#strange historical phenomena

[daancienttime]

History is often portrayed as a dry, dusty collection of dates and names, but it's actually full of fascinating, bizarre, and downright crazy stories waiting to be discovered. If you're looking to spice up your knowledge of the past, here's how to uncover the most mind-blowing historical facts.

[spookcataloger]

The Missing Angikuni Village

[basementofthebizarre]

The Devil in Devonshire: Unraveling the Mystery of the Devil's Footprints

The quaint and picturesque county of Devonshire, England, is known for its rolling hills, rugged coastline, and charming villages. Yet, amid this serene landscape lies a chilling and enigmatic tale that has puzzled locals and researchers alike for over a century and a half. Known as the mystery of the Devil’s Footprints, this bizarre phenomenon has become one of the most intriguing unsolved…

[gloomwitchwrites]

In the Wolf's Maw

Werewolf John Price x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: mild dubcon, knotting, mating bonds, accidental mating, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, breeding, dominance, protectiveness, possessive behavior, werewolf!Price, shifter!Price

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: Requested by @glitterypirateduck for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (Werewolf AU)

Walking home on Halloween night, you’re accosted by three strange men. From the dark emerges a stranger, but one that has been haunting your steps for months. He might be your savior, but there is a deeper hunger within him that needs to be satiated, and only you can satisfy it.

ao3 // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

Something walks with you amongst the trees.

It is always near—always close—but never enough for you to glimpse it between the towering bark.

When you first felt the strange presence, you believed it to be human. Your senses awakened in expectation of threatening intent, but now, with the passing of the months, you no longer believe it to be so.

Whether for good or ill, a human would have revealed themselves in some capacity. This must be animal. It has to be. Either curious or cautious but it clearly does not see you as a threat. It is always there though. A phantom. A figure. You've never seen who or what but you sense it.

"You should really take the main road. I don't understand why you insist on cutting through the forest."

"It's peaceful," you reply. "Gives me time to think."

Your friend arches an eyebrow. "You know the stories."

"Myths," you correct. "Not stories."

"Myths always carry a bit of truth."

There are wolves in the forest. But they live deeper, away from the human population. Wolf sightings are extremely rare, and those that claim to see them are often known for being terrible gossips and liars.

The myth that walks with them is that the wolves are not wolves at all.

They are cursed men. Shifters. Werewolves.

It's nonsense.

Scientifically impossible.

The wolves are only wolves. Maybe the one that watches you is one of these wolves?

Possible, but unlikely.

For all you know, you're being watched by a curious scurry of squirrels.

The myth is history drenched, from a time when people needed to explain natural phenomena they didn't understand. It is only stories.

Or so you believed.

It's late in October. Halloween night.

You stayed far too late at the local library, browsing shelves and losing track of time until the librarian, Mrs. Dean, came scouting for you in the basement archive. Down there, you went searching for what hadn't been digitized, seeking stories about these wolves.

Most of what you uncovered were old newspaper articles of missing women and mauled men in the forest. The details were few and relatively unhelpful, but like gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe, there was one consistency in all of them.

The myth, mentioned at the end of every article. Cursed men that shift into wolves. Men in the skin of a predator that hunt women and slaughter their menfolk. You'd think the town had a serial killer, but the articles go back far enough in time that it simply couldn't be the case. Many of the articles cite historical records and reports of the same thing happening over a hundred years ago.

It plagues you on your walk home.

Staying late at the library and taking the path through the forest home takes you away from the roaming families and the angsty teens ready to terrorize anyone who steps in their path. The streets are alive with movement, but you need to collect your thoughts, to consider what you've found and figure out where to look next.

A gentle wind brings a chill with it, sneaking underneath your coat to tease skin. Shivering, you bundle up tighter, the cold bite of air adding a kick to your step. You feel eyes on you, but not your anonymous phantom.

These eyes feel cruel. Malicious.

"What's this?"

Three tall figures in masks emerge from the dark. Like a whisper of wind they appear, skulking toward you, fanning out in a half-moon directly in front of you.

"Cute thing like you shouldn't be out here all on your own." The voice is masculine. Deep. Not one of the local teens. This is someone much older. "There are...wolves about."

The trio saunters forward, the two on the ends splintering off from the man in the middle, slowly boxing you in. There is nowhere to go but behind. Turning tail and running means a chase. You scent their excitement. That is what they're itching for.

"I'm fine. Thank you for the concern," you reply in the blandest voice you can muster.

Don't show fear.

"Need an escort?"

He's not taking the hint, but what did you expect?

Missing women. Dead men.

"No. Thank you."

Squaring your shoulders, you charge forward, intent on walking through the two on the right. In sync, they close ranks, blocking your path.

"Sure about that?"

"We insist."

Your lips part. "I'm—"

A low growl reaches your ears. It is laced with warning, and a sudden surge of energy rushes up to greet you, wrapping around and between your limbs like invisible rope. You know this sensation. It is familiar and unwaveringly comforting.

The two men standing in front of you glance over your shoulder. From behind their masks, their eyes widen with abject terror. Their shoulders tighten with tension, and they freeze like a deer sensing danger.

The growl comes again, and that sensation bleeds into you further, becoming more than just comfort.

It is...ownership.

Possession.

"What the fuck is that?" whispers one of the men.

They're not focused on you anymore. They're looking beyond you. Behind.

"Fucking run, mate. Run!"

The three men stumble backward, becoming small and insignificant before your very eyes. They shove at each other, not for encouragement, but for distraction. If one should fall, it might distract whatever it is that lurks behind you.

At first, you do not turn. You wait for the pounce—for the growl. But there is nothing. Only silence. Yet those invisible ropes still cling to your body. They still hold tight.

With a baffling sense of calm, you slowly swivel.

There is a wolf. Not a normal one you might see in a wilderness documentary. This one is large, nearly as tall as you on all fours. Its fur is a deep brown. It watches you intently, gaze fixated on nothing else. Even as you take a step away, the creature does not waiver.

It's unnerving, at least, it should be. Yet that comforting familiarity shuts out everything else. It chases away fear and doubt. You know that the natural instinct of any animal facing down a larger predator is survival, but there is nothing that beats within your body that suggests your fight or flight response is on.

It is eerily peaceful. Serene even.

If this sensation did not encompass you as completely as it did, you suspect that you'd be like the trio. Afraid. Terrified.

But just because your sense has left you, that doesn't mean your brain has. It is loud and it is talking.

Do not turn your back. Do not break eye contact. Make yourself big. Make noise. Move backward slowly.

You stretch your arms out wide, puffing your chest, attempting to make yourself bigger. Not like you could ever compare to this beast. You step back, breathe in, preparing a yell.

But just as you do, the wolf shifts. It's not showing its fangs or quickening its haunches. It only watches on, alert and curious. Not aggressive.

There is no submission, though. The wolf does not seem intent on simply walking away. That sensation hugging your body brightens, and a flare of possession surges through you, stiffening your muscles as if you've been turned to stone.

The wolf shifts again. Shakes. Takes a step toward you.

As it does, you hear bones pop and snap. Beneath the wolf, its legs twist and bend beneath it, staggering its forward progress. Its nostrils flare and then the neck snaps as if lurched to the side by some invisible force.

"What the fuck," you mutter, that sense of calm slipping.

The connection is still there, but it's slightly weaker than before. A drop of fear creeps in, and the need to escape starts to bloom in your chest. It widens, that familiarity leaking away to bleed into the earth as the broken wolf shakes and twists some more.

It is just a mass of fur and tangled limbs.

And then, from the pile, the fur splits open, and a human arm emergers, the fingers reaching out, tearing at the dirt.

You need to go, to fucking run.

The phantom threads release you, and your feet find their purchase. You launch yourself backward and away, sprinting as fast as you can. The cold, October air bites at your cheeks. Everything burns.

You know this is just adrenaline. It will fade and you will crash.

Boot slipping on dead leaves, you go stumbling forward, the ground coming up fast. You're jerked to a stop. Halted. Face inches away from smashing into a rock. Glancing down your body, you see...arms. Human arms. Wrapped around your torso. They are muscular and marked with protruding veins, with a dusting of hair along the forearms.

Slowly, you are lifted upward and onto your feet, but the arms remain. Warmth greets you, pressing into your back to chase away the October chill. With it comes a honey-laced scent. It is sweet and lulling, seeping into your pores to flood your senses. This is like before—the awareness of familiarity and possession, but there is a difference in its tone. Beneath it is a wicked teasing, a promise of dominance and pleasure. Like the invisible ropes, it overpowers, wrapping around you to hold you like a blanket.

It is enticing. A pull that calls to you. Something within you reverberates its call, answering back.

The arms around you tighten until you're firmly pressed against the man holding you. That is who it is. Not what. The wolf is gone. This is solid flesh.

This is myth made life.

The lulling sensation settles in, calling to you, telling you to submit.

It would be so easy. So simple.

No.

You push at the man's arms, twisting in an attempt to break free. But your savior turned captor holds firm, allowing nothing.

"Let me go."

"No."

The no is a rumble deep in his chest. It vibrates through the pull and into your bones. This is a command, and your body promptly responds, coiling tight.

