#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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[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hi there, I’m planning on writing gothic/gothic romance fiction. Do you have any tips?

Do you also have any tips to not make your writing too repetitive? I have a habit of repeating words a lot.

Writing Notes: Gothic Fiction

Gothic Novel

European Romantic pseudomedieval fiction having a prevailing atmosphere of mystery and terror.

Its heyday was the 1790s, but it underwent frequent revivals in subsequent centuries.

Called Gothic because its imaginative impulse was drawn from medieval buildings and ruins, such novels commonly used settings such as castles or monasteries equipped with subterranean passages, dark battlements, hidden panels, and trapdoors.

The Gothic is characterized by its darkly picturesque scenery and its eerie stories of the macabre.

It draws its name and aesthetic inspiration from the Gothic architectural style of the Middle Ages ⁠— crumbling castles, isolated aristocratic estates, and spaces of decrepitude are familiar settings within the genre.

Gothic fiction is rooted in blending the old with the new.

As such, it often takes place during moments of historical transition, from the end of the medieval era to the beginnings of industrialization.

Contemporary technology and science are set alongside ancient backdrops, and this strange pairing helps create the pervasive sense of uncanniness and estrangement that the Gothic is known for.

Past & present fold in on each other; even as man’s technological advancements seem to make him increasingly powerful, history continues to haunt.

Elements of Gothic Literature

The Gothic is a genre of spiritual uncertainty: it creates encounters with the sublime and constantly explores events beyond explanation. Whether they feature supernatural phenomena or focus on the psychological torment of the protagonists, Gothic works terrify by showing readers the evils that inhabit our world.

CHARACTERS

Characters in Gothic fiction often find themselves in unfamiliar places, as they — and the readers — leave the safe world they knew behind.

Ghosts are right at home in the genre, where they’re used to explore themes of entrapment and isolation, while omens, curses, and superstitions add a further air of mystery.

ATMOSPHERE

Eeriness is as important as the scariness of the events themselves.

In a Gothic novel, the sky seems perpetually dark and stormy, the air filled with an unshakable chill.

THEMES

In addition to exploring spooky spaces, Gothic literature ventures into the dark recesses of the mind: the genre frequently confronts existential themes of madness, morality, and man pitted against God or nature.

Physical and mental ruin go hand in hand — as the ancient settings decay so do the characters’ grips on reality.

History of Gothic Literature

The vogue was initiated in England by Horace Walpole’s immensely successful The Castle of Otranto (1765).

His most respectable follower was Ann Radcliffe, whose The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794) and The Italian (1797) are among the best examples of the genre.

A more sensational type of Gothic romance exploiting horror and violence flourished in Germany and was introduced to England by Matthew Gregory Lewis with The Monk (1796).

The classic horror stories Frankenstein (1818), by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, and Dracula (1897), by Bram Stoker, are in the Gothic tradition but introduce the existential nature of humankind as its definitive mystery and terror.

Easy targets for satire, the early Gothic romances died of their own extravagances of plot.

But Gothic atmospheric machinery continued to haunt the fiction of such major writers as:

Charlotte, Anne, and Emily Brontë, Edgar Allan Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and even Charles Dickens in Bleak House and Great Expectations.

In the second half of the 20th century, the term was applied to paperback romances having the same kind of themes and trappings similar to the originals.

Tips on Writing Gothic Fiction

SETTING

Gothic fiction can, of course, be set anywhere – but 2 key components of Gothic settings are as follows:

Gothic settings are isolated – a small community, a rural town, a single-family home on the open moors… wherever your Gothic story takes place, make sure that the setting is in isolation from the rest of the world. Places that are difficult to get to, with small populations, or are only home to one family or small group of people are ideal for weaving a Gothic tale. Even if your characters are not physically isolated – maybe they live in a city, for example – their isolation should be present in some way; maybe emotionally, maybe socially. There are plenty of options therein.

Gothic settings revolve around a home base – not necessarily a home or house, though that is quite common; but, with almost every Gothic tale, a central setting is introduced very quickly and almost all the action takes place inside or around it. This furthers that feeling of isolation, and also helps the house or laboratory or island or whatever else feel alive, as if it is a character itself.

These settings are often fun to develop and aid the story so, so much by being atmospheric and anthropomorphic.

By creating a strong setting and central location, you are setting up your Gothic fiction for success.

VOICE & CHARACTER

A strong voice, usually in first person, is a staple of Gothic fiction.

Gothic main characters are usually curious, determined, and unable to rest until whatever is going on around them is uncovered.

They are not faint of heart and often have experience dealing with hardship in the past; they are uniquely qualified for whatever disturbing events are going on.

