He grins, pats awkwardly at the kid’s shoulder—and Jesus, he’s a tiny little thing, still burning up under Bucky’s grip. “He’s going to be thrilled to meet you.”

Peter insists on showering and changing his clothes. Bucky steps out into the hallway to call Tony back and warn him—and ask him to send Happy or one of the self-driving cars. Anything to avoid taking a cab or the subway.

“Twice in one day,” Tony says when he picks up the phone, forgoing a greeting. “Aren’t I a lucky man?”

“I’m the lucky man, ‘s far as I can tell,” Bucky says lowly. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine Tony’s expression, the ridiculous fond face he makes when he looks at Bucky. “I had a favor to ask of you, though. A big one.”

“Anything for you, frosted flake.”

“Send a car to the address that I text you? And—order Thai for three?”

#winterironspider #starker #multichap #chapter one #bucky breaks in #peter is sick #tony is tony #tw: poor #tw: sickness #winterspider #cagewrites

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theparanormalperiodical · 4 years ago

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The TRUE Story Of The Dybbuk Box That Inspired The Possession (2012) And The 5 Other Cases Of Dybbuk Hauntings That Will Traumatise You

In 2001, Kevin Mannis went to a local yard sale.

The owner of the estate - a 103-year-old Polish immigrant named Havaleh - had recently passed away and amongst the collection of assorted trinkets and nick-nacks was a box.

Mannis bought the box.

Havaleh’s granddaughter told the antiques’ dealer that the wine cabinet he had purchased was bought in Spain shortly after the Holocaust, an event Havaleh had survived. Realising the box was actually a precious family heirloom, he implored that they keep it.

The granddaughter refused to take it back. She claimed the box had been kept in her grandmother’s sewing room and had never been opened because a dybbuk (a spirit) was living inside of it.

Take a wild guess at what Mannis did first.

Breaking a centuries long protective seal on the box, Mannis found 2 pennies from the 1920s, a lock of blonde hair, a lock of dark brown hair, a small statue engraved with the word ‘shalom’, a small wine goblet, a dried rose bud, and a candle holder.

But according to the following owners of the box it contained something far more sinister. The events surrounding the Dybbuk Box would inspire one of horror’s most infamous possession movies, take up permanent residence in Zak Bagans’ haunted museum, and claim Post Malone as one of its victims.

And it’s time we talked about it.

Today’s post will explore the real haunted Dybbuk Box that inspired the events of The Possession (2012), and the other cases of dybbuk possession that have reportedly taken place.

In 2012, The Possession was released to a mirage of mixed reviews. But this cookie-cutter supernatural horror film wasn’t just crammed full of cliché-choc-chips.

In short, the film follows the passage of a mysterious box inscribed with and containing mysterious Jewish symbols through several owners who face an assortment of paranormal activity.

The film centres on a young girl, Emily, when she buys it at a yard sale. Having opened the box she begins to exhibit strange, violent, and possessive (*stares into camera*) behaviour over the box.

Emily’s family soon discover that she’s bought a Dybbuk Box. It’s here that the movie begins to navigate Jewish folklore and beliefs regarding dybbuks and spiritual possession, a take not often put to the mainstream horror big screen.

There was no Catholic priest questioning his faith as he battled some Christian demon, and there was no holy water wet t-shirt competition.

We are told a story about a Jewish demon from Hebrew scriptures read by a Rabbi from a Hasidic community. We are told a story that is deeply entrenched in real experiences of dybbuk possession, from 16th century Israeli villagers to America’s most famous ghost hunter. But before we talk about Jewish dybbuk possession we need to start with Kevin Mannis’ unlucky impulse buy..

The Dybbuk Box

Thanks to the cinematic debut of the Dybbuk Box, the haunted eBay marketplace has taken off. In fact, the average online shopping basket now contains a handful of knock-off Velvet Teddy lipsticks and a HAUNTED DOLL SO SCARY USED IN SATANIC RITUAL HAS BLOOD ON IT DO NOT TOUCH!!!!!!

Ever since 2012, you can’t move for Dybbuk Boxes. But the thing is, the Dybbuk Box inspiring the movie - the one originally belonging to Havaleh - is actually the first of its kind.

Whilst dybbuks are an important part of Jewish folklore, taking up residence in wine cabinets and alternative objects is not often noted. And this is what makes this tale so unique.