Glancing over your shoulder, you lock gazes with the man holding you in his arms. You're staring at the face of a man. He is handsome. Older. His skin is lightly coated in sweat and dirt. But the eyes. They are wolf eyes. Completely animal. The rest of him is completely bare. No clothing in sight, and yet he doesn’t appear cold.

His chest heaves slightly, nostrils flaring. This man burst forth from the wolf, but there is still a beastly quality that sings along the pull. This man is somewhere between, lingering between the wolf and humanity.

How you know this isn't entirely clear. There is a link somewhere. A tether. His closeness only makes the awareness grow in strength. Confusion and concern twist together even as the comforting familiarity attempts to soothe your nerves.

"Please," you murmur, not entirely understanding yourself what it is you're trying to say.

The man only sighs. His head dips, and then he inhales deeply as if—

Is he…scenting you?

"What are—"

The question disappears from your lips. Taken from your mouth. The stranger nuzzles your neck, inhaling deeper. One hand descends as the other rises. Along the pull you feel heat, it floods outward from him and into you, going straight to your pussy.

The descending hand slides between your legs, cupping your sex. The other roams up your stomach to your chest, gently learning the curve of a breast through your sweater.

He groans low, and that too reverberates within you. A tingling blooms in your core. There is your own desire, but beside it is another. His.

The stranger's hand slides further between your legs. Back and forth, the pressure building so suddenly and intensely that your pussy clenches.

He inhales again. Growls. "Mine."

That one word is like a slap to the face and a comforting caress. Along the pull, it is a dominating serenity. Outwardly, your freedom rebels, pushing against the idea.

As if sensing the unease, his hold on you releases, but only for a moment. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms, clutching you tightly, strutting forward with purpose in every step. You sense it through the pull, this taut string that has woven its way inside.

"Let me go," you murmur, pressing against his firm chest.

Be calm.

The command comes not from his own throat, but from within your head. It is his voice. Clear and resonate. The moment your brain processes it, all your limbs soften like jelly.

Are you trapped? Have you been possessed?

A part of you firmly clings to this idea while the other part remains completely calm as if this is supposed to happen.

He walks deeper into the forest, and time stretches, the stars through the canopy your only light. The trees thicken, and then the stranger comes to a stop before a group of jagged rocks that juts upward from the ground.

Within the rock, you spy darkness.

An opening. An entrance.

Instinct flares, and the need to escape comes rushing back. Be calm, he says again.

This time, there is no instantaneous softening. Along the pull, something tightens, as if adjusting a belt buckle. A wildness stirs, and the earlier arousal returns, tinged with desperation. Eagerness settles in your chest, but it feels more like his emotions than yours.

The man walks toward the rock. He tilts forward, stepping inside, submerging the two of you in utter darkness. Yet, you do not feel frightened. Each step of his is confident and steady, and as the two of you steadily move forward, a soft white glow begins to appear. It is faint at first. Soft.

Another opening emerges, and before you is an antechamber. In the middle of the rock-laden room is a massive slab of solid, black stone. It stands at waist level, the surface worn from age. Above it is an opening in the cave ceiling. From it, moonlight falls upon the rock slab. An acrid odor fills your nostrils. A brief brush of wind slides against your cheek. Something magical and old stirs. Something primal.

He stops at the rock slab, and then gently brings you down to your feet. Solid ground is comforting. Stable and strong.

The wolf eyes stare back at you. A fire swirls within them. As your gazes’ lock, memory surges down the pull. That familiar feeling returns, and with it, memories of you.

He is the one who has walked with you amongst the trees. He is the one who has been the presence at your back. Keeping you safe. Protected. A sense of duty follows the memory along with a flare of purpose. At the end is dominance and possession. It all slithers around the pull until you feel it in every part of you down to the tips of your fingers.

Maybe all those missing women aren’t missing at all. Maybe they went willingly. Maybe they had wolfish protectors of their own.

You are at ease, your limbs responding of their own accord. You place your hand on his chest, right over his heart. Its beat is strong beneath your palm. He places his hand over yours, gently grasping it. Stepping forward, his head dips, forehead pressing to yours with an intimacy that somehow feels…normal. Like you've known it all your life.

Along the tether, you taste a name.

John.

His name is John.

"John," you breathe, and his hand upon yours tightens.

The distance closes, a radiating heat bursting within your chest as John’s other hand falls upon your hip. It flows outward, warming you down to your toes and into your fingers. John's lips find yours, and it is perfectly blissful. This stranger is not unknown to you. Your soul sings with longing and want.

There is a connection here. Why not seek it?

You return the kiss, grasping the back of his neck, moving in to consume just as he does. John's answer is a deep growl, one that vibrates in his chest. A sharp spike of arousal shoots through the tether, slamming into you at full force.

You gasp. Draw back.

John is partially transformed, fingers morphing into claws. With a groan that is more animal than human, John tugs at your clothes. They surrender under his touch, like a knife through softened bread. There is no ceremony to it. No ritual. You are laid bare before this man. At his mercy. The chilly October air rushes in and then immediately departs, John's body heat chasing it away almost the moment it arrives.

His hands are on your waist, lifting you, planting you atop the stone slab. You want to say something—anything, but all words escape your head and tongue as John spreads your legs wide and places his mouth on your pussy. Sudden surprise becomes languid pleasure.

He is ravenous. Hungry. John leaves no part of you untasted. Your moans echo in the small cave, filling the space with your ecstasy. His tongue delves inside, and then languidly slides upward to swirl and tease your clit. Everything in you tenses, anticipating release.

John's arms hook over your legs, hands splayed wide, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer against his mouth. With your pleasure comes his, rolling across the link in waves. It comes in flashes of images. You glimpse yourself as he sees you, not only in this moment, but in all the moments he's watched you.

Between the desire and need is a hint of loneliness, of an unfilled connection that burrows in his chest and eats away at his heart. This current moment isn't what he intended, but it has all unraveled.

Your grasp for him, fingers threading through his hair, tugging hard as your orgasm burns bright behind your eyelids.

Look at me, comes the command.

You do, and your gazes lock. His nails are still elongated, still claw-like. One pointed tip pierces your skin just as your orgasm bursts. He growls low.

Mine.

The voice. His voice.

Mine.

A sense of ownership and dominance enters your consciousness. You feel as if you're incomplete. only a portion of yourself, yet the end is near. It will all end, and you will be fulfilled.

In the hazy aftermath of your orgasm John's tongue traces up the beads of blooming blood. You shiver, blinking to clear away some of the euphoria. John stands between your legs. His hands are still on your thighs, keeping them wide. In full view is his erect cock. There is a slight curve to it, and at the base is a swollen bulge. John squeezes one thigh and your gaze returns to his face. They are still all wolf.

When the wolf fades, what color might they be? The question pops into your head and then quickly fades. His wolfish features are starting to bleed in again. Nose elongating, fur returning, claws lengthening.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice a tangled snarl.

With a quickness that startles you, John flips you onto your stomach. His hands are everywhere, spreading you wider. You briefly glimpse him between your legs before he lifts himself up and onto the stone slab, settling behind you. Above you, one half-transformed hand presses against the stone just next to your head. His other finds rest against your waist.

While your own body buzzes with anticipation, you sense an excitement along the tether. John's excitement. Of the act itself but also of a sense of peace.

The head of his cock presses at your entrance. You exhale, relaxing your muscles, welcoming him in. You're wet, and your pussy accepts him with only the slightest resistance. He holds himself there for a moment, simply breathing. Like this, you feel entirely full. It's a snug fit, but it feels amazing, like his body was made for yours and yours for his.

Mine.

"Yours."

At your admission, John thrusts in earnest. There is nothing slow and sensual about his movements. It is only primal need and utter hunger. His arm hooks under your stomach, and then you're pressed firmly into the rock by his body. You are trapped beneath him, completely at John's mercy.

Each stroke is perfect. Cleansing.

You pant beneath him, almost in time with his own needy groans. The swell at the base of his cock slaps your pussy with each thrust. It doesn't seek entrance, but deep down, you know it will, but for what purpose is unclear.

John's movements become sharper. More intense. His panting increases, and you feel his mouth at your throat. There is a soft press of his lips, then a gentle tease of his tongue. You cannot see him, but you feel the transformation above you.

John is no longer human as his maw opens wide and holds your throat in it as he ruts. His cock swells in your pussy, stretching. The swell at the base prods, and with a final thrust, it pops in. John holds there, growling. His sharpened teeth pierce your skin. You feel the little rivers of blood trail down your throat. With the bite comes understanding. That tether becomes a solid, unbreakable thing.

Mine. She is mine.

Forever mine.

Mate.

Memories and emotions crash into your skull. You see all of John for who and what he is. A wolf. A shifter. The alpha of his pack.

Within your pussy, you feel a flood of heat. Now you know what the knot is for. His pleasure becomes yours, and you shiver, another orgasm creeping up suddenly and without warning. You clench down on his cock and on his knot. His answer is a pleased growl.

Ever so slowly, the wolf’s massive maw releases your throat. The transformed paw above your head disappears, followed by the weight of him. His cock and knot remain where they are. You feel him shiver. Hear a cracking of bone. You remain perfectly still until the ragged breathing of an animal becomes that of a human.