Your character’s voice should be curious, but not paranoid; apprehensive, but not frightened or cowardly; and, above all, interesting.

As many Gothic are written in first person, you want your main character to take action and investigating the goings-on.

ATMOSPHERE

Similar to setting, it’s important to focus on atmosphere. Make sure you appeal to the five senses – let your reader know how it sounds, smells, feels!

The more details, the better; immerse your reader by making them feel as if they are actually in the space.

Often, as mentioned, Gothic novels take place in areas that are remote, experience frequent storms or bad weather, or otherwise have a very ominous environment.

Of course, Gothic novels can take place anywhere, but the takeaway here is to remember to highlight aspects that go beyond the visual.

SUBGENRE

Know what the genre within your Gothic work is or is going to be.

Are you writing a Gothic romance? A Gothic thriller? A Gothic horror? There are even types of books one might categorize as a “cozy Gothic” – taking the elements of a cozy mystery, but with a Gothic setting and characters.

There are some very specific geographical locations and time periods for Gothics, Victorian or Regency-era Northern England being a couple of them; but they are not all set in Europe in the 19th century, nor should they be.

Consider such settings as seen in Southern Gothic in the 2020s, for example, or Canadian Gothic (set anywhere in Canada, but usually southern and rural Ontario) in the late 90s, among many others. These are only a few examples of hundreds!

Dark academia titles can often fall into the Gothic genre as well, and, of course there are Gothic fantasy and sci-fi titles as well.

Carefully consider what sub-genre your Gothic fiction falls under before writing it, or during the early stages of writing as your work gets fleshed out. It may fall under just one category, or multiple! Either way, knowing this will help you write and later market your title.

MARKETING

Think about marketing at an early stage. Make it clear that it is a Gothic novel!

And consider publishing your title at a time when the Gothic genre might be in higher demand, such as during the month of October or the winter in general.

Appeal to fans of grim stories, horror romance, and what have you by theming your marketing.

If writing a Gothic novel is new for you, be sure to highlight that!

It can be exciting when an author tries out a new genre and moves into a new literary space. Be sure to let your readers know of this new venture.

Gothic Romance

As a genre, gothic fiction was first established with the publication of Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto in 1764. Characterized by a dark, foreboding atmosphere and outlandish, sometimes grotesque, characters and events, gothic fiction has flourished and branched off into many different subgenres in the centuries since its creation.

While Walpole introduced what would later become the definitive tropes of the genre (creepy castles, cursed families, gloomy atmosphere), it was not until Ann Radcliffe’s A Sicilian Romance in 1790 that gothic romance began to develop as its own legitimate subgenre.

Radcliffe kept many of the same tropes established by Walpole’s work, such as isolated settings with semi-supernatural phenomena; however, her novels featured female protagonists battling through terrifying ordeals while struggling to be with their true loves.

This concept is what separates gothic romance from its cousin, gothic horror.

Female leads would come to dominate gothic romance, especially after the publication of Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre in 1847.

A young woman struggling to maintain her independence as she falls for a dark, brooding, handsome man became a genre-defining plot of gothic romances published in the decades that followed.

A renewed public interest in gothic romance came on the heels of Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca upon its publication in 1938.

Authors such as Victoria Holt, Mary Stewart, and Phyllis A. Whitney dominated the gothic romance trade paperback market from the 1960s to the 1990s.

The image of a young woman running away from a darkened castle became a staple of gothic romance novel covers.

In 1983, Gaywyck, by Vincent Virga, became the first published gay gothic romance.

Modern additions to the genre continue to reflect its interest in both terror and romance, while also delivering updated or reimagined versions of familiar tropes.

Tips for Avoiding Word Repetition

While repeating a word or phrase can add emphasis and rhythm to your writing, it can also make your writing awkward and difficult to read. When you’re not using repetition as a rhetorical device, repeating words can get in the way of good writing. Here are some tricks for avoiding unnecessary repetition of words:

Read your work aloud. Reading aloud will help you avoid unintentional word repetition. Reading your work aloud is an excellent way to both hear the sonic effects of your prose and catch awkward repeated sounds or other unintended effects.

Read your work backward. Reading your work backward is an editing trick that forces your brain to slow down and pay close attention to the individual sentences. Start at the end of a chapter, paragraph, or page and read the last sentence of that section. (Don’t read the sentence itself backward—it won’t make any sense.) Next, read the second-to-last sentence, and so on. This will allow you to work at the sentence level, catching any unintended repetition or other small mistakes that your brain naturally skims over.