Havaleh warned her family to stay away from the box - a warning that would make sense once it changed hands. And Kevin Mannis was one of the first to experience strange occurrences.

Or rather his mother did.

He gave his mother the wine cabinet as a gift on her birthday (which happened to fall on Halloween). She had a stroke later that day.

He then tried to give it to other members of his family. Shortly after receiving the box each would return it, claiming the doors of the cabinet would suddenly open and refuse to close, and complaining its emitted odours of both jasmine and urine.

Mannis even tried to sell the box to a couple but they returned it two days later. They left it outside his front door with a succinct note: “This has a bad darkness.”

That’s when Mannis’ nightmares began.

He would often dream of his friends turning into a demon and beating him. He would then wake up covered in bruises as if the attacks had taken place. Each and every person he gave the box to would have the exact same nightmare.

“Why didn’t he just destroy the box?”

Like ouija boards, haunted objects should not be burnt, damaged, or destroyed. Just as opening the box unleashed the sinister forces, destroying it can release what is attached to it.

So Mannis decided to sell it on eBay where the largest online marketplace for haunted objects had been growing since 2000.

$140 later and a college student now had his hands on the infamous Dybbuk Box. And Losif Nietzke got what he signed up for.

For the next seven months of his life was, well, cursed. Him and his roommates fell victim to a number of sudden and inexplicable ailments, from insomnia and bronchitis to broken fingers. And if that wasn’t enough, newly bought electronic devices would fail to work and various dead mice would be found in the kitchen cupboards.

He decided to then sell it to Jason Haxton, a museum director in Missouri who happened to follow one of Nietzke’s blogs recounting his experiences.

Haxton reported similar occurrences to previous owners from his house’s lights burning out to a number of physical symptoms whether he had sudden outbreaks of hives or was coughing up blood. From here he consulted with rabbis to investigate the nature of the dybbuk and the paranormal activity and found a way to seal it back in the box.

He hid the box at an undisclosed location until he donated it to Zak Bagans. It is currently one of the most prized exhibitions at his haunted museum. Its reopening was filmed and resulted in a resurrection of its paranormal activity...

Possession In Jewish Folklore

The Possession sticks close to the original story of the Dybbuk Box. In fact, it follows Jewish folklore very closely - and this includes the demon allegedly inhabiting the box: Abyzou.

Although the demon associated with the real Dybbuk Box has not been identified (an old hag was often seen in the nightmares of the various owners, however), Abyzou is a demon associated with Near East and European folklore.

That being said, a dybbuk is not a demon. A dybbuk is defined as a malicious possessive spirit that is the dislocated soul of a dead person; it aims to possess in order to achieve a certain goal. It has yet to reach heavenly judgment and thus lies between heaven and purgatory. Possession by a soul beyond its judgement on the other hand is called a ‘gilgul’ (this is defined as a reincarnation).

Some demonic possession is associated with dybbuk possession, however.

This twins with the haunting outlined in the film. Abyzou allegedly has an interest in taking children and thus wanted to ‘take’ Emily, the young protagonist.

Dybbuk possession - spirit possession within Jewish culture - belongs primarily to the shtetl (small town communities in Europe prior to WW2). Many of the reported cases of spirit possession occur in a similar time frame to the height of christian possession, from the 16th to the 19th century.

And, just like Christian possession, demons or spirits target what they deemed ‘weaker’ or more vulnerable members of society AKA women and children. The dybbuk enters the society through a low-status member of society and exhibits ‘bad’ and mainly sexual behaviour.

But whilst cases of dybbuk possession dwindled in the 20th century, Catholic possession found a new lease of life among modern exorcists.

The symptoms of possession also follow similar lines drawn out by catholic exorcists: disembodied voices are heard, the voice of the possessed victim changes, newfound knowledge of certain events and other things is expressed by the victim, and a moving bulge can often be seen on their body. Special means or an exorcism is required to remove the dybbuk.

Another important trait of reported dybbuk possession cases is that while most victims are female most of the dybbuks are male spirits.

Although the comparisons to Christian possession are evident, Jewish exorcisms diverge completely.

Exorcisms in Ancient times combined poisonous root extracts and sacrifices to release the possessed from dybbuks, but modern exorcisms follow a different ceremony.

A rabbi who has mastered the Kabbalah school of thought performs the ritual in the presence of a minyan (a group of ten men) who gathered in a circle around the victim. Together they recite Psalm 91 three times and the rabbi blows a ram’s horn.