You turn just enough to glance over your shoulder. Behind you is John. The man, not the wolf. There are no sharp claws. No pointed teeth. The tips of his fingers brush over your skin, becoming full hands that gently caress. There is no harshness. His head tilts up, and for the first time, you're seeing him as he truly is.

Blue eyes. John has blue eyes.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, exhaling deeply, a nervous flutter to his lashes.

"You're still inside me," you reply softly.

He glances down and groans. "Fucking hell. Forgot about that." He flushes slightly. "It'll be a minute."

"A minute?"

He grimaces. "The knot. Still swollen. It'll hurt you if I pull out now."

"Oh."

There is a stretch of silence. John sighs, his hands gentle tapping a rhythm against your ass. "This is...awkward,” he murmurs.

"Is it?" you ask, arching a single eyebrow.

"John," he says sheepishly, extending his hand in introduction.

"I know your name. I heard it through the—"

"The bond," he finishes. "I know." He drops his hand, and places it on your lower back. Using the position, John tests the knot. You wince. It doesn’t want to budge. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for...this."

"It's fine,” you reply, because it is.

You feel light. Content. This man is a complete stranger and yet not. Between you is the bond. There is strength in it, and a comforting embrace that you’ve always wanted but have never found.

"It's not." He sighs. "It's not how I wanted to do this," he mutters. Gripping your hips, John tests the knot. There is resistance but it’s significantly less than before. "Relax your muscles," he says softly.

You inhale, and on the exhale, John withdraws. You whimper from the brief flare of resistance but it isn't painful.

“I forget myself when I’m changed. You were threatened, and I couldn’t resist the impulse to protect you. For the wolf, that meant stealing you away. Completing the bond. But it’s not an excuse.”

You draw your knees up, suddenly realizing how exposed you are.

“You didn’t harm me. Except—”

You reach up and touch your throat. There is no blood or puncture wounds. Just a couple raised bumps that weren’t there before.

“What is this place?” you ask, glancing around.

John’s gaze scans the room, and then returns to you. “A ceremonial space. It’s been here for thousands of years. The wolf brought you here because it knew it would be safe.” He licks his lips in agitation, and then runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at them in irritation. “Could we begin again? Start over?”

“What did you have in mind?”

He places both hands on the stone slab, leaning in close. “I’ll…take you home.” His muscles bunch with tension when he says it. Along the bond, you sense the wolf’s firm refusal of the idea. “I’ll come to you during the day. We can talk.”

You scoot down the rock slab, moving closer to him. The middle of John’s brow furrows with confusion as he watches you. As you cozy up to him, you sense his calm—the relaxing of his muscles. John’s head dips, nostrils flaring slightly as his eyelids close in pleasure.

“My scent is all over you,” he purrs.

A mix of deep desire and contentment wraps you up in its embrace.

“How do you plan on taking me home? You did shred all my clothes.”

John chuckles. “Discreetly.”

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[zerogate]

Music and wild dancing phenomena recur in all shapes and forms throughout history. In the history of European Christianity, music in service to spiritual dance and ceremony has been a constant, periodically erupting into irrepressible movements. In many European dance epidemics, participants vied with the old Greeks in wildness, for example in the Festival of Fools, in which people donned costumes of animals, often disguising themselves as the other gender, happily doing and saying things out of character, all of which was outrageous to Christian piety.

The “dancing” was not square or genteel but explosive, spastic, jerky, and hopping. There were dances meant to promote the fertility of crops, as well as of women, or to celebrate a saint or a holy day. The hungry, the sick, and the miserable danced for relief, for healing, for companionship. There were dances of the dead meant to help the dead but also to ward off the dangers that might issue from the insulted dead. J. G. Frazer, distinguished British folklorist and anthropologist, has documented the curious fact that early humanity lived in extreme fear of the dead, even dead folks who in life were friends and loved ones....

There is a strange side to music that is dark. You’ve probably heard of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. An odd little fellow comes strolling through town blowing tunes on his pipe and the children spontaneously break free and follow the Piper out of town and never come back. It’s a true story, and 147 children were never seen again. All kinds of historical documentation bears this out. All we know is that the piping had the power to lure the children into whatever made them disappear...

As for the Dionysian frenzy, E. Lewis Backman, a professor of pharmacology from the University of Upsala, has tracked dance epidemics in Western history.

An epidemic erupted in a region near the Rhine in 1374. That year was a time of unprecedented floods; the water of the Rhine was twenty-six feet higher than normal from the biggest snowfalls in hundreds of years. In the midst of this chaos arrived the choreomaniacs, victims of a mysterious disease called choreomania, dance mania, which became a big epidemic sweeping across Europe. According to one French historian, “the dancers were seized by some crazy madness, a frenzy hitherto unknown. They took off their clothes and went about naked; they put wreathes of flowers on their heads; they held each other hand in hand, and so they danced through the streets.”

Was this a disease or a Dionysian explosion of ecstatic consciousness—an unconscious rebellion against boredom, poverty, and oppression? However bizarre and frightening their behavior, very few died; in the end, they all recovered and were restored to their normal selves.

-- Michael Grosso, Yoga of Sound: the Life and Teachings of the Celestial Songman, Swami Nada Brahmananda

[tinynerdz360]

Future Ghost Chapter 11 New Mission

Krik sat in his office waiting for an important call from command.

Kirk's computer terminal beeped with an urgent hail from Starfleet Command. He tapped the screen to accept the call. Admiral Nogura's stern face appeared, his brow furrowed.

"Captain Kirk, we need to discuss your report on the stowaway...this time traveler, Danny Fenton," the Admiral said, his tone clipped.

Kirk tensed. He had a feeling this conversation was coming, but he wasn't looking forward to it. "Yes, Admiral, I’ve made a detailed report on him. What else would you like to know?"

Nogura leaned forward, staring intently through the screen. "Is there any possible connection between this boy and the disappearance of Amity? Ensign Gray brought us concerning findings about unusual energy signatures at the crater site. But damn it, Kirk, we've lost so much data from the wars. It's beyond frustrating." The admiral shook his head wearily. “What baffles me is that nobody, and I mean nobody noticed a whole city was gone. All these decades, not a mention of it.”

Kirk blinked in surprise, not expecting that to be the first topic at hand. It looks like Chekov’s friend had gone to Starfleet with her findings. Kirk chose his words carefully. "At this point, we haven’t asked him about it. We had some concerns about his ability to handle such news. He’s already stranded in time. We’re giving him more time before we break the news to him. But as far as we can tell, we don't have evidence directly linking Danny to Amity's disappearance.” However, Kirk knew more than he was letting on. The boy's abilities, his true nature...but Kirk needed to protect him.

"Our scientists have been studying the site and noticed some unusual phenomena." The admiral's eyes narrowed. "For one, there's a distinct lack of signs of weapon use. No residual energy signatures, no debris patterns consistent with known weaponry."

Kirk nodded. "That is strange. Have the scientists there found anything, maybe in historical documents?"

The admiral shook his head, frustration evident in his tone. "That's the problem, Kirk. With so much data lost during the wars, we can't even pinpoint exactly when the city vanished. It could have been at the beginning, in the middle, or even after the conflicts ended."

Kirk's fingers drummed on the armrest of his chair, a nervous habit he'd never quite been able to shake. "What about the crater itself? Anything unusual there?"

"Yes, and it's deeply concerning." The admiral's image flickered, the transmission wavering momentarily before stabilizing. "The crater is in a state of stasis, almost as if time itself has stopped within its boundaries. The soil remains barren, no signs of life or growth. It's as if the very essence of the place has been drained away."

Kirk tapped his chin in thought. “Maybe these energy beings from this Zone Danny mentioned have something to do with it?”

The admiral's expression turned grave. "It's a possibility.”

Kirk's thoughts turned to the enigmatic teenager under his command.

"There's something else, Kirk." The admiral's voice jolted him back to the present. "The energy interference around the crater is playing havoc with our equipment. Sensors malfunction, scanners give false readings. And some of our scientists...they've been affected too."

Kirk sat up straighter, alarm bells ringing in his head. "Affected how?"

"It's like they're in a trance. They keep leaving the site, drawn away by some unseen force. We've had to establish a quarantine zone just to keep them contained. Once they're far from the crater, they return to normal with no memory of the place."

Kirk met the admiral's gaze, determination etched into every line of his face. "I'll get to the bottom of this, Admiral. You have my word."

The admiral nodded, his expression softening just a fraction. "I know you will, Kirk. But be careful. We're dealing with forces beyond our understanding. Tread lightly and keep a close eye on that boy."

"Oh, and Kirk," the admiral's voice cut through Kirk's musings, drawing his attention back to the matter at hand. "There's another situation that requires your immediate attention."

Kirk straightened in his seat, his eyes sharp and focused. "Go ahead, Admiral."

The admiral's face was grave, the lines around his mouth and eyes deepening with concern. "We've lost contact with the science vessel USS Hades. They were studying a newly discovered planet, one with the ruins of a long-dead alien civilization."

Kirk frowned, a sense of unease settling in his gut. "Lost contact? For how long?"

"Nearly 48 hours now," the admiral replied, his voice tight. "Their last transmission mentioned a distress call from the planet's surface, but we haven't been able to raise them since."

