#tw: macabre Jim

[kingofthewebxxx]

Jim couldn’t help but laugh yet again, if this was indeed what the universe had in mind then it was a lot more twisted than he even thought. He had seen the darkest of human behaviour and some supernatural too, and yet it had not scared him, nor had he lost any sleep over it. Quite the opposite, in fact, it was one of the only things that held some spark of interest for the criminal consultant. He lived for the darkness, perhaps serving it to some extent, yet he was more content using it for his own ends and bringing others into its service than anything else. His favourite ones to corrupt were those who originally thought they had the purest of hearts and ignored the truth, that deep down just like everyone else, they had a dark side. “What can I say? Even the cosmos loves a piece of me, they all do, I’m so shocked I wouldn’t make a good servant, oh what ever shall I do, should I get down on my knees and beg? That’s what some of them do when I say they aren’t the bill.”

Change? How interesting, yet that did leave a few mysteries and several unanswered questions that he wanted to receive answers to in a more fun and creative way, for him at least, he wasn’t quite sure how the other would react but it didn’t particularly bother him, the unpredictability made him put more effort into the conversation. “Inevitable? I do wonder if your influence is truly inevitable or if it’s one of those words people use to justify their actions, not that I’m one to judge or anything. You seem to know me so well already! Did you do a little bit of research before you decided to pay me a visit? I do hope whoever your source was at least got some of the details right, people these days, some of the things they believe are hilarious” he said with a chuckle and a small glint in his playful but cold eyes. Watching the little show with the waitress he thought it was too lenient almost, it had a spark of creativity but it wasn’t macabre enough to satisfy him. Well perhaps he could change that, deciding to play a little game of his own he turned in his seat ever so slightly to be able to look at the man opposite him easier.

Focusing intensely, looking directly into his eyes he imagined a rather unsettling image. The waitress that had just served Tristan, now left outside of the vampires home completely drained, except all of it wasn’t gone, instead stored in several bottles in a rather lavish-looking case next to the poor corpse. Sending it from his mind into the general direction of the other with a few darker thoughts attached he then decided to act as if nothing had happened, challenging the other not just to see if he would pick up on it, but also to see what he would say if anything. His reaction could tell him many things that most others would never think of seeking the answers to. Relaxing his gaze and slumping his shoulders ever so slightly and took the vampire’s hand in a firm grip. “Vous semblez avoir perdu votre accent, ou n'est-ce pas le cas ? S'il vous plaît appelez-moi Jim, je suis plus relatable avec un nom plus commun et en plus, nous ne nous connaissons pas encore assez pour être plus personnels. Est-ce que je vous appelle Tristan ou Monsieur De Martel ?” he said in a rather fluent French accent, before switching back to his usual with seemingly no effort on his part. “If you don’t tell me I’ll have to find a nickname for you, and I’m sure neither of us wants that.”

@lordofthestrix

"I see. The cosmos was showing a poisonous sense of humor when it included the dubious gift of submerging yourself into the secluded lakes of other minds within your repertoire." Not that Tristan couldn't appreciate a tragedy in exorbitance and excess. He seemed pleasantly intrigued by his sagacious performance without that skill. "More or less adequately surmised. Although your hubris might be tainting your assumptions regarding my intentions. Remarkable as your wits and guile may be, it is my heartbreaking burden to inform you that you don't appear to show the qualities I seek in a servant." Tristan returned the implicit appearance of a dark smirk. "As for more crystalline introductions. Let's say that if you are Crime, a shrouded web of thrilling trespassing and horrors, then that would make me...Change." His hand beckoned away from the other with the ease of someone who would look at the universe as his personal orchestra. "I'm the invisible, inevitable pressure that alters the way history’s blood flows. Not entirely unlike your lurking silhouette insinuated amid daring crime scenes, my shadow looms over rousing chapters that saw this world bathed in flame in order to make room for new excitements in the endless dance. Mind you, I also oversee the majesty of eras starring peace and contentment but one must know his audience and my own deductions guide me to believe you would find those slightly more tedious." He addressed the waitress his arm summoned with illegible diversion. "An espresso, if you are so kind." Tristan gave a casual glance at the employee in a manner reminiscent to the examination of a carte. The drawling voice remained just as unperturbed when he captured her gaze. "You are going to have a small; confidential mishap with my order and a knife. Make a shallow cut to your palm and let a splash bleed in my coffee for flavor. Oh and don't be too bothered, my dear. The day will have its moments as well. I can be an exceedingly generous tipper." He dismissed with cordial gallantly. The hand that called for the waitress was now offered to him. Waiting in obscure and unreadable invitation. "My name is Tristan de Martel. My pleasure."

