#like dude I'm a believer but I work in house museums and live in a place where 1930 is NEW for an apartment building

[marzipanandminutiae]

"most allegedly haunted houses turn out to have gas leaks!"

no they don't. you are merely skimming the surface of mundane shit that can be wrong with old houses with your one puny little explanation that only fits a very small number of cases. try harder

[doctorstrangereview]

0010: Strange Tales #121

Cover Date: June 1964 On-Sale Date: March 10, 1964

And, the streak ends. Malicious Mordo returns with another cliché situation: a wax museum. Well, Vincent Price starred in House of Wax and Doc's look was originally based on Price. I suppose it was inevitable. The mythos does advance a bit with some new concepts introduced. Also, Doc's collar is near it's ultimate height.

Doctor Strange is on patrol, in a virtual sense. He's using his yet-to-be-named Orb of Agamotto to detect supernatural shenanigans. He doesn't find any, but something doesn't feel right. As if on cue, Doc gets a desperate phone call. The distressed caller even gives an address (not recorded in the story.) Doc immediately sits down! This doesn't appear to be the same funky chair he contemplated a big diamond in the Purple Veil story. For one thing, it's got a really cool dragon head that looks down on the occupant's head. Before you can say "shouldn't you be doing something instead of sitting on your ass" Doc changes to his ectoplasmic self. Ectoplasmic is this story's word of astral.

He speeds to the address and finds... nothing, really. We see a phone attached to what looks like a robotic arm. "It's a trap!" says Admiral Ackbar, eh, Doctor Strange. The consumer side of telephone technology was still relatively primitive when this was written. The phone company (there was only one back then) wouldn't even let you connect anything they didn't manufacture to their lines. To average contemporary reader this probably looked cool.

Doc flies back home, only to discover his body isn't where he remembers it should be! Damn it, I hate when I forget where I left my physical form. The missing body does give us an unobstructed, front view of the really cool chair.

With more incredibly convenient timing, Mordo's head appears floating in the air, huge and in the center of a big red something-or-other. The two have a long-winded exchange. We find out for the first time that you can only be in your ectoplasmic form for 24-hours before your body is destroyed. Your ghost follows soon after. Blah, blah, blah, you'll never find your body. Blah, blah, blah, I've beaten you before and I'll do it again. Mordo's giant head vanishes and Doc gets to work literally finding himself.

Mordo lays a bunch of traps that delay Doc. He finds where he believes Mordo left him, but he's still not there. And, the beastly Baron has managed to erase his tracks. Is Doc doomed? Nah. He uses his amulet to replay the action of Mordo taking his body and follows it.

(I find Mordo's use of technology to lure Doc interesting, but not consistent. First, Mordo comes from a bass-ackward region of Germany and lives in a dark and creepy castle lit by tons of candles. It doesn't seem likely he would come up with this plan. I thought it might be so Doc can't detect the evil magic in use, but later on we discover he can basically erase this. Ah well, it serves the plot so it must be okay.)

We finally arrive at the promised wax museum and Doc finds his body. Mordo has given Doc an interesting pose.

"I'm saved!" Uh, no. Mordo shielded it, of course. "You only got 10 minutes, ghost dude!" says Mordo as he steps out of the shadow. We learn something else that's been hinted at, but finally confirmed. Ghost and physical magicians can't fight each other. What's Doc to do? Why run away, of course!

Well, not really. He possesses a wax figure, grabs Mordo, covering his mouth so he can't say any spells and forces the Baron into his ghost form so they can properly battle. Mordo arrogantly assumes Doc is at his weakest and spends nearly an entire page magically pummeling the crap out of Doc (perhaps.) Doc seems to disappear.

But, as the Baron attempts to return to his body he finds himself stuck inside a banded globby thing. Really. I don't know how else to describe it.

"Tricked ya, dude!" Doc projected an image of himself (a bit like the story in ST #114) and forced Mordo to waste his strength on it. "I'm gonna teach you a lessen and keep you from your body for 23 hours. After that you'll be free to attack me again, because I really never learn to clean up these messes." "You betcha, Doc! Look how I'm waving my fist! I'll be back!" Doc leaves the museum and once again demonstrates his cloak's great flow!