Consult a thesaurus. So you’ve found a repeated word. Now what? You can try rearranging your sentence to get rid of the repeated word, or you can keep the sentence the same and plug in a different word in its place. If you’re at a loss, consult a thesaurus for a list of synonyms. You want your writing to sound like you, and to be accessible to your audience, so it’s best to avoid using words you aren’t familiar with. But if you find yourself unintentionally repeating the same word over and over, a thesaurus can help you identify another word that more precisely captures your meaning.

Some Writing Strategies to Avoid Repetition

Excerpts from writing tips on repetition by Dr. Ryan Shirey:

While repetition is not an inherently bad thing (and can quite often be used to great effect as in the classical rhetorical technique of anaphora), most of us want to make sure that we’re not boring our readers by saying the same things over and over again without any variation or development.

If you’re worried about repeating ideas, then one of the easiest and most illuminating things that you can do is to reverse outline your draft. When you reverse outline, you take your draft and distill each idea and piece of evidence back into an outline. Some writers like to do this in the margins and others prefer a separate sheet of paper. Whatever your preference, a reverse outline will let you see rather clearly whether or not you’ve returned to the same idea or piece of evidence multiple times in the same essay. If you find that you have, you can think about rearranging or cutting paragraphs as necessary.

Another strategy if you’re worried about repeating ideas is to use different colored highlighters, colored pencils, or coloring tools in a word processing program to mark areas of your text where you’re working on specific ideas. If I’m writing a paper on the history of the run up to World War I, for example, I might decide to mark all the areas where I discuss treaty arrangements in green, all the areas where I discuss colonial expansion in blue, the parts that discuss arms manufacturing and trade in red, and so on. Once I’ve visualized these ideas with color, I can see more easily whether or not I keep returning to the same topics or whether I need to restructure any portions of my essay. Be careful, though–you don’t want to create artificial distinctions that might negatively impact your overall point. For instance, if a conflict over colonial expansion leads to a treaty arrangement, I would need to be very careful about using the context in which I’m discussing that treaty dictate how I code that sentence or paragraph.

If you’re worried about repeating words or phrases, you can use the “find” feature in your word processing program to highlight all of the instances where you’ve used it. Once you’ve identified the problem areas, you can look for ways to combine sentences using coordination or subordination, replace nouns with pronouns, or (very carefully) use a thesaurus to diversify your vocabulary.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

Hope this helps with your writing!

[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.

[illegalvampire]

Hiii! Welcome to my blog! :3

Aka the only social media I actively use, lol. Here, I post a variety of things! It's mostly Detroit: Become Human (DBH) related things, memes/funny text posts, politics, and my original works (art, fanfic, etc.), however this blog is mostly just a catch-all for things I'm interested in and/or enjoy! :)

Here's a little bit about me:

✦ My name's Aves! :D

✦ I use she/they/he pronouns! You can call me what you like, as long as you call me 🤙😉

✦ Genderqueer, bisexual, gay mess 🏳️‍🌈✨️

✦ American 🇺🇲, more specifically Iowan 🌽

✦ University student, pursuing a Creative Writing degree :) 🎓

✦ Avid writer! I hope to someday be able to publish my own novel :) 📚

✦ Artist, mostly traditional and dabbling in digital art 🎨

✦ Silly goose 🎉🪿

✦ Self-proclaimed cool person 😎

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⚠️Blog Rules⚠️:

✦ Be nice! Hate of any form will not be tolerated.

✦ Fandom discourse is highly frowned upon here. Take your arguments elsewhere! However, friendly, civil discussion is more than allowed if the post specifically invites it (ex. sharing a headcannon and asking others to add on to it)

✦ Homophobia, transphobia, sexism, misogyny, racism, and otherwise bigoted ideology are ABSOLUTELY NOT allowed here. This blog is a safe space for all 🏳️‍🌈🫶

✦ At LEAST 13+. I reblog stuff with violence, gore, sexual content, foul language, etc. Please keep in mind that if I feel it is necessary, I will ask you to unfollow, and in any extreme case, block.

✦ Spam like/reblog is completely fine! Go nuts!

✦ Feel free to ramble in my tags!!! I absolutely love reading what ppl who reblog leave behind. It always makes my day to read thoughtful tags on a post I made.

✦ DNIs: just don't be a dick and we'll get along just fine <3

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My Fanfic:

✦ ILLEGALVAMPIRE / VAMPYRL0SER MASTERPOST

✦ Ao3 Profile: vampyrl0ser

✦ Wattpad Profile: vampyrl0ser

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Fandoms:

💙🔓⭕️ Detroit: Become Human (main fandom, most active here!)