The horn’s sound ‘shatters’ the body in order to shake loose the dybbuk from the victim. This gives the rabbi a chance to communicate with it and assess why it has possessed the person being exorcised. The minyan pray for the dybbuk and perform a final ceremony to ensure it feels safe and can thus leave the person’s body.

The Most Terrifying Cases Of Dybbuk Possession And Hauntings

The Possession might be based on the infamous Dybbuk Box, but Zak Bagan’s newest antique is not the only recorded case of a haunting or possession by the Jewish spirit.

In fact, the Dybbuk Box went viral once again when it cursed one of America’s most celebrated musicians...

#1 - Post Malone gets cursed by the Dybbuk Box

I know I wouldn’t turn down a personal tour of Zak Bagan’s museum - but after what happened to Post Malone’s own experience with the Dybbuk Box, I might give it a second thought…

He was there when Bagans removed the plexiglass around the box and touched it for the first time since it came into his possession. And when he first placed his fingers on the wine cabinet, Post touched his shoulder. The following events suggested the curse instantly passed from Zak to Post in some sort of human-chain.

The dybbuk might not have possessed the American music artist, but it certainly made its presence known in what many deem a curse: his private plane had to make an emergency landing, armed robbers targeted what they thought was his home, and one of his cars was involved in a serious accident.

#2 - The possession by Baal Dovor in Poland

One of the most famous cases of possession occurred in 18th century Poland. A Jewish woman started speaking Polish - not her first language - and the possessive entity caused her great physical pain. She couldn’t pray, she couldn’t study sacred texts, and she couldn’t even use holy words. When she tried to attend the synagogue she created a ‘disturbance’.

Three exorcisms were carried out to rid her of the demon eventually identified as Baal Dovor. The first two partially removed it but it quickly returned.

The final exorcism did the trick and she specifically asked for lamps to be lit during it. But during this exorcism, a third voice was heard - a voice they recognised as a deceased rabbi. He said she was a saintly individual, that she would get better, and then she would give birth to a son.

His prediction was correct.

#3 - The possession of Eidel

In the late 19th century, the daughter of a Rabbi was possessed by a dybbuk - a dybbuk that was her own father. When her mother died she was raised as a boy and in male practices and studies. Her brother took the role of the Rabbi when her father died.

Eidel on the other hand became a Rebbe.

An exorcism of Eidel revealed the voice of her father which accused her brother, the rabbi performing the exorcism, of embarrassing sins. But he later deduced this was a disguise for another spirit. The exorcism was successful, but Eidel never recovered and was depressed for the rest of her life.

#3 - A curse is placed on a mourning Iranian man

After his father died, a man from Iran became impotent. Conventional therapies and medicines didn’t work, but a mysterious dream suggested the cause of his problem was being bound to the vengeful spirit of his father.

His father allegedly didn’t approve of his son not completing mourning rituals properly, and only un-bound him from the possession after a year (when the mourning period ends).

Binding male genitalia via witchcraft or sorcery is a common theme in Iran, and the prevention of male fertility features heavily in lore.

#4 - The dybbuks of Safed

In the 16th century, a young woman in Safed - a town in Israel - started exhibiting erratic behaviour. She was attacked by a spirit, fell to the ground, and began to speak in a strange voice.

Local rabbi Hayyim Vital exorcised the woman, using the ritual to deduce who the spirit was. He discovered it was the spirit of a wicked man who had been denied entry into heaven and purgatory and was thus forced to wander until it became a dybbuk.

But the thing is, this young woman is not the only resident of Safed to be possessed by a dybbuk. In the Middle Ages and early modern period exiles from Spain coincided with a rise in cases of possession. The similarities between christian and jewish exorcisms informed a cultural change witnessed in Safed.

#5 - A modern dybbuk in modern Dimona

Just before the millennium a widow from Dimona claimed she was possessed by the dybbuk of her dead husband. The mother of eight was refused an exorcism by numerous different rabbis until Rabbi David Basri stepped up to the plate.

Against a lot of vocal opposition from fellow rabbis, Basri exorcised the widow on national television. Dybbuk possessions alleged rose after the broadcast of the exorcism but fell back to the minimal amount before the controversial event.

Do you think the Dybbuk Box is actually haunted?

Let me know in a comment below!

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