What's that? Doc is gonna visit the Fantastic Four? Yes, Doc will officially join the larger Marvel Universe and every story from now on in contemporaneous with those of his fellow heroes. (There is speculation that the earliest stories may actually precede Fantastic Four #1.)

So, not a spectacularly original story. We get some more magical rules and more magical battles. We do get a sense of how merciless the Baron can be. He does expend a huge amount of effort and energy just beating up Doc when he's down. It's fun. We get a great new piece of furniture in the Sanctum Sanctorum. But the series would be no worse for the wear if it didn't happen.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Fallen Idols: Part Two

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2,129

Warnings: typical supernatural violence, language, angst, blood, you know the usual

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated. I really want to hear what you guys think about this one!

Feedback is the glue that holds my writing together.

Tags at the bottom

“Did you just give him all that research to do so he wouldn’t be out in the world?” you asked Dean as you finished your glass of beer from the bar you two were at.

“He needs it.”

“Dean, do you fully trust him? If not, you have to tell him. I may not have been serious about braiding Sam’s hair and mud masks, but I was serious about talking about our feelings. It doesn’t have to be a girl sesh, but it is healing to do so.”

“That’s more your thing than mine,” he shrugged.

“You know, I’m kind of scared about Amara and what Zachariah showed us,” you sighed.

“Me too,” he whispered, but you heard him.

“I just don’t want to end up that way. I saw the look in my own eyes, and I didn’t recognize me. It was all her, and that scares the shit out of me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were having dreams about her?”

“I guess I didn’t want you to worry. She talks to me wherever she is, and she says that I need to trust her because she needs me and I am going to need her. She tells me that she isn’t bad, but what I saw… that wasn’t good. It’s the complete opposite of everything she’s telling me that she is.”

“We’ll deal with her when it comes down to it. Who knows, that could be years in the future.” Before you had a chance to come up with a reply, Dean’s phone rang. He answered it with a curt, “Hello” before putting whoever it was on speakerphone.

“Took me a while, but I traced all the car's previous owners,” Sam said on the other line.

“Any of 'em die bloody?” you wondered.

“Nope. In fact—” someone nearby breaks a triangle of pool balls which was loud enough for Sam to hear it. “Are you two in a bar?”

“No, I—I'm—we’re in a restaurant,” Dean stuttered, and you put your hand over your mouth to silence your giggle.

“Here’s your beer,” the bartender said when she brought out Dean’s refill.

“That happens to have a bar,” the older brother said to the younger one.

“I've been working my ass off here.”

“Hey, world's smallest violin, pal, I spent the afternoon up Christine's skirt. I needed a drink,” Dean sighed.

“Actually, you didn't.”

“What does that mean?” you asked.

“The car's first owner was a cardiologist in Philadelphia; drove it 'til he died in nineteen-seventy-two. That Porsche is not, nor has it ever been, James Dean's car. It's a fake Little Bastard.”

“Then what killed the guy?”

“Good question,” Sam sighed.

“I want you to use a, a fine-tooth comb. The evidence is here, we just gotta find it,” Rick instructed one of the crime scent unit gentlemen who just nodded and left to do his job. 

There had been another murder taken place at someone’s home. GSW to the head, but no bullet, gunpowder, or gun so it was definitely up your alley.

“Heard you got another weird one,” you commented to the Sheriff as he pushed past you to exit the room.

“Uh, well, it's a little strange on the surface, I admit, but, uh... you know, once you—you look at the facts…”

“William Hill died from a gunshot wound to the head. No gun, no gunpowder, no bullet,” you pointed it out to the nervous man.

“Nope. Nothing strange about that,” Dean shrugged.

“Well there's gotta be a reasonable explanation. There always is.”

“Well what's your reasonable explanation?”

“Professional killer,” the Sheriff whispered cautiously. “CIA, NSA, one of them trained assassins, like in Michael Clayton. You're welcome to look around, but—but these guys don't leave fingerprints.”

“Mind if we talk with the witness?” you asked.

“Be my guest. She's not making any sense! And she's not making any sense in Spanish either.”