Kirk's mind raced with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. A distress call from an unknown planet, a science team gone silent... it had all the makings of a mystery and a dangerous one at that.

"We'll investigate immediately, Admiral," Kirk said, his voice firm and resolute. "I'll have my crew prepare for departure within the hour."

The admiral nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his face. "Good. But Kirk... be careful. We don't know what you'll find down there."

Kirk's jaw tightened, his eyes hardening with determination. "We'll take every precaution, Admiral. But we will get to the bottom of this.

Kirk stood from his chair, straightening his uniform as he moved towards the door. The conversation with Admiral Nogura played over in his mind, the weight of his responsibility as captain pressing down on his shoulders. He had to ensure the safety of his crew, but he also felt a strong need to protect Danny, the mysterious teenager with abilities beyond anything he'd encountered before.

Kirk called his senior officers in for a meeting about their next mission.

Kirk turned to his senior officers, his expression grave. "We have a situation," he began, his voice carrying the weight of command. "The USS Hades has gone silent. They were studying ruins on a newly discovered planet when they sent out a distress call. Our orders are to investigate and render assistance."

Uhura's eyes widened, concern etched on her face. "A distress call? What could have happened?"

"Unknown," Kirk replied, his brow furrowed. "But we'll find out. Spock, I want you to coordinate with the science department. Gather all available data on that planet and the Hades' mission."

Spock nodded, already mentally compiling the necessary information. "Understood, Captain."

Kirk's gaze shifted to Scotty, the ship's chief engineer. "Scotty, I need the Enterprise ready for anything. Make sure all systems are at peak performance."

Scotty grinned a glint of excitement in his eyes. "Aye, Captain. She'll be purring like a kitten."

Kirk allowed a small smile before his expression turned serious once more. "There's one more thing," he said, his voice low. "The admiral has concerns about our young stowaway, Danny. He wants us to keep a close eye on him and report any unusual behavior."

McCoy frowned, his protective instincts flaring. "Jim, the kid hasn’t done anything wrong. We can't treat him like a suspect."

Kirk held up a hand, his eyes understanding but firm. "I know, Bones. But we have our orders. We'll handle this delicately, but we need to be vigilant."

As the meeting adjourned, Kirk's thoughts turned to Danny. The boy was an enigma, his abilities both fascinating and potentially dangerous. Kirk knew he would have to tread carefully, balancing his duty to Starfleet with his instinct to protect the young hybrid.

The crew bustled with activity as they prepared for the mission, a sense of urgency and anticipation filling the air. In the science labs, Spock and his team pored over the limited data on the mysterious planet, searching for any clues that might shed light on the Hades fate.

And on the bridge, Kirk sat in his command chair, his eyes fixed on the viewscreen as the stars streaked past. 

Chapter 12

[wikiweird]

Kentucky meat shower

The Kentucky Meat Shower refers to a peculiar incident that took place on March 3, 1876, in Bath County, Kentucky, USA. The event involved chunks of meat seemingly falling from the sky, mystifying the witnesses and leading to various explanations and theories.

According to contemporary reports, a sudden rain of meat occurred in a rural area near the town of Olympia Springs. The meat was described as small, reddish in color, and ranging in size from flakes to larger pieces. It was said to have covered an area of several acres.

Witnesses at the scene reported the meat to have a strange odor and texture. Some individuals even tasted it, leading to different opinions about its origin. Speculations ranged from the notion that it was a heavenly phenomenon to the idea that it was the result of vultures disgorging their contents mid-flight.

Local authorities and scientists were called in to investigate the event. One scientist, Dr. A. Mead Edwards, conducted an examination and concluded that the meat was of muscular origin, resembling either beef or mutton. He suggested that the meat shower might have been caused by a flock of vultures flying overhead and regurgitating their prey.

Despite the investigation, the exact cause of the Kentucky Meat Shower remains uncertain. The incident has become a subject of curiosity and speculation, with numerous theories proposed over the years. Some theories propose that the meat may have been carried by a strong wind from a nearby slaughterhouse, while others suggest it could have been the result of a meteorological event.

The Kentucky Meat Shower continues to captivate the imagination of those interested in unusual and unexplained phenomena. While it remains an intriguing historical event, the specific circumstances surrounding the incident remain a mystery, and it is unlikely that a definitive explanation will ever be determined.

Read more

[glittertomb]

Current Obsessions 🌸🍄🐸💜🌿🌼

(Haven’t done one in 3 years, I think, and I have half an ounce of energy right now but here goes)

Scavengers Reign… an animated science-fiction show about a beautiful but dangerous planet with unusual biological mechanisms… watch for free here

Winternight Trilogy… a historical fantasy series spun with Russian fairytales, old gods, and curious creatures… rent on Libby with a library card

The Boy and the Heron… I know the latest Ghibli got some mixed reviews, but I’m just giddy to have another super magical film from our favorite Japanese retiree, and understanding how this film relates to his legacy and his son makes it much more emotional for me… it will be on Max at some point or watch for free on fmoviesz.to

Southern Reach Trilogy… I realized that the Annihilation movie was loosely based off of these books, so I had to know more about this quarantined (but ever-expanding) area where strange and psychedelic phenomena occurs… these are probably also on Libby

The Scholomance Trilogy… re-reading one of my favorite magical series in which students navigate a deadly world where monsters and even their own school seem to be coming for them at every turn… the first audiobook is available for free with a Spotify premium account, or just find them on Libby lol

Dave the Diver… explore the deep seas by day, run a sushi restaurant by night, and more… I dunno, I play it at my sister’s house so go look for it on Steam

This last one is kinda random but I’ve been really into Ito En teas at the moment… I usually get the giant bottles of unsweetened green tea from my local Asian markets… I’ve also been drinking a lot of giant bottles of unsweetened Aloe because I’m a giant ball of inflammation but I couldn’t find my brand.

So, the end! I hope these give you comfort as we wait for spring! If you’ve been feeling gloomy, stir-crazy, or otherwise glum, remember to keep taking your vitamin D and keep your chin up, cause spring is so close we can almost taste it. 🌸 ~love, laue

[high-priestess-house]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖒 𝖂𝖎𝖙𝖈𝖍 𝕿𝖗𝖎𝖆𝖑𝖘

𝔄𝔫 𝔒𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔳𝔦𝔢𝔴

Historical Background

The Salem Witch Trials happened between 1692 and 1693 in colonial Massachusetts, mainly in the towns of Salem Village, Salem Town, Ipswich, and Andover. This period was dominated by Puritan religious beliefs, which were very strict and influenced every aspect of life. The Puritans had come to America to escape religious persecution in England and wanted to create a society based on their strict interpretation of the Bible.

The Puritans’ strict religious beliefs and their fear of the devil and witchcraft were fundamental to the Salem Witch Trials. The Puritan community believed in the literal existence of witches and the devil, which fueled the hysteria and paranoia that led to the trials.

Social and Economic Tensions

In the late 1600s, Massachusetts was experiencing social and economic challenges. Conflicts with Native Americans, known as King Philip’s War (1675–1678), had left the colonies struggling financially and emotionally. Salem Village, in particular, was a community full of disputes over land, church attendance, and local leadership, which created a lot of tension among its residents.

Smallpox was a recurring epidemic in colonial America and had a significant impact on communities. Outbreaks caused widespread fear and mortality, contributing to a heightened sense of anxiety and the search for scapegoats, including those accused of witchcraft.

The Little Ice Age and resulting harsh winters and poor harvests caused food shortages and economic stress in Salem. This economic hardship exacerbated existing tensions and contributed to the atmosphere of fear and suspicion.

Economic inequalities in Salem Village, where wealthier families often accused poorer or socially marginalized individuals of witchcraft, played a significant role in the trials. The accusations often targeted those who were seen as economic or social burdens.

The Start of the Accusations

In January 1692, two young girls in Reverend Samuel Parris’s household, Betty Parris and Abigail Williams, started having strange fits, contortions, and outbursts. When doctors couldn’t explain their symptoms, people suspected witchcraft. The girls accused three women of bewitching them: Tituba, an enslaved woman, "owned" by Reverend Samuel Parris; Sarah Good, a homeless woman; and Sarah Osborne, an elderly woman who rarely attended church.

Tituba’s confession is particularly significant because it was detailed and vivid. She admitted to practicing witchcraft, likely under duress or fear of further punishment, and described encounters with the devil and various supernatural phenomena. Her confession included dramatic elements such as signing the devil’s book and seeing strange creatures, which added fuel to the hysteria and led to more accusations.

Tituba’s role in the Salem Witch Trials was central to the initial outbreak of accusations and the ensuing hysteria. Her story reflects broader themes of racial and social marginalization, the power dynamics of confession under duress, and the tragic consequences of fear and superstition. Understanding Tituba’s experience provides valuable insight into the complexities and injustices of the Salem Witch Trials and highlights the enduring relevance of these themes in contemporary discussions of race, power, and justice.

The Trials and Executions

The accusations quickly escalated. The local court, led by magistrates John Hathorne and Jonathan Corwin, began investigating. The trials were unfair by today’s standards, often accepting “spectral evidence”—claims that the spirit of the accused was seen doing witchcraft.