[zombocomme]

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[The Haunting of Hill House (Main Title) plays as ambience intro:]

Zombocomme: What fun we have had in playing in the proverbial sandbox. One really can have it all, when we multiverse our stories, and this is the Multiversity Center, you know, MinistryTV, after all…Surely there are cameos and crossovers hmm? Well, esteemed guests and fellow content creators, 

Welcome to another

✨️⌛️Combiverse⏳️✨️Special.

This time, we are pulling a spin off of an episode from the Between The Lines /AU: Vault. We have lovingly throttled it  and tossed it through a blender to give us a little treat, that truly made us dance!

*cue audience clap* 

From one AU to another, MinistryTV would like to thank 

@frjimdefroque

And 

@ask-miasma-ghoul

 Zombocomme: For their combined efforts and RB/RP.

Give them a follow, they have been regulars featured on our Show, and it was high time to see them come together as one, and of course, well, have a beautiful bastard child that is this story; These folks had a vice grip on a chemistry that began breathing new life into a story I have wanted to tell over and over, 6 ways to sunday, and well, It is Sunday now. And here is  a little BTL/AU: episode, that has made it into our AU.

Call it a one shot, call it fun, who cares, do what you want, this is MinistryTV after all.

[AU note: What is more Ghostier than, well, GHOSTS, in and around… and I couldn't think of a better sound track backing for a ghost story than the Album for the Netflix show “The Haunting of Hill House”, music by The Newton Brothers.

A Special satanic “thank you” to those lads and the people behind the production, for making the gears turn and the environment solid, with the music that turned a story into reality…

also quoted *verses from Psalms 23 and Mathew 6, KJV*]

*cue audience clap* 

And Now, Ministry 📺TV presents.

Featuring @frjimdefroque and @ask-miasma-ghoul in

RBRG/ FRJD and AMG:

✨️🧣🚪🥀Combiverse🪻🪞☔️✨️

Spin off Episode: Part 1

Between The Lines, Episode 7 PART 1 of ?: “So help you god…you're set free”

Enjoy

🔞NFW: MDNI : Rated-R: 🔞

⚠️(Mature themes, TW )⚠️*mentions death and dead bodies, bugs, gore and frontier diseases and violence, guns, religious interpretation of trauma, consumption of body and blood, allusions to murder/self and description macabre, and ghosts of the espooky kind.

“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” KJV- Mathew 25:37-40

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[In The Shadows of Ghosts plays:]

Lucius Oraclese, the reborn , now grey, Oracle demon stared across the desk he sat in, the green infernal flames dissapaitinf from his hands, dancing their way back into the hearth beside him, while Jim and Miasma the Ghoul, sat in their respective chairs, feeling the heat in the demon’s eyes as he narrowed them. “I could care less if that makes you uncomfortable, as you put it. But if you want this to end, I’ve given you the solution,” Lucius pushed back and irritatedly spun around  on his heels, standing tensely,  brooding in front of the fire. He stretched his hand out to let the flames lick and scorch between his fingers. He groaned softly as the hellfire soothed him from within, his gift demonic, despite his “human like” form. None held love for that demon. But even now, no one could hide the fact that even less loved, was the Ghoul Miasma, his eye trained on the flames, still feeling the pull of the darkness whispering.

Lucius was easily what one would consider a “Memory Eater”  typed demon. Much like a profession is not the definition of self, his oracular gifts meant nothing more than his current form.. For first and foremost, he was a demon. 

“Whether or not you abide by the passage for the journey I’ve laid before you is of little consequence to my conscience. Do with it what you will.” Lucius muttered dismissively. He had penetrated Jim’s mind as one would invade their fingers through the soupy inner cavity of a throttled skull… it made Miasma feel ill to watch, and yet morbidly intrigued, when he saw Jim’s jaw go slack with horror as his eyes rolled back, his head held like a hand on a puppet head Lucius was merely scrambling for information. 

It was painful to the demon to exercise his abilities as a memory eater in this human form, hence the need to maintain his infernal fire… but, ever the masochist that he was, Lucius thrived on the limbic fear and motive of man. And their deepest fears when invaded by outside influences, such as that found in the Bloodstone that Miasma had worn in his old Crucifix… The wicked blood of mankind was powerful and could mar the very face of the earth, if it all burns down. 

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[Missing Things plays:]

Honestly humans and their deliciously uncanny, instinctually feral drive for self destruction was at the very least amusing to witness from Lucius’ point of view. Over the centuries Lucius had consumed this within the memories, even rewriting them like one would replace the fabric tear of a consciousness… sort of, trauma, affected memory and all its ailments. It's why he was considered a necessary evil, even useful, ah yes the flavor of that golden ‘pride’. But for a demon such as he, he both desired and craved the duality of innocence destroying him, and of his sensuous, almost lustful need, to consume and destroy others like a withering vine…and the intrigue of watching pride wither in man, and creature, like a husk, kept him “paid” in the services of the ministry. So of course when a Bible-thumping Cleric and a Traitorous Prisoner approached him in his offices, begging for help, for a relief from their insidious desires and dreams, why of course, Lucius just had to sample it…he couldn’t wait to taste their fear and darkness…but it had tasted sour.