🕷 Spiderman: Into/Across the Spiderverse

👾 Pokémon

💤 The Edge of Sleep & Markiplier

🌲 Gravity Falls

💓 Heartstopper

👑 Arcane (League of Legends)

💚 The Sims 4

🌽 Stardew Valley

🤖 Anything with robots!!! I love robots!!!

Fav Ships:

Reed900 (Gavin Reed x RK900) [DBH]

RK1K (Connor RK800 x Markus RK200) [DBH]

Simarkus (Simon PL600 x Markus RK200) [DBH]

Allen60 (Captain Allen x RK800-60) [DBH]

Ghostflower (Gwen Stacy Ghost-Spider x Miles Morales Spider-Man) [ITSV/ATSV]

Blorbos🌟 and Fav Characters:

DBH: 🌟Connor (RK800), 🌟Nines (RK900), Gavin Reed

ITSV/ATSV: Gwen Stacy, 🌟Spiderman Noir, Miguel O'Hara

Arcane: Vi, Viktor

Stardew: 🌟Harvey, Leah

Random robots: Rozzum Unit 7134 (The Wild Robot), Eva (Wall-E), prolly more that I can't think of rn

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Tagging System:

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✦ my art - art I've made

✦ my fic, my fics, my writing - fanfic I've written

✦ dbh, detroit become human - self explanatory: anything relating to dbh!

✦ [character name] [media] (ex. connor dbh) - will tag most posts with the character as a focal point. Sometimes I forget/am too lazy to tag every character that appears in a fanart, fic, etc. I will (almost) always at least tag the media they're from!

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✦ us politics - self explanatory. Political happenings in the US of A, baby! Anything I reblog skews way far left/blue/liberal. Democracy!

✦ [no tags] - I forgor lmaooo

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I will edit this post as needed for my ever-changing internet presence to reflect my ever-changing life! (Last edit: 11/28/2024)

I think that's all! Thank you for reading! Happy travels on my blog, internet friend!!!

Stay safe and drink enough water, love you <3

~Aves :)

[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)

[connectparanormal]

Ghost at Mount Nemrut

Massive stone figures and King Antiochus I of Commagene's lost tomb-sanctuary are famous at Mount Nemrut, a distant and mysterious ancient site in northeastern Turkey. Local traditions warn of ghosts haunting its windswept terraces and jagged peaks, despite the site's well-documented history and culture. These spectral legends of myth, history, and folklore enhance the mountain's spooky ambiance. The haunting begins with the place's history. Mount Nemrut, approximately 2,100 meters above sea level, was the tomb of a monarch who wanted to immortalize himself by uniting the gods of Greece, Persia, and Anatolia. He designed the gigantic stone heads scattered around the terraces, now severed from their seated bodies, to immortalize his holy ideals. However, the mountain's solitude, years of neglect, and terrifying magnificence have inspired ghost stories. Locals and visitors often feel an unexplainable presence, as if the past souls linger among the stones, tied to the mountain by history.

Many ghost legends include King Antiochus. Legend has it that his soul reviews the decaying ruins of his once-magnificent hideaway on moonlit nights. It is said that a person, silhouetted against the sky, stood motionless atop the huge mound that covers his tomb. Others hear whispers on the wind or footsteps without anyone there. These traditions claim that the king, who aspired to unite celestial and mortal realms, may still be tied to the mountain, his restless soul safeguarding the location he erected to defy time. The laborers and artisans who built Mount Nemrut's magnificent monuments add to the melancholy. Historical records reveal that a massive workforce and physical labor were required to build the complex. Folklore suggests that some of these men died during the process, devoured by the mountain's demands. Their ghosts roam the terraces in the twilight, doing their unending job. Generally, these stories narrate faint hammering sounds or evoke a sense of shadowy surveillance. Visitors to Mount Nemrut report strange lights near the summit. People frequently attribute the pale, ethereal lights to the spirits of ancient priests who performed rituals at the location. The sanctuary held rites honoring the gods and the king's divine heritage. Some think these priests' spirits continue their sacred responsibilities after death. The lights move in patterns, as if reenacting old rituals, or hover around the mountain's giant stone statues, according to witnesses. The natural setting of Mount Nemrut enhances its eerie reputation. The peak is typically misty, especially during dawn and twilight, when light and shadow create a surreal environment. Wind whistles through stone statue crevices and along rocky slopes, sounding like voices or melancholy screams. This spooky audio and the lonely beauty of the place create a sense of discomfort, as if the mountain is alive with mysterious energies.