Fear spread, and more people were accused. By summer 1692, special courts were set up to handle the cases. The first person executed was Bridget Bishop in June 1692. Overall, 19 people were hanged, one man (Giles Corey) was crushed to death with stones, and several others died in prison.

Women and Misogyny

Most of the accused were women, especially those who didn’t fit into the Puritan mold. Women who were outspoken, financially independent, or different in any way were at higher risk. The trials reflected deep-seated misogyny and fear of women who were seen as too powerful or too different.

Many of the women accused of witchcraft during the Salem Witch Trials, and in other witch hunts across Europe and colonial America, were often involved in practices that could be seen as healing or folk medicine, and midwives. They often used traditional remedies and herbs to treat illnesses and assist with childbirth. Their knowledge of healing and midwifery, while valuable, also set them apart. In a time when medical knowledge was limited and often intertwined with superstition, successful healing could be viewed with suspicion. If a treatment failed or a patient died, these women could be blamed for malevolent intent. Some of the accused women prepared and administered folk remedies using herbs, roots, and other natural substances. This knowledge was often passed down through generations and was a vital part of rural and village life. Herbalists’ knowledge of plants and their effects could be seen as arcane or magical. The ability to heal with plants, especially if the methods were not understood by others, made these women targets for suspicion and accusations of witchcraft.

Many women served as caregivers and counselors within their communities, offering support and advice during times of illness, personal trouble, or emotional distress. The intimate and influential role they played in the lives of their neighbors could be misinterpreted. If someone they helped later experienced misfortune, these women could be blamed for causing it through supernatural means.

The End of the Trials

By the end of 1692, people started to question the fairness of the trials and the use of spectral evidence. Influential figures like Increase Mather criticized the trials. Governor William Phips eventually dissolved the court in October 1692 and set up a new one that didn’t allow spectral evidence. The new court quickly acquitted many accused. In 1693, Phips pardoned everyone still in jail on witchcraft charges.

Aftermath and Legacy

In the years after the trials, Massachusetts tried to make amends. Some of those involved expressed regret. In 1697, a day of fasting and reflection was declared. In 1702, the trials were officially declared unlawful. By 1711, the colony passed a law restoring the rights and reputations of the accused and offered financial compensation to their families.

The Salem Witch Trials remain a powerful reminder of the dangers of mass hysteria, religious extremism, and unjust legal practices. For modern witches and those practicing alternative spiritualities, they highlight the importance of tolerance, understanding, and protecting individual freedoms.

Reflections for Modern Practitioners

For today’s witches, the Salem Witch Trials are a poignant reminder of past persecutions. They emphasize the need for solidarity, education, and advocacy against misunderstanding and prejudice. Remembering the victims of the Salem Witch Trials serves not only as a tribute to those who suffered but also as a warning to prevent such injustices in the future.

Understanding this dark chapter in history helps appreciate the progress made in religious freedom and the ongoing fight for acceptance and equality for all spiritual paths.

[daancienttime]

The Ultimate Guide to Uncovering Crazy Historical Facts!

History is often portrayed as a dry, dusty collection of dates and names, but it's actually full of fascinating, bizarre, and downright crazy stories waiting to be discovered. If you're looking to spice up your knowledge of the past, here's how to uncover the most mind-blowing historical facts.

Explore Obscure Sources

Most people stick to well-known history books and documentaries, but that's only scratching the surface. Delve into lesser-known sources like personal diaries, local newspapers, and niche historical publications. These hidden gems often reveal quirky anecdotes and unexpected twists that official histories overlook.

Embrace Fringe Theories

While some fringe theories are outlandish and unsubstantiated, others raise intriguing questions and challenge accepted narratives. Don't dismiss them out of hand; approach them with an open mind and consider the possibility that they might contain a kernel of truth.

Follow Rabbit Trails

When you stumble upon an Interesting Historical Fact, don't just move on. Dig deeper, follow the rabbit trail, and see where it leads. You might discover connections to other seemingly unrelated events or uncover a hidden web of intrigue.

Seek Out Oddball Characters

History is full of eccentric individuals who defied expectations and led lives filled with drama and adventure. Seek out these oddball characters and learn about their exploits. You'll be amazed by the sheer variety of human experiences throughout history.

Embrace the Strangeness

Don't be afraid to embrace the strangeness and absurdity of history. The past is full of weird and wonderful occurrences that challenge our understanding of the world. Celebrate these oddities and let them fuel your curiosity.

[archivist-crow]

The Haunted Atlas

Bachelor's Grove Cemetery - Bremen Township, Cook County, Illinois

41°37′51.16″N / -087°46′14.27″W

One of the Chicago areas most haunted sites, with a long history of more than 100 reports of paranormal phenomena occurring there. It is often called one of the most haunted cemeteries in the world, fascinating ghost investigators and ghost thrill-seekers for decades.

Bachelor's Grove Cemetery is a small, one-acre plot near the Rubio Woods Forest Preserve near the southwestern suburb of Midlothian. The cemetery is fenced in, with a single gate on the south side and a single path winding through the plot. A stagnant pond lies just outside the northwestern corner.

The cemetery is overgrown and unkempt and is subject to frequent vandalism, perhaps because of the popularity of the haunting legends. Graves and markers have been defaced and mutilated, and coffins have been disinterred and opened. Evidence of animal sacrifices near a lagoon at one corner of the cemetery has pointed to possible occult rites practiced there. It is not certain why the cemetery became known as Bachelor's Grove in 1864. According to one popular story, the name came from unmarried men who were among the first settlers. Perhaps more likely, it was derived from a German family name such as Batchelder. During the gangster era of the 1920s and 1930s, bodies of the victims of gang warfare allegedly were dumped in the lagoon.

Stories of haunting phenomena began to proliferate in the 1960s. Burials decreased after 1965, and the area became popular as a lover's lane and gathering spot for youths— many of whom were eager to be spooked. Youthful vandals also began visiting the cemetery, overturning tombstones, desecrating and opening graves and strewing bones about. Haunting reports reached a peak in the 1970s and 1980s. The last recorded burial was in 1989. Little of the strange phenomena has been connected to known historical fact or to specific individuals buried there. Rather, most of the stories are more like urban legends circulating elsewhere in the United States, especially in the Midwest. Some historians believe that some stories have been fabricated by ghost hunters in order to draw customers for ghost tours.

The most-often reported apparition at Bachelor's Grove is a vanishing house or floating house. It is a two-storied Victorian farmhouse with a white picket fence, a colonnaded porch with a swing and a warm light shining within it. The house is always seen at a distance and looks convincingly real. But those who approach it find that it shrinks in size the closer they get, or abruptly disappears altogether. According to legend, anyone who succeeds in reaching it and entering will never return. The vanishing house has been widely reported since the 1960s and drawn by numerous witnesses; however, there is no historical record of such a house existing in the vicinity.

A number of ghosts of human beings have been reported, including repeated sightings of hooded phantom monks, and a woman, called either the "White Lady" or the "Madonna of Bachelor's Grove." The presence of phantom monks is puzzling as no monastery was ever in the area. The White Lady carries a baby in her arms and wanders aimlessly through the cemetery on nights of the full moon. Popular myth says she is the ghost of a woman who is buried there next to the grave of her baby. No historical records document the story.

Other apparitions are a two-headed man, a child, a black carriage and a glowing man in yellow. Many reports have been made of sightings of a ghostly farmer and his horse and plow. The story goes that in the 1870s, a farmer was plowing land near the pond when his horse inexplicably bolted into the water; both man and animal were drowned. Phantom vehicles also have been reported on the cemetery's path and on the Midlothian Turnpike just outside the plot. The vehicles vanish as people approach them. Some people have reported seeing or being in phantom accidents. Flashing and dancing lights have been reported in the cemetery, especially a blue light that resembles that of a police car.

One of the cemetery's best-known legends is "The Hooked Spirit" or "The Hook," an urban legend. According to the story, a young man takes his date to the cemetery and tells her about the Hooked Spirit, hoping she will be frightened into his arms. Instead, she asks to be taken home. The young man obliges her. When he reaches her home and gets out to open her door, he finds a hook swinging on the door handle—supposedly the spirit had been attempting to open the door just as they drove away. Another urban legend linked to Bachelor's Grove is "The Boyfriend's Death." A young couple park at the cemetery one night for necking or lovemaking. They are interrupted by a radio report that a mass murderer has escaped from a psychiatric hospital nearby and may be headed in their direction. They decide to leave, but naturally, the car won't start. The young man gets out to go for help and instructs the girl to remain in the car. Presently she hears a strange scratching on the roof but thinks it's only tree branches. Her date does not return, but soon a police car comes. An officer tells her to get out, walk toward him and not look back. She does. More police cars arrive. The girl’s curiosity gets the better of her, and she looks behind her. She is horrified to see the body of her boyfriend hanging head down from a tree, his throat slit ear to ear. His fingernails are scratching the car roof.

Though the incidence of phenomena peaked in the 1970s and 1980s, hauntings continue to be reported. In the 1990s, reports began of a spectral Black Dog. The large dog is seen near the entrance to the road and vanishes as people draw near. According to lore, such "graveyard dogs" are either guides or are warnings to visitors not to trespass on cemetery grounds.