And yet, despite the particular ill will He and Father Jim had for one another, there was indeed more to this story than what was written in the stars, as he once put it… soon… These two pathetic creatures will go against all odds, and write a new line of consciousness for themselves. The inevitable consequence of confronting one's greatest fear… and that was exactly what Miasma, and Jim, would have to do, to make it out of this alive…

Lucius did want to see the ending of it. He wanted to play with the mortals like little pawns in his silly games of tempting fate, letting his oracular powers try to guess the accuracy of his visions.. More often than not he was correct. But in this case, seven hells, he actually hoped he would be proven wrong…

[Feel Nothing plays:] musical jumpscare warning, perhaps turn down the headphones]

The snow was cold and even as thin as it was, the flurries sticking together in patches over the soil, somehow it seemed the place was shrouded in something colder, and Jim knew why immediately… a vision of bodies. Rotted. Consumed by his friend, horror had made  his blood run cold. But now his veins ran even colder… and where there is this chill of cold, there are always, *ghosts*…

Miasma kept his mind focused, to really feel the sudden indescribable weight of the very ground they tread. They couldn’t see into the past of this logging camp, but they certainly could tell the dark energy surrounding that blood stone originated from here. And it was a terrifying sight…

The camp was as if a capsule in time, untouched by nature, a ghost town, but clearly, like the ghost towns of the gold and silver mines of the U.S. west coast, it had the same both peaceful stillness and haunting air of a stone cemetery, interred with the dead, except despite the quite, the energy felt far from “resting in peace”... more like… pieces…

This certainly wasn't what they thought they would find here, this, this place, where that wretched blood stone had come from.

That wretched blood stone… from this valley, between looming mountain peaks, snow capped twins like white teeth to champ and stand still…and the valley, the stomach where the hibernating world waited to be digested in its shadows.

And as the duo moved through the empty dirt streets, if you could call the paths that, the damned place was certainly, honest to god, devil be damned, *Haunted*. The million mummy dust dollar question was, why…

Miasma could sense the low icy feeling like lead in his stomach. He had been summoned from the pits and faced the void on more than one occasion, madly screaming into the storm of his emotions, cursing the indifferent heavens and its false promises in the stars… but what he felt in Jim's energy, even without his quintessence powers, it was like a sour metallic taste in his mouth… a taste he knew from whenever the juices of meat sped through his fangs to the back of his throat… *fear*...

Jim’s hands shivered slightly. He had not felt the effects of Copia’s dark gift before. Not like this. That secret between them, what they shared in common, and most importantly what they share in common apart. Though Copia fully blooded Jim, waking the dormancy of the gift within, it also came with a roll of the dice, of what abilities may surface... For while they were suspected to be rival bloodline threads, “the Beloveds” in the Vampiric tapestry of time, one thing was for Certain- Jim had been awakened, and the power that flowed through him made him a natural. And his abilities for being related to the dead, there was a chance he had the powers of a “Necromancer”, animating, seeing, encountering, visions, powers, experiences sensed that connected like tiny threads beyond this plane into the fields of the dead, and they teemed in earnest over Jim’s skin. Goosebumps trickling down the sweat  running down his spine…

That blasted blood stone had done something to him, an alchemic change in the very religious sense. The connection was unwanted for the preacher man, who believed in eternal life as something that began at the end of things. One to another. He didn’t believe in ghosts. He hardly believed in god. But what he did believe was that there were things that had happened he couldn't explain. Dreams that seemed to bleed into the waking world in ways that terrified him and made him sleep with the light on…

 but there was no turning back the time to make it different…to make things alright. He had come this far… he had to see it through.

Months of research and travel had led him and Miasma to this place in the middle of the woods near a low stream that had once roiled high and traveled far. Now it was a dead creek bed he could just step over… 

Now that they were here, the rest of the plan laid before them was simple and yet seemed impossibly perilous…

Return to the Blood stone’s place of origin. 

Find the entity that haunted it, that cursed it. 

Defeat it by either destroying the entity, putting it to rest, 

or die trying.

Armed with only their wits, and a crude map to this place that they had to leave behind at the edge of the clearing, as instructed by Lucius, they were going in blind. They were going in on blind faith that the Oracle Demon had given them enough to break the curse, and yet, hidden enough from their minds to enter the place without the magical barriers stopping them…

They had to go it alone. It had to be them… 

The man who beheld the vision and had the power to connect with the dead, Father Jim Defroque, 

and the Ghoul Miasma, the one that the stone was desperately trying to possess. 