“Right,” Dean nodded slowly before you took the lead and led the brothers outside where a police officer was talking to the housekeeper for William. 

Pulling out your badge, you flashed it to the officer who just nodded and left the woman alone.

“Consuela Alvarez?” you asked.

“Yes?”

“FBI. Now, uh, you said you saw something in the professor's house. Right? Something in the window?” you asked as you took the officer’s place on the bench next to the woman.

“Estaba sacando la basura. Imiré por la ventana y vi al hombre que mató al Señor Hill!” she exclaimed. 

Looking at Sam, you knew he used to take Freshman Spanish, so he was the only one who could talk to her right now since you and Dean didn’t know a lick of English. Getting up, you let Sam take your spot so he could talk to her.

“Uh, Señora Alvarez. Cálmese, por favor. Uh—Uh, díganos lo que vio?” Sam asked as he tried to remember what he learned. 

He asked her to tell him what she saw and to calm down since she was a fucking mess.

“Era alto. Muy alto. Y llevaba el abrigo negro largo y tenía bigotes,” she sighed.

“Okay, uh, a tall man, very tall. With a long black coat and a beard,” Sam translated.

“Y un sombrero,” Consuela added.

“Dude was wearing a sombrero?” Dean asked.

“Uh, a hat, not a—a—”

“No, no, no, un sombrero alto,” the woman corrected.

“A tall hat?”

“Oh, like a top hat!”

“Un sombrero alto. Muy alto!” she gasped as she demonstrated just how tall this hat was.

“What, you mean like a stovepipe hat?” you asked. “Like Abraham Lincoln.”

“Sí,” the woman sobbed. “El Presidente Lincoln. Abraham Lincoln kill Mister Hill!”

“Excuse me?” you asked, not believing your ears.

“S-so I go home now?” she asked.

“Uh, sí. Gracias,” Sam smiled as the woman left.

“Abraham Lincoln? The 16th president? The dead president?” you gawked.

“Looks like it,” Sam sighed.

Back at the motel room, research needed to be done because clearly, something was going on here that was worse than you originally thought. Sam did some research on the newest victim, William, while you and Dean went over the video that Jim recorded of Cal’s death to see if there was something that happened to be missed. Dean played the video frame by frame until you spotted something red in the reflection of the car.

“Wait, go back,” you instructed.

“You find something?” Sam asked. 

Dean went back a few frames until the figure in red was locked onto the screen. Dean picked up the laptop before turning it around and showing his brother what was discovered.

“It's a freeze-frame from Jim Grossman's video. Are we crazy, or does that look like James Dean?”

“That looks like James Dean,” Sam confirmed. 

Dean placed the laptop back in front of him with a sigh.

“So, we got Abraham Lincoln, and James Dean?” you asked. “Famous ghosts?”

“Maybe.”

“Well that's just silly.”

“No, actually, there is a ton of lore on famous ghosts. More than the, you know, not-famous kinds. I'm actually surprised we haven't run into one before.”

“Yeah, but now we got two of 'em? Two extremely pissed-off ghosts?”

“Who are apparently ganking their fans,” Sam said as he looked at his laptop screen.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Professor Hill was a Civil War nut. He dug Lincoln.”

“And Cal must've been a James Dean freak. He spent seventeen years of his life tracking down the guy's car,” Dean added.

“So, you're saying we've got two super-famous, super-pissed-off ghosts killing their... super-fans?” you asked in disbelief.

“That's what it looks like.”

“Okay, but what the hell are they doing here?” you wondered. “Ghosts usually haunt the places they live. I mean, I get Abraham Lincoln at the White House and James Dean at a race track, but... what the hell are they doing in Canton?”

“That’s what we need to find out.”

“You. That’s what you need to find out,” Dean said as he got up. 

Closing the laptop, you got up before heading to the bathroom. Sam just rolled his eyes before getting to work. He worked hard to try and find the right kind of information while you went to the bathroom and Dean watched from the sink with a soda in hand.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Sam groaned.

“What?” Dean asked as he walked over to Sam to see what was going on. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“What is it?” you asked as you exited the bathroom. Walking over to the brothers, you saw a website for a wax museum not that far from here. “You got to kidding me.”