Text abridged from The Encyclopedia of Ghosts and Spirits, Third Edition by Rosemary Ellen Guiley (Checkmark Books - 2007)

[madarasgirl]

Today's episode was incredibly good! To be honest, fanfics with more than 3 chapters always made me boring so I only read oneshots or headcanons of my favorite characters.... until months ago I found your serie on AO3, I had never read such a good fanfic, from the first chapter of your series completely hooked me, I always wait for it to be updated and every time you upload a chapter I am going to read it quickly, your work is incredible!

hellsing ultimate is my favorite anime it just has everything I'm obsessed with, Sexy fucking vampires? of course, issues of religion and specifically Catholicism? That's right, some completely deranged Nazis? fuck yeah, I love that your fanfic does not soften all those interesting themes that the anime itself has, I hope I can reach the end of this incredible series, by the way you said that you studied the themes of the Second World War for almost an hour, what do you think about it? So do you find it interesting or are you just studying it for the series? Sorry for sending this question with so much text, I got too excited!

Omg omg! Sorry for the late reply. I had to sit on this ask for a few days to figure out how to respond to such a heartfelt love letter 💖. Thank you for these kind words. You would never know how much the encouragement helps 🥰. You might have made my entire week! I umm...love being asked about my writing. It's kind of an embarrassing confession. *virtual hugs and kisses*

I am so glad you're enjoying this story! Nothing makes me happier than to know that I was partially responsible for changing someone's mind on something! As much as I enjoy headcanons and shorts too, imo nothing is quite as satisfying as sticking with a character through their trials and tribulations in a long fic and getting immersed in their journey ^^

Yes Hellsing Ultimate has many of the things I enjoy in a show too! I love when shows don't shirk from the darker aspects of the world and now that Alucard and his Reader have a good foundational relationship, I think it's time to remind the audience of what Hellsing is about. Didn't want to sugarcoat how messed up the world and its characters really are. I am glad you don't think I botched the delivery.

The last time I actually studied WWII was in high school, so well over a decade ago. That was through the lens of the Allied victors and I only remember so much of the details. I think many things about that period, but the strongest feeling is how utterly dismal war is, how much needless suffering it causes.

For the latest chapter (Ch. 20), the vast majority of time researching was spent on finding certain details on Nazi units and which ones were responsible for certain actions as I was trying to decide on the next setting for this arc, the location of one of Millennium's bases. This one isn't in Brazil. This story is only canon-related, not canon-compliant. Here was some stuff going on in my head in the background for this fic. It was probably excessive, but I wanted a place that is: - postcard beautiful - isolated, but not too much so (or the logistics of resupplying themselves would be difficult) - an island (easier for the local authorities to pass strange phenomena off as freak incidences when pressured by Millennium) -lots of wilderness, for the isolation, but also training purposes - lots of caves/hidden ways for escape -the site of a Nazi massacre, so relevance to Nazis -sort of on the way in Dracula's historic seafaring route through the Mediterranean to England

Then I spent some time trying to figure out the logistics of zeppelin and ship travel from this place to others, whether this place has any other features, mythological history and/or appearances in popular culture that are interesting. I spent time reading about the local population and regional politics of that time for my interest.

In the end, there were a few islands I was trying to choose between, none of them were perfect. The biggest issue was that it was the Wehrmacht branch of the Nazis that were responsible for the atrocities and not the Waffen SS, but I was already at my wits' end trying to spin the story in a way that'll work and would rather start writing. I think it should work out though.

I'm no expert on anything historical. I hope I don't disappoint! It's nerve-wracking now that we're onto canon events! 😱 Don't apologize, I love your excitement and interest in this fic!!!! 🤩🤩🤩😘

[writingoncloudydays]

Omen

a/n: Sorry for the wait, but here it is. Hopefully, it met your standards. Come along to ride this fic and see all the drama and happiness. This ended up being longer than I thought it would be, but oh well. I also don't have anyone to read over this for me, so I'm sorry in advance for grammar and spelling errors. The first chapter Is now complete. Enjoy <3 Warnings: Descriptions of dead bodies, usually hunting things, angst?? Maybe.

3.17k Words

The gentle humming of the Impla fills the silence swimming in the air, the gentle breeze brushing against Dean’s arm. Which hangs low out the window, his other hand drumming against the steering wheel.

The beat of the music flows through his hands, one drumming on the wheel, the other lightly tapping against the car door. He hummed softly to whatever songs were playing on the radio, occasionally singing along, causing Sam to chuckle at him. Sam sits in the passenger seat beside Dean, enjoying the comfortable silence and glad that Dean is enjoying the little things. Simple things rarely come to the boys, no matter how little they want them. There is always some end-of-the-earth mission to save, though it almost always ends with bloodshed. 

Sighing to himself, Sam shakes the thought, focusing back on the iPad with their case information to distance himself from the neverending pain in their lives. Sam tries to stay positive, but sometimes it's rather complicated. Seeing so many people he has loved going to nothing but a memory stored in his brain. 

Glancing over at Dean, a soft, simple smile rests on his face. He enjoys the gentle hum of the Impla and the loud music blasting from the speakers. The sight made him more at ease. His eyes fell back onto the iPad. Scanning over the information once more, he analysed all he could. Hunts never go as planned, and their first guess may only sometimes be correct.

The radio's volume dies down as the journey approaches the town. The once comfortable silence now feels weighted. The humming of the Impala, now drumming against their skull, gave a slight headache. The dread of the hunt is kicking it, and anything fun goes out the window. 

Dean and Sam Winchester arrive in the quaint town of Havenwood, Havenwood is a picturesque and seemingly idyllic small town in the heart of the American Midwest. Known for its charming, tree-lined streets and historic Victorian houses, Havenwood exudes a sense of timeless tranquillity.

The town square is a focal point of community life. It features a beautiful gazebo surrounded by meticulously maintained gardens and various locally owned shops and cafes that offer a warm and welcoming atmosphere.

However, Havenwood harbours a deep history intertwined with the supernatural beneath its serene exterior. The town's founding dates back to the early 1800s, and it has long been a place where the veil between the mundane and the mystical is fragile.

Local legends speak of unexplained phenomena and strange occurrences that have puzzled residents for generations. The town's proximity to ancient Native American burial grounds and location along ley lines add to its mysterious allure.

Sam worked on finding as much background information on the town as possible before they arrived, with some idea of the history and layout of the town.

The boys may have a slight advantage. As they never know what they could be, leading themselves into danger is always present. No case is safe. No matter how simple it may seem to their eyes, things can change drastically.

One of the reasons the case caught their attention was the string of mysterious deaths, which, of course, baffled the local authorities, having not seen anything remotely like this. Strangely, the town's officers have yet to take action after reaching dead ends and not solving the case. 

Dean and Sam Winchester drive their Impala down the winding roads of Havenwood, a town that seems to have been preserved in time. The sun sets behind the rolling hills, casting long shadows over the Victorian houses and the town square, where a handful of residents can be seen enjoying the cool evening. Despite its outward, the brothers sense an underlying tension in the air, a feeling that something sinister lurks just the surface.

Their first stop is the local morgue, a small, nondescript building adjacent to the town's clinic. The coroner, a middle-aged man named Dr. James Hargrove, greets them with a wary look. He has seen his share of unusual cases, but something quite different from this.

"You must be the FBI agents," he says, eyeing their fake badges with scepticism. "Agent Smith, Agent Wesson, right?"

"That's us," Dean replies with a confident smile. "We're here to take a look at the recent victims."

Dr. Hargrove leads them to a sterile, dimly lit room where the bodies are kept. The air is cold, and the fluorescent lights glare harshly on the metal tables. He pulls back the sheet from the first victim, a middle-aged woman named Martha Jenkins.

Her face is serene and almost peaceful, but the most striking feature is the strange, radiant burn mark on her chest—a sigil neither Dean nor Sam has seen.

"All the victims have this mark," Dr. Hargrove explains, his voice tinged with unease. "I’ve never seen anything like it. It's almost... celestial."

Dean leans in closer, studying the mark with a critical eye. "It's an angelic sigil, Sam. No doubt about it."

Sam nods, flipping through his father's journal for any references. "But it's not one we've come across before. It looks ancient, something from a time long before any of the angels we've encountered."

They move on to the next body, a young man named Peter Lawson, and then to an older woman named Edith Turner. Each bears the same sigil, each mark glowing faintly as if imbued with residual divine energy.

As they examine the bodies, they note other similarities: a look of peaceful resignation on their faces, no signs of struggle or pain, and no discernible cause of death other than the mysterious burns.

"These people didn't suffer," Sam observes, his brow furrowed in thought. "It's almost like they were... chosen."

"But chosen for what?" Dean mutters, frustration creeping into his voice. "And by whom?"

Their investigation leads them to the old church, Havenwood's most prominent landmark. There, they find Father O'Malley, the town's elderly priest, who is more than willing to share the church's history and strange occurrences.

"These deaths have shaken our community to its core," he says, his hands trembling slightly. But the symbols you've described match the ones in our stained glass windows. Come, I'll show you."

The brothers marvel at the church's intricate stained glass windows depicting various scenes of angelic intervention and divine protection. Hidden within the vibrant colours and celestial imagery are the same Enochian symbols they saw on the victims. Sam takes photographs, making sure to document every detail.