Even now, Miasma itches to sink his fangs in the soft flesh of Jim’s neck… and it seems in this place the urge flared through him even stronger…

The fear Jim felt radiated out, and Miasma had the dual sensation of hating the rotten taste, and feeling himself salivating over it…a need that felt so human, so animalistic, that he was horrified by it himself. He obsessed over the man he had placed on a pedestal, and despised the very thing Jim had set foot on. But while his thoughts were occupied with such duality, it was Jim who was occupied with seeing the forest for the trees…

They noticed one of the buildings seemed to have succumbed to fire, A collapsed brick structure that surely had experienced fires scratch, the earth scarred beyond normal recognition. And it wasn’t just skin deep. But the rest of the buildings stood perfectly sound, the only evidence of time was the layer of dusting and cobwebs to chronicle the emptiness Jim and Miasma beheld.

[Science Vs. Religion plays:]

As Miasma and Jim approached the largest cabin at the end of the path, it felt like they were entering somewhere they shouldn't. And it felt like they were trespassers here, waiting to be confronted by something, or someone…

“The hell happened in there you think.” Jim swallowed. Miasma blinked away from his maelstrom of thoughts and shook his head. He eyed the evidence of the rubble behind them, and the cabin in front of them suspiciously. Both he and Jim had encountered the existence in “the other side” and while the rubble seemed to call out to be investigated, Jim felt a deeper pull coming from up ahead. For even as Miasma and Jim mounted the steps of what would have been the cabin quarters of the Captain of this camp, it felt like this particular structure, standing so proud and tall, untouched, and looming, was too much to ignore. It felt like a trap. But it also felt like it had answers…

Miasma and Jim entered to find the place and its objects standing where they likely had been since abandoned; however, the various wood furniture had been hacked six ways to Sunday, piled near the small fireplace. “You think someone was trying to get rid of something?” Miasma said, lifting a piece of wood with carvings of acanthus leaves in the handle- perhaps a cane. “Or to get warm”. 

[12:00am plays:]

God it’s freezing in here” Jim huffed, trying to rub his arms. It had been a warm spring day. But the ghost town felt like they had stepped into a freezer, and they were ill equipped for such extreme temperatures. Miasma was less affected, noticing the drop but mostly unaffected. The main affectation being the strange whisperings around him that were not sensed by sound, but almost as if by residual energy. Momentarily they distracted the Ghoul, who turned this way and was trying to gauge where the voices seemed to come from in the space.

“You think this cabin is haunted don’t you” Miasma said, more to himself, yet out loud for Jim to hear. 

“No” Jim said confidently, pointing to a small writing desk overlooking the rubble from an open window, cold air drafting in. It was untouched. And sitting on its table top next to a pair of broken  wire spectacles, was an old Bible. 

Jim could feel the strange energy emanating from the book. He swallowed, feeling apprehensive to investigate the unknown, except… when he glanced at Miasma, the ghoul was absentmindedly reaching for the crucifix. There was no way in hell the blood stone in it would be safe to carry around his neck now. But Lucius had insisted the Ghoul continue to wear it despite its dangerous influence…Miasma had attempted to give it to Jim after nicking it from the vaults some time ago, hoping the gesture would ease the tension between them. But it seemed the damned thing had been cursed. And before it could dig its icy fingers into Jim’s chest like invading worms through a ribcage full of wet lungs and beating heart blood, he had seen the vision of death. And a vision of Miasma consuming flesh of the mound of rotting corpses in the fly infested pit, and Jim forced to face it, and to smell the rot even when he had woken screaming…

Jim swallowed, his breath pluming in front of him as the room seemed to darken and the color saturation seemed to dull out to almost monochrome. Pale and dead,, there was no doubt this place was calling to them. The same sound of flies and flesh tearing vibrated through the strands of dimensions and time, and Jim could sense every one of them, like an insect feeling the many feet of a spider, crawling towards him in the dark. Jim approached the desk and bible hands visibly shaking now, his body trembling, his eyes beginning to turn milky and white…

Miasma was not so affected.

Oh no.

 In fact he felt sure himself, though his heart was hammering out of his chest, the sensation making him feel like he was gulping water and air at the same time, the painful spur of sharpness traveling from his tightened throat down his chest. Something wasn’t fucking right about that book laying before them as Jim trembled, reaching for it, Miasma stopped him, “No Father, let me…” his face was wide and fearful but determined. If he was more resistant to the damn pendant around his neck enough to not have nightmares, over and over, perhaps such a fate could be spared of Father Jim, if he investigated this object first…

He had gotten Jim into this mess, he'd be damned he wouldn't override the screaming alarm bells in his head to get the man out…

[Missing Things plays:]

He pressed Jim’s hand back down, the touch while warm in intention, meant to be assuring, only served to make the heaviness around Jim intensify, and he felt like he was trying to breathe through a 100%humidity in the dry frigid air. 