Skeptics say Mount Nemrut's ghost stories are the result of hyperactive imaginations spurred by its remoteness and eerily majestic beauty. They attribute sightings and noises to natural phenomena like wind acoustics and light optical illusions. However, those who have witnessed these phenomena know that conventional explanations rarely convey the mountain's immense mystery. Whether one believes in ghosts or not, Mount Nemrut legends show a strong link between past and present. They remind us that the site is more than an archaeological marvel; history, myth, and the supernatural meet there. The spirits of Mount Nemrut, real or imagined, demonstrate the strength of the human imagination and our urge to find meaning in the unknown. The weight of millennia presses down as the sun rises over the mountain and its ancient stones catch the first light of day, as if the ghosts of Mount Nemrut are watching, waiting, and whispering their stories to the wind.

[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. 

[theblackbookofarkera]

Hall of Perfect Harmony

Rising from the heart of Shan Ki'hi like a mountain of polished marble and green-veined stone, the Hall of Perfect Harmony stands as the nerve center of the vast Tauxien bureaucracy. Within its labyrinthine corridors, a hundred thousand civil servants maintain the complex machinery of empire through a web of edicts, records, and rituals that blur the line between governance and mysticism.

The structure itself defies conventional architectural wisdom, its seventeen primary towers arranged in a pattern said to mirror the constellation of the Celestial Bureaucrat. Each tower connects to its siblings through a network of elevated walkways and covered bridges, creating a sprawling complex that resembles a massive spider's web when viewed from above. The central tower, known as the Pillar of Heaven's Mandate, rises higher than all others, its jade-tipped spire perpetually shrouded in mist.

The building's exterior features tens of thousands of carved panels depicting scenes from imperial history, though curiously, some panels appear to show events that have not yet come to pass. Whether this is artistic license or something more prophetic, none can say with certainty.

Within these walls, the machinery of empire turns ceaselessly. Scribes, administrators, and officials of countless ranks move through the corridors like blood through veins, carrying documents that can alter the fate of millions with a single brush stroke. The famous "Ten Thousand Desks" of the Hall's central chamber represent every major administrative division of the empire, arranged according to principles of geomantic harmony that are said to maintain the empire's spiritual and political balance.

"To control the empire, control its papers. To control its papers, control its clerks. To control its clerks, control their souls." - Anonymous Imperial Chancellor

The Hall houses numerous specialized bureaus and offices, each responsible for a different aspect of imperial governance:

The Chamber of Celestial Correspondence manages communication between the mortal realm and the divine bureaucracy of heaven, ensuring that prayers and petitions reach their intended spiritual recipients.

The Bureau of Perfect Weather maintains extensive records of atmospheric phenomena and employs court magicians to influence climate patterns across the empire through careful manipulation of certified weather scrolls.

The Department of Historical Accountability works to ensure that the empire's present actions align with its past glory, sometimes going so far as to retroactively alter historical records to maintain this harmony.

Beneath the surface of mundane administration lie deeper mysteries. The Hall's archives extend far below ground level, where temperature-controlled vaults contain documents dating back to the empire's founding. Some archivists speak of an even deeper level, the theoretical "Perfect Archive," where every document ever created or yet to be created is said to exist simultaneously.

Strange phenomena are common within the Hall's confines. Clerks occasionally vanish while searching for specific documents, only to reappear days or weeks later with no memory of their absence. Others report encounters with ghostly bureaucrats still performing their duties centuries after death, processing paperwork that crumbles to dust at first light.

The Hall also serves as the site of the empire's notorious civil service examinations. In the Courtyards of Merit, aspiring officials undergo grueling tests of knowledge, character, and spiritual fortitude. Many candidates spend years preparing for these examinations, though stories persist of particularly gifted individuals who achieve perfect scores only to disappear into the Hall's deeper recesses, recruited into secretive divisions whose existence is known only through bureaucratic whispers.

In recent years, the Hall has taken on additional significance as Emperor Song Haow has centralized more power within its walls. New departments have been created to manage the empire's response to foreign threats, while others work to maintain internal harmony through increasingly elaborate systems of surveillance and control.

Notes from my observations:

Having spent considerable time studying the Hall's operations, I've noticed patterns that defy mundane explanation. The building seems to reconfigure itself subtly between visits, with corridors leading to different destinations depending on the phase of the moon or the political climate of the empire. More curious still are the occasions when identical documents appear simultaneously in multiple departments, each bearing different seals and dates, yet all claiming to be the original.

The Hall of Perfect Harmony represents more than mere bureaucratic efficiency – it is a manifestation of the empire's attempt to impose order upon chaos, to create perfect harmony through the careful balance of paper, ink, and human souls. Whether it succeeds in this impossible task or merely creates new forms of chaos beneath its veneer of order remains to be seen.