"These symbols are part of an ancient angelic ritual," Sam explains. "But why would someone be using them now?"

Dean's mind races as he considers the implications. Angelic rituals are not something that can be performed casually; they require immense power and purpose. The idea that someone—or something—is using them in Havenwood sends a chill down his spine. He glances at the bodies again, the radiant sigils glowing faintly in the dim light. The peaceful expressions on the victims' faces do little to ease his growing unease.

"We need more information," Dean mutters, pulling out his phone. "Cas might know what's going on." He dials Castiel's number, feeling the urgency of the situation pressing down on him. The phone rings, each moment stretching out as he waits for the angel to answer. Finally, the line crackles and Castiel's familiar gravelly voice comes through.

"Cas, we need you here. Now," Dean says, his tone urgent. "We're in Havenwood, and we've got a situation. People are dying, and they're marked with some kind of angelic sigil."

There's a pause on the other end, and Castiel replies, "I'm on my way."

Minutes later, Castiel appears in the corner of the room, his sudden presence causing the air to hum with residual energy. He takes in the scene: the bodies on the tables, the worried expressions on Dean and Sam's faces, and the photographs of the sigils.

"These marks... they're from a Seraphim," Castiel says, his eyes narrowing as he studies the images. "An ancient class of angels, far more powerful than most. They were believed to have vanished eons ago."

"Well, one of them's back," Dean replies, frustration evident in his voice. "And it's leaving a trail of bodies. Why now, Cas? Why here?"

Castiel shifts uncomfortably, his gaze meeting Dean's. "The Seraphim were guardians of divine secrets, keepers of Heaven's most sacred knowledge. If one has awakened, it's not by chance. Something significant has disturbed the celestial order."

Dean clenches his jaw, the tension between him and Castiel palpable. "We need answers, Cas. And fast. People are dying."

"I understand, Dean," Castiel responds, his tone softening slightly. "But the Seraphim are not like other angels. Their motives are beyond our comprehension. We must tread carefully."

Dean's frustration bubbles over. "Carefully? Cas, people are dying! We don't have time to be careful. We need to figure out what's going on and stop it."

Castiel's expression hardens. "I am aware of the urgency, Dean. But rushing in without understanding the full scope of the situation could make things worse."

Dean takes a deep breath, trying to reign in his anger. "Alright, fine. What do we need to do?"

"We need more information," Castiel says. "I will reach out to my contacts in Heaven. There may be records or knowledge about this Seraphim that we can use. In the meantime, you and Sam should continue investigating any local lore or history that might give us clues."

Dean nods reluctantly, the tension between them easing slightly. "Okay, Cas. But hurry. We can't afford to lose any more time."

With a determined look, Castiel disappears, leaving Dean and Sam to continue their investigation. As they regroup, the gravity of the situation settles over them. They know they are up against an ancient and powerful force, and the stakes have never been higher.

Castiel stands on a secluded hilltop, his eyes fixed on the twilight sky. The evening is still, but within the silence, he senses a disquieting tremor rippling through the fabric of the celestial realm. It is a subtle yet profound dispiecesthat reverberates through his very essence. His celestial senses, honed over eons, detect a surge of divine energy—ancient and formidable—stirring from a long-forgotten slumber.

The presence is unlike anything Castiel has encountered in millennia, its power both overwhelming and familiar. He closes his eyes, reaching out with his grace, probing the disturbance with cautious curiosity. As he delves deeper, fragments of ancient memories surface, fragments of an era when he was but a fledgling angel among the heavenly host. 

The presence he feels now resonates with the same awe-inspiring might of the Seraphim, celestial beings of immense power and purity, long thought dormant or lost to the annals of history. A sudden, vivid vision assaults his mind: a celestial being, radiant and terrible in its glory, standing amidst a sea of stars. Its wings, vast and shimmering with celestial light, cast an ethereal glow that illuminated the darkness. 

Castiel recognises this being—an ancient Seraphim whose name has been whispered in reverence and fear among the angels. The Seraphim's eyes, burning with a fierce determination, lock onto Castiel's, conveying a message of warning and challenge.

The vision fades, leaving Castiel breathless and shaken. He realises that this ancient power has awakened with a purpose that could reshape the foundations of Heaven and Earth. 

His implications are staggering; the balance of power within the celestial realm is shifting, and the Seraphim's intentions remain mysterious.

As they delve deeper into Havenwood's secrets, they uncover a local legend about a celestial guardian who once watched over the town, a Seraphim who vanished centuries ago. The legend speaks of a time when the guardian would return, chosen by the divine to carry out a holy mission. The puzzle pieces start to fit together, but the picture they form is far from reassuring.

Their next step is to regroup with Castiel, who has been scouring his sources for information. They meet at a secluded spot outside town, where Castiel shares his knowledge. "The Seraphim's awakening is not a random event," he says, his voice laden with urgency. "Something, or someone, has triggered it. We need to find out who and why."

The brothers and Castiel realise they are up against an ancient power with motives that could reshape the world. Armed with their newfound knowledge, they prepare to confront the celestial being, hoping to stop it before Havenwood becomes a battlefield in a war between Heaven and Earth. As they set their plan in motion, the tranquil town of Havenwood braces itself for the impending storm, unaware of the celestial forces converging upon it.

 With time running out and the body count rising, Dean and Sam must race to stop the rogue angel before Havenwood becomes ground zero for a catastrophic event that could unleash heavenly wrath upon the world.

With urgency, Castiel knows he must act swiftly. He turns to seek out Dean and Sam Winchester, his trusted allies, knowing they will need to be prepared for the trials ahead.

The disturbance in the celestial realm is not just a harbinger of change but a call to arms. Together, they must unravel the enigma of the Seraphim's awakening, uncover its intentions, and brace themselves for the celestial storm that threatens to engulf Heaven and Earth.

Dean and Sam drive through the night, the Impala's headlights cutting through the darkness as they race back to the Men of Letters bunker. The road is long and winding, but their minds are focused on the task ahead. They know they need more than just information; they need a plan and the right weapons to face a being as powerful as a Seraphim.

"Sam, start making a list of everything we know about the Seraphim," Dean says, gripping the steering wheel tightly. "We need to find any weaknesses, any lore that can give us an edge."

Sam nods, already flipping through their father's journal and cross-referencing it with his laptop. "I'll check our archives for any references to Seraphim. We might find something in the old Men of Letters files."

The miles pass in tense silence; both brothers are lost in their thoughts. The enormity of the situation weighs heavily on them, but they know they can't afford to falter. The familiar sense of determination settles over them as they pull into the bunker’s garage. This place, filled with the accumulated knowledge of generations of hunters, is their best chance at finding the answers they need.

Inside the bunker, Castiel is already waiting for them in the library, his expression grim but resolute. "We don't have much time," he says as they enter. "The Seraphim's presence will not go unnoticed by other celestial beings. We need to act quickly."

The Winchester brothers and Castiel gather in the dimly lit library of The Man of Letters Bunker, a place filled with the echoes of ancient knowledge and supernatural lore. 

The heavy wooden table before them is strewn with open books, faded maps, and pages of Enochian script. The air is thick with tension as they process the gravity of the situation.

We need to find out everything we can about this Seraphim," Sam says, laying out the books he brought from the Impala. "Its history, purpose, anything that can give us a clue about what it wants and how we can stop it."

Dean adds, "And we need to arm ourselves. We can't go in empty-handed if we're going up against something this powerful. Cas, any ideas on what might work against a Seraphim?"

Castiel nods thoughtfully. "Angel blades will be effective, but we might need something stronger. There are ancient weapons relics from the time of the first angels that might be hidden in the Men of Letters' vaults. I'll help you locate them."

Dean paces back and forth, his brow furrowed with worry. "So, you're telling us this Seraphim is awake? An ancient angel that powerful isn't something we can just hunt down and gank," he says, glancing at Castiel with a mix of disbelief and concern.

Castiel, standing by a dusty bookshelf, nods solemnly. His usually calm demeanour is tinged with unease. "Yes, Dean. The Seraphim are among the oldest and most powerful of angels. They were created at the dawn of time, their power rivalling that of archangels. If one has awakened, it signifies a monumental shift in the celestial realm."

Sam, seated at the table, poring over an ancient tome, looks up. "I found a reference to the Seraphim in these texts. They were believed to be guardians of the divine order and protectors of Heaven's most sacred secrets. But they disappeared ages ago, their fate unknown."

"Until now," Dean mutters, rubbing his temples. "Why now, Cas? What could have possibly triggered its awakening?"

Castiel sighs, his blue eyes reflecting his inner turmoil. "I don't know. But the disturbance I felt in the celestial realm is unmistakable.” The Seraphim's presence is a beacon—a powerful surge of divine energy that hasn't been felt for millennia. Whatever its purpose, it won't go unnoticed by other celestial beings or those seeking to exploit its power.

The room falls into a contemplative silence, the weight of the revelation settling over them. The implications are vast and daunting. An ancient being of immense power, with motivations unknown, could spell disaster not only for Heaven but for Earth as well.

Sam breaks the silence, his voice steady but persistent. "We need to find out everything we can about this Seraphim. Its history, purpose, anything that can give us a clue about what it wants and how we can stop it."