Walking into the wax museum, you looked at the very many and very life-like figures which were everywhere. Abraham Lincoln was staring at you as you passed him which gave you a chilly shudder of uncertainty. John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon were also on display as well as some other famous individuals.

“Dude, he's short,” Dean commented. Looking over to where he was, you just chuckled at his comment made towards Gandhi.

“Hey. Gandhi was a great man,” Sam defended him.

“Yeah, for a Smurf,” Dean scoffed just as the director of the museum came rushing down the stairs.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, this is our busiest time of the year,” he chuckled. Looking around the place, there wasn’t a soul left in sight.

“This is busy?” you asked.

“Well, not right now, but it's early.”

“It's four-thirty,” you coughed.

“So, what can I do for you?”

“Uh, well, we are writing a piece for Travel Magazine,” Sam took over.

“Yeah, on how, uh, totally non-sucky wax museums are.”

“That's fantastic. A little press, just what we need.”

“Great. Well we're interested in a few of your exhibits, specifically Abraham Lincoln and, uh, James Dean.”

“Two of our most popular displays.”

“They bring in a lot of visitors?” you wondered.

“Yeah, we have our regulars.”

“I don't suppose that, uh, William Hill and Cal Hawkins were regulars, were they?” Dean asked.

“As a matter of fact, they were. Yeah, I heard what happened to them. It's tragic, just tragic. Oh—you—that's not gonna be in the article, is it?” the owner panicked a little inside.

“No, of course not. You know, I gotta tell you, that Lincoln is so lifelike, I mean, you can just imagine him moving around. You ever see anything like that?” Dean chuckled.

“Uh, no,” the owner frowned.

“Well, um, is there anything you could think of that would make your museum... unusual? You know, for the article?” you inquired.

“Well, I'll say. There isn't another place like us, not anywhere. For one, that's Honest Abe's real hat,” he said as he pointed to the wax figure.

“Almost like his remains,” Dean said to his brother which the owner caught.

“Uh, I guess.”

“You wouldn't happen to have any of James Dean's personal effects, would you?” you asked.

“Ooh, yeah. Got his keychain. We got a bunch of stuff, uh, Gandhi's bifocals, FDR's iron lung. This,” he indicated to his leather jacket with a huge smile.

“Who did that belong to?”

“The Fonz. Seasons two through four!” the owner grinned with a double thumbs-up. “But this is nothing. I've been working on a new collection of figures. Stuff that'll really wow the kids. Computer games, cell phones, sexting; They're just fads. I'm gonna make wax museums hip again.”

“Well, thank you for your time,” you said politely before leaving the awkward man and the creepy-as-hell museum. You’d come back tonight when the coast was clear to get rid of the keychain and the hat.

“Yeah, Abraham Lincoln and James Dean, can you believe that?... Why so kill-crazy? Ah, maybe the apocalypse has got 'em all hot and bothered. Yeah, well, we all know whose fault that is… Well I'm sorry, but it's true,” Dean spoke to your dad over the phone. Looking up from your phone, you saw Sam by the door, and you cleared your throat loudly which caused Dean to spin around quickly. “I'll call you later. Bye.”

“What's going on?” Sam asked.

“Did you get the trunk packed up?”

“Yeah, trunk's packed. Who was on the phone?”

“My dad.”

“And?”

“Nothing,” Dean shook his head.

“So, we're just gonna pretend I didn't hear what I just heard?”

“Pretend or don't pretend. Whatever floats your boat.”

“This was supposed to be a fresh start, Dean,” Sam sighed.

“Well, this is about as fresh as it gets,” Dean said as he picked up his jacket. “Now are we going or not?”

“Sorry, Sam,” you whispered before following Dean out the door. Sam watched with a frown, sighed, but then followed nonetheless.

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[creepy-girls-do-it-better]

could also me mold! toxic mold exposure can make you halucinate!

"most allegedly haunted houses turn out to have gas leaks!"

no they don't. you are merely skimming the surface of mundane shit that can be wrong with old houses with your one puny little explanation that only fits a very small number of cases. try harder