Miasma reached for the bible with both hands now. And surprisingly, it seemed that there was nothing special about it. Except, the uncanny sensation that seemed to make Jim’s face tighten. Meanwhile Miasma could feel the whispers growing louder, as if there was talking right behind his ears though no one was there to have done it. “The chill is colder now” Jim said almost absentmindedly.. Repeating the humming he felt in the air around him. His eyes now fully clouded with white, there was no question about it, haunted wasn’t the word for it. The word that fell into both of the minds here about the abode was “possessed”.

Miasma opened the bible, letting the delicate pages flare. The bible was certainly old.  The publication date on the back of the leather is embossed with the numbers  1853. 

“It is hidden” Jim said, his voice like a whispering hiss as he almost seemed to gently rock on his heels. His state almost trance like as his sense and sight seemed to move about the room, searching. Using “The White Breath” Jim sucked in the frigid air and blew out, stretching his hands out as he circled them around, conjuring the mist. A Mist that would awaken any final breath and utterance in the immediate area, making the dimensional thing come forward, to be used, to bend to the will, and in the practice he had trained with Lucius, had now Conjured the mist to hone into the space, “Reveal to me your Secrets” Jim chanted softly, his eyes white and his entire body focused on his task…

“So vulnerable. So easily able to be throttled… such easy prey…” Miasma thought as he stared at Jim from behind. Unsure if the predacious sensation was his own, or was to do with the pendant pressing against the dull thumping behind his chest. 

“Perhaps… but I don’t see it” The ghoul said tensely. His eyes darted around. No one was watching. And yet it felt like the very eyes of God and the judging intercessors were glowering down at his back. He willed the dark whisperings to quiet, and with much effort, stole himself to focus on what was in front of him. 

Miasma held the old bible in his hands, shaking it out, examining it, finding nothing except a page that stuck to the inside slightly, as if the fingers of the very pages were trying with all their might to protect the secrets it held. With a soft ripping sound, the paper lifted revealing a list of names and dates handwritten inside...

[callofthemacabre]

Nov. 18, 1978: 

Whether it was willingly or by force, the Jonestown followers drank the flavor-aid laced with cyanide. In total -- 918 people died.

Nov. 23, 1978:

As the U.S. military was the only organization that had the means to transfer the bodies back to their loved ones in the States, the military went, loaded with body bags and transport containers to the site.  

Due to the Guyana heat and humidity, the bodies had already begun decomposing by the time they arrived five days later.  The bodies were bloated, so no attempt was made to identify them at the time of the gathering. There were many times that the Task Force would lift the bodies, only to have an arm or leg separate from the corpse, making the process much more difficult. 

Many had to be scooped up with snow shovels as well because they had begun melting into the ground. Then, to make matters even more distressing, many bodies would leak through the body bags, as the skin of many corpses had begun falling off -- this would cover the bodies of those on the Task Force who were lifting them onto helicopters.

The smell, which was deemed medically unsafe, was so pungent that the Task Force personnel had to burn their clothing on the runway at the end of the mission -- a mission that left much of the Force with severe PTSD of what they witnessed in the Guyanese jungle those few days. 

[emachinescat]

Evil Things in Robes of Sorrow

A Tales of Arcadia: Trollhunters Fan-Fiction

By @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 1 - mind control

Summary: It’s funny - being a troll, the son of Kanjigar, Draal has hurt many people throughout his long, long life. But there is a big difference in hurting someone of your own free will and being forced to hurt your friends.

Characters: Draal, Jim Lake, Jr.

Words: 929

TW: Canonical Character Death

Keep reading here or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging!

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assailed the monarch’s high estate;

(Ah, let us mourn! - or never morrow

Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)

And round about his home the glory

That blushed and bloomed

Is but a dim-remembered story

Of the old time entombed.

- From “The Haunted Palace” by Edgar Allan Poe

As a troll, Draal has seen his fair share of violence throughout the centuries - much of it done by his own hands. He’s no stranger to bloodshed; in fact, it has fueled him through some of his darker days. And yet - there’s something very different about choosing to attack someone, regardless of your reasons for doing so, and being forced to hurt someone you care about against your will.

Normally Draal isn’t one for contemplation or reflection - he is a troll of action, just like his father was. But now, all he can do is reflect, as a tiny corner of his mind is all he has left. It’s dark and cramped with this malevolent, oppressive force bearing down upon his will from all sides, and as much as he tries to fight it, Gunmar’s hold is too strong.

And now he is forced to watch, through eyes that once were his, as the entity controlling his body attacks the human boy who somehow has became his friend. It isn’t the first time he has tried to kill the human Trollhunter, but the last time he’d been grieving his father and angry at the injustice of the amulet going to another, a human. In retrospect, Draal has never been so glad to have lost a fight. James Lake, Jr. has become one of his closest friends and allies against the forces that threaten troll-kind.

He can feel everything; that is the worst of it. He can feel his hand curl around the human’s armor-clad, but still feeble, body, can feel the muscles hefting the struggling form off of the ground and the impact of Jim smashing into a set of lockers. Jim bounces off and slides across the floor, his armor scraping against the tile shrilly. His sword skids away from him, down the hall, and for a terrible moment, he doesn’t move. The demon inside of Draal smiles.

From inside his prison, Draal calls out desperately, but the words won’t touch his lips. They only echo back, unheard by the one person who needs them most: Get up, fleshbag! WAKE UP!

As Draal’s body advances, the Trollhunter stirs. Relief fills Draal, but so does apprehension. The fight is far from over, and Jim is outmatched - if only he’d fight back, he would have a decent chance!

That is another thing that makes this so agonizing for Draal to watch - while his body goes berserk, attacking the Trollhunter - a betrayal, unwitting or not, of the highest order - James Lake, Jr. refuses to fight back.

His voice, so puny and human, pinched in pain, might as well be coming from the mouth of a giant when he shouts, “I will not hurt my friend!”

He dodges the attacks that he can, and blocks those he can’t, and when there are ones he cannot block, he grunts in pain, soaring into walls and lockers and doorways, crashing into the floor. Draal feels the power of every connected hit and it kills him.

“Please, Draal!” Jim cries, dodging another attack. “It’s me - Jim! Your friend! You’re stronger than this - please, remember!”

Draal longs to scream back at him that he does remember, that he never forgot what he and Claire and the orange one and even Blinky and Aaarrrgghh have come to mean to him, and that he’s trying to fight it - by Deya, he is trying! But remembering means nothing in the dark hole he’s in, because remembering can’t get Gunmar out, can’t give him back control of his body.

Fight back, Trollhunter! he urges, and his pleas resound uselessly. You have to end this - save yourself and your friends. FIGHT BACK!

Deep inside, he knows the Trollhunter will not fight to kill, or even injure, no matter what. Even if he somehow survives to not-fight another day, his loyalty to Draal will surely kill him eventually.

As hard as it is to watch himself hurt his friend, to feel every crushing grip and pounding blow, Draal fears that the worst is yet to come. Self-hatred courses through what is left of him as he realizes that he is going to, sooner or later, feel the Trollhunter’s small human form break in his hands, see him dead at his feet, and hear celebratory laughter from his own mouth at the grotesque spectacle.

It is then that Draal retreats into himself, turning away from the macabre scene that is sure to come, giving that last inch of space to the darkness and allowing himself to be swallowed by the pain and self-loathing.

When he does finally resurface, he’s surprised to find himself free of Gunmar’s hold and the Trollhunter miraculously alive, and when the time comes to give his life to save that of his friend, he finds he isn’t doing it out of guilt or anger at himself for his failure - it is because of the happiness he felt upon seeing Jim somehow still alive. Even if it means losing his own life, it’s worth it to keep his Trollhunter alive for even a little bit longer.

Darkness isn’t always a bad thing, he reflects as the stone creeps across his body. Sometimes it is like a welcoming embrace, the peace of a job well done.

He smiles.

[academla]

So I have to dash to my PTK social but I also gotta start on my Jonestown social psych assignment (which I didn’t know about til yesterday) and I could still use your help if you are familiar with it/feel like watching the video!

Here are the questions:

What was Jim Jones’ target audience?

What were the key techniques he employed?

How can we use social psychology more generally to explain the tragedy of Jonestown and the People’s Temple?

Here’s the 1:24 long video with TW for suicide (it’s rather macabre, if you’re familiar with it, but otherwise interesting).

That’s it! Feel free to IM me on here or email me at ecb327@gmail.com if you’d like to help. Basically, I don’t have time to rewatch the video, and this has been hell week (hanging in there, but running constantly behind and I was up til 2 am and today’s test was a nightmare and I have a paper due tomorrow and had a test on Tuesday and paperwork due), so I appreciate anyone who can help guide me in the right direction and explain. I have a pretty good grasp but I want to double check that I’m on the right track.

[zombocomme]

And Now, Ministry📺TV presents.

Featuring @frjimdefroque and @ask-miasma-ghoul in

RBRG/ FRJD and AMG:

✨️🧣🚪🥀Combiverse🪻🪞☔️✨️

Spin off Episode: Part 2

Between The Lines, Episode 7 PART 2 of: “So help you god…you're set free”

Enjoy

🔞NFW: MDNI🔞 :

⚠️Rated-R: (Mature themes TW)⚠️ *mentions death and dead bodies, bugs, gore and frontier diseases and graphic violence, guns, religious interpretation of trauma, consumption of body and blood, allusions to murder/self and description macabre, and ghosts of the espooky kind.

Jumpscares.

“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” KJV- Mathew 25:37-40

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That Night plays:

“These are all names and dates, think it’s a list of some kind?” Miasma said, almost rhetorically though with the uncanny feeling he had, it didn't take Jim long to take a wary breath, “I’ve seen things like that. Old family bibles in the day was how they kept genealogy. When people were born, when they died.” the cloud behind his eyes thinned and it only appeared that the powers within were vague at best. The thrum of the threads connected to the preacher man dulled, like miniscule strands of “touch nothing” silkworms… Jim’s face hardened. There was a change in the air. While miasma seemed more shaken now, Jim felt something almost familiar touch his mind. A feather-light breath that made his breathing more shallow. 

Perhaps it was seeing the bible laid out like he had seen others before, the familiarity a comfort, or perhaps it was something  else entirely… something pretending to b e safe, and eagerly waiting to come forward like a confession of a madman, a wagging tongue whos voice tells not lies, but the horrible truths of man’s behavior to deconstruct themselves, and yet preserve the carnage in time…

“I’ve seen that before too but not like this… all these names have single dates, and the last names don’t match one another.. Doesn’t genealogy in that time usually utilize family bibles?” Miasma asked, holding the book towards Jim.

“Hm…that is odd.” Jim muttered, leaning in to look at the Bible in Miasma’s hands. “I see it. All from December to February… 20 names” Jim said, counting the lines of writing. The ink had long been dried but in the strange gathered darkness around them, he could have sworn the ink was still, *wet*.

Miasma swallowed, chuffing the air a moment before he read the first name. 

“Jeremy Bridger, 7 December 1835…Diego Rivera, 12 December…”

The air was heavier, every name seeming to bear down on them as if figures were just out of sight in the darkened peripheral view of the pairs of eyes reading the list in the room. 

“I don’t know that these people are haunting that stone. But there is something strange about it. 

December 16…Armand Avalo

December 21…Mathias Jones

December 26…”Andrew Washington” “A day after Christmas…as if…”

January 1st…Ezekiel Smith “The bad luck of someone to have died on New year’s day, the year 1836”

January 6… Thomas Spencer, “and another on Epiphany, something…something…”

January 12…Peter Shaw ”Half a dozen on the twelfth, and look, another multiple of three”

January 15… Edward Greene

January 18…Joseph Oswald

Then January 21…Ethan Clearwater, ”three days apart, twice, three dead yet again.”

January 23…Samuel Owens, “and then a 6 once more”, “and so close together” 

January 27…Peter Halloway

January31… Cornelius Lovett

March 3…”Morgan Webster and Jesse Burkhalter. “

[Approaching the House Plays: musical jumpscare warning, 

perhaps turn down the headphones]

Jim moved to take the book, Miasma handing it to him carefully, when a creak behind the pair made them whirl to see the door slamming shut behind them with a bang, plunging the room into the dim light of something darker, the clawing sounds all around them and banging on the walls bade the boards shift and shake. Jim jumped and held onto Miasmas arm, Miasma turning his head, his eye straining, darting around him around him. Then from ahead of them they heard what sounded like heavy boots rushing at them head on, and though they gasped and spun round, nothing was staring back. As the windows rattled and the smell of smoke permeated the air, though it grew impossibly colder.

Jim clutched at the bible, his voice tense, praying aloud in fear

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

Bang, Bang, BANG!

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

The walls trembled and an acrid smell, like death and hate flared in their nostrils

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Pounding all around! Scratching sounds all around them like animals, no, like people, clawing at the floorboards, vibrating like teeth grinding screeches, shuddering under their knees

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: 

BANG BANG, CRASH

A window shattered. Then another. object were flying around, gunsmoke and flashes blinded the vision of the space

thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Ice frosted around them, making their lungs burn and their eyes clench shut, death invading their mouths, a sickeningly sweet taste like maggot spoiled fruit

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: 

The desk flew across the room, skidding across the floorboards, catching on a lift and flipping over

CRASH

and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Hellish wailing and crying surrounded them as the cacophony reached its pinnacle 

Miasma felt the voices rage in his head, kneeling he clutched at his horns his screams mirroring the agony around them as the stampede of feet seemed to rush from every direction, bearing down on them!

 “Miasma!” Jim called out, dropping beside him, throwing his arms over him, barely able to hear his own voice above the hellish brigade surrounding them,

“Fight it, Fight it!” Miasma Shook as the foul smell of rotten flesh rose from the floorboards around them, and from the corner a rattling splinter blasted from the ground, a rotten hand clawing from the infernal green fire below, glowing through the cracks in the boards below.

“Stop! Make it Stop! Please God, make it stop!” Miasma screeched his head feeling like it would explode like a rotted watermelon, spewing. Jim’s eyes widened as the bloated corpse rose from hell itself it seemed, its eyes cold and dead, a murderous glare in its face, followed by two more skeletal figures. 

The Door slammed over and over like a hurricane on a screen. Blasting up from the cold hearth two more skeletons groaned and crawled towards them, the bone jangles rattling like that of infected breath, the unmistakable sweet putrescence of something beyond what evil could be.

“Miasma fight it, please!” Jim panted, feeling the bone chilling clasp of bony fingers wrapping around his ankle!

Jim kicked the severed hand away, the figures still shambling toward them, with no mistake that they wanted the living that had invaded their prison of malice and content, dead as doornails.

If it bleeds it can be killed, but what would one make of the threat looming, death literally all around them, closing in, the walls spattering black blood at their faces.

Jim knew, it was the end. Surely… Jim looked at Miasma, whos eye met his pleading in fear and absolute wretchedness, the torture of brokeness and the sins of Judas  like blood on his hands. Jim felt tears well in his eyes. He dropped the bible between them and pulled Miasma closer, wrapping his  hand around the cold metal of the crucifix hanging on Miasma’s neck.

*Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.*

The figures were closing in

*Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.*

The room shook and the desk rattled, the door slamming and the wailing around them rising like a chorus

Jim’s eyes pleaded. Miasma looked back and shivered, as he too realized, this was the end. 

*Give us this day our daily bread.*

They both said together. Miasma’s hand wrapping around Jim's, claws digging deep, drawing blood that Jim didn’t feel as he pressed his forehead into Miasma’s

*And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.*

Hands Grabbed them, blood soaked them, splinters pierced them

* And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: *

They said, clutching the cross, holding each other, bracing for the ultimate, for The End

*For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever.  Amen.*

And suddenly it was quiet…

the only sound, the panting between them…

Miasma trembled, afraid to open his eyes.

[Go Tomorrow plays:] 

Jim Looked down, the bible between them, flecked with the blood from his hand. And then around him. The broken windows were miraculously, whole. 

The floorboards as they had been left near 200 years before no hellfire in sight. 

The figures as if they never were. 

The door, still open as they had left it, the impossibly cold air still blowing gently through it.. 

Like nothing had happened except…the desk remained on its side across from them, the glasses on it on the floor, cracked. 

A strange light from the window cast over the fractured lenses, a hole in the center of one, like an eye forever looking beyond into that valley of death. The glasses suddenly with a soft skip, flew towards them, upending on the same lift in the floorboard the desk had tripped on.

Jim squeezed Miasma’s hand. 

Miasma let go, gasping at the damage his claws had done, he wanted to apologize profusely but before he could, Jim had crawled towards the glasses. Following the gaze of its broken eye, to that floorboard. With a grunt he pulled at it. “Help me” He whispered. Miasma started, and crawled forward quickly, and together they lifted the plank. Beneath it. A red leather-bound book. Untouched by time, though it smelled like kerosene.

Jim gingerly lifted the book, and opened it. “A Diary?” he said curiously.

Miasma backed away, still horrified at the events and the hurt he had caused as he watched the blood trickle down Jim's arm, though Jim didn’t notice. He panted and grabbed the bible from the floor, holding it to his chest like a lifeline, trembling.

Jim knelt on the ground and opened to a page, the milky white cloud in his eyes thin, yet, still there.

Inside was a photograph. Old and yellowed with time. Jim held  it out for Miasma to take. A little braver now that the bible was in his arms, Miasma reached gingerly for the piece, his claws gently this time.

“There's thirty people in this photo…why only fifteen names?” Miasma said, opening the bible to the page with names and dates. The ink looked wet and he looked at the photograph, trying to guess what name belonged to what face? The older man? The young boy, barely 15 he would say, even what looked like a leader, his first and second, a physician… and a priest…

the names in the bible making him wonder the mystery. Jim pulled the diary open from the beginning skimming the pages for something.. Something familiar he had seen when he had examined the bible…

Take Her Down plays:

* “Collin Fortworth was a boy too young to be on this trip, it's nothing I've seen to allow a boy, not even