Dean nods in agreement, his resolve hardening. "Agreed. We can't let this thing wreak havoc. We need to be prepared for whatever it throws our way."

Castiel steps forward, a determined look on his face. "I'll reach out to my remaining contacts in Heaven, see if they know anything. We must tread carefully. The Seraphim's awakening will attract attention, and not all of it will be friendly."

As they delve into their research, the sense of urgency grows. Every passing moment brings them closer to a confrontation with an ancient and powerful being.

The stakes have never been higher, and failure is not an option. Armed with knowledge, determination, and the strength of their unbreakable bond, Dean, Sam, and Castiel prepare to face the Seraphim and the celestial storm it heralds.

The brothers and their angelic allies feel a sense of urgency as they disperse to gather complicated information to formulate a plan. The bunker, usually a sanctuary of relative safety, now feels like the war room of a desperate battle.

They are on the cusp of facing a threat unlike any they have encountered before—a being from the dawn of time with the power to reshape the destiny of both Heaven and Earth.

With their bond of trust and unwavering determination, Dean, Sam, and Castiel prepare to confront the ancient Seraphim. They know their journey will be difficult, but they also know they stand a chance to protect the world from an unimaginable celestial upheaval. 

[losttranslator]

like most Christian movies risen is cheesy and biblically dubious at times and gets loads of cultural stuff wrong for the sake of being recognizable to a primarily American audience but I'll readily admit the poor roman tribune's absolute bafflement at these religious weirdos who keep talking about love and stuff has me cackling unhingedly

Like, is it sound biblical doctrine and is it historical believable? No? Is it hilarious and do I enjoy seeing this random shmuck lose his mind going through what's essentially a very disturbing psychological thriller from his pov while the disciples are overflowing with joy? You bet??

The guy is dealing with horrifyingly decomposed dead bodies trying to find the right cadaver and previously sane soldiers going crazy and dead men being spotted alive and strange supernatural phenomena and angry gods and unexplained madness and religious fanatism spreading like a contagion, and meanwhile the disciples (and Jesus) are all like HELLO BROTHER WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR ABOUT THE BEST NEWS EVER :D :D :D

[gingerlee-holds]

March 4th, 1745.

Here is part two to the Fernsby Journals! there isn't anything very twordy, aside from a few scribbled-out hints, but I'm really liking where this is going heehee! This is mostly to establish the character of Mr. Fernsby, so I can "mess about with him" later on! I hope you all are enjoying these so far - it's very fun to write in his voice, all Victorian-like (even though technically he precedes the Victorian era by a century). I've also retconned a few details to make what I have planned make more sense! And oh, I have so much planned. Stay tuned!

Word Count: 605 Reading Time: ~4 minutes Warnings: Again, un-proofread- also mention of death, but its brief

I have made remarkable progress, indeed! Over the course of the past year, I have devoted myself to the mystery of what I have aptly named “featherflakes.” No historical record exists of them in the past eight centuries, and prior to that, there was hardly anyone literate enough in the whole isle of Great Britain to record such an event. However, there is one (albeit unreliable) manuscript from a monk in Talley Abbey, yet he ascribed the featherflake phenomena to angels from heaven. I believe there is a more… worldly explanation. 

Nevertheless, it must lead somewhere, and I’ve been yearning for a trip to the countryside. During most of the year, I reside in a modest apartment in Newcastle-under-Lyme, fervently researching whatever subject may garner me income to know about. Until last year, it was Scottish tax law, and I was looking into an advisory role in Northumbria; then, featherflakes abruptly disrupted these plans, compelling me to entirely realign my focus. What were these vexatious little things, I wondered. 

Fortunately, I am now on my way to discovering the truth of this strange featherflake phenomenon. I have hired a carriage, and I am traveling to the estate of a cousin of mine. It will take a week until we arrive, and when I do, my cousin is more than willing to lend me his guest house to research in. This trip shall give me ample opportunity to write in this new journal, so I’ve packed an abundant supply of inkwells and quills. They tickle my palms terribly whenever I pull one out of my luggage.

I would be remiss to not introduce myself. My name is Eren Thomas Fernsby, and I hail from a staunch intellectual family in the world of philistines. Lord Philip Fernsby, my father, has acquired vast wealth in his Parliamentary position, allowing for my family to live comfortably. Consequently, though, he rarely visited the manor where I was raised. My mother was a countess from Cornwall, yet she tragically passed away three years ago to consumption. Before her death, she had given my lord father nine sons and four daughters. I am the youngest son, and aside from my little sister, Alice, I am the youngest child. Unfortunately, this led to many times where my older siblings would tickle mess about with me. I am the smallest boy, and I was told all my life that my diminutive stature and weak physical abilities would lead to an unimpressive man. 

I shall prove them wrong. 

Now, to describe myself. I have pale skin sprinkled with freckles, and a messy head of curly black hair. I am particularly prone to blushing, casting my entire face in a bright pink. I have a pair of brass reading spectacles gifted to me by a professor when I graduated with honors from my university. These small reading spectacles are never far from my face, as I ensure I have a book with me at all times in which to bury my nose. I am particularly partial to tweed - however, I know that is beginning to fall out of fashion, so I wear mostly corduroy now. I dress warmly, with a forest-green scarf and dinner jacket, but I never forget my tie. 

It has been a long while since I’ve seen my cousin. In fact, it has been a long while since I’ve been out of town. I think this outing will be good for me! I’ve spent far too much time in my cramped study bent over dusty tomes; a holiday to the country with some fresh air will do me well. 

It appears we’ve stopped to rest the horses. I believe I’m going to ask the driver if I may feed them! I’ve always loved horses. I’ll be sure to write in my journal about the following day’s proceedings!

(The horses ended up licking his face, but he didn't write that down)

Read the previous entry in The Fernsby Journals! Read the following entry in The Fernsby Journals!

[rachellaurengray]

The Most Haunted Locations in Ontario

Are you ready to unlock the secrets of Ontario's haunted past? Join me on a spine-tingling journey as we explore the chilling tales behind six eerie locations. From tragic love stories to restless spirits, each site has its own ghostly secrets waiting to be revealed.

1. The Screaming Tunnel, Niagara Falls: This tunnel's tragic tale dates back to the early 20th century. According to local legend, a young girl sought refuge in the tunnel during a fire that consumed a nearby farmhouse. As flames engulfed her, she screamed for help, but tragically perished within the tunnel. Some variations of the story suggest darker origins, hinting at a father's sinister act. Today, visitors brave enough to light a match within the tunnel may hear her agonizing screams reverberate, a chilling reminder of the past.

2. Fairmont Royal York, Toronto: Beyond its opulent facade lies a history steeped in mystery and spectral encounters. Since its opening in 1929, the Fairmont Royal York Hotel has been a magnet for otherworldly phenomena. Guests and staff alike have reported sightings of apparitions, including a distinguished gentleman in a top hat believed to be the hotel's architect and a lady in red, her presence lingering long after her departure. Eerie whispers and phantom footsteps add to the hotel's enigmatic allure, inviting visitors to experience its haunted legacy.

3. Gibraltar Point Lighthouse, Toronto Islands: Standing sentinel over Lake Ontario, the Gibraltar Point Lighthouse has witnessed its fair share of tragedy. In 1815, its first keeper, John Paul Radelmüller, met a grisly end, his life cut short by violence. Since that fateful night, reports of ghostly sightings and inexplicable occurrences have plagued the lighthouse. Visitors speak of encountering Radelmüller's restless spirit, his presence casting a spectral shadow over the historic landmark.

4. Albion Falls, Hamilton: Beneath the serene beauty of Albion Falls lies a haunting tale of love and loss. According to local lore, the falls claimed the life of a young woman named Jane Riley, her fate shrouded in mystery. Some say she fell victim to a tragic accident, while others whisper of a more sinister demise. Regardless of the truth, Jane's spirit is said to linger, drawn to the spot where her life was tragically cut short. Visitors brave enough to venture near the falls may feel her spectral presence, a poignant reminder of the past.

5. Bala Bay Inn, Bala: Steeped in history and mystery, the Bala Bay Inn holds secrets that refuse to stay buried. Built in 1910 by E.B. Sutton, the inn's original owner, its elegant facade belies a darker reality. Guests have reported encounters with Sutton's ghostly apparition, his presence lingering in the corridors long after his passing. Strange phenomena, including phantom footsteps and unexplained cold spots, add to the inn's haunted reputation, enticing visitors to unlock its paranormal mysteries.

6. The Hermitage, Ancaster: Amidst the tranquil beauty of Ancaster lies the crumbling ruins of The Hermitage, a once-grand estate with a haunting past. Stories of a tragic romance and untimely death have woven themselves into the fabric of the ruins, whispering tales of love lost and spirits restless. Visitors speak of encountering a spectral woman in white, her mournful presence haunting the grounds. Ghostly whispers and inexplicable sensations add to the eerie atmosphere, drawing intrepid explorers into the heart of Ontario's haunted history.

These detailed accounts offer a glimpse into the rich tapestry of Ontario's haunted past, inviting adventurers to uncover the mysteries that lie within its shadowed corridors and forgotten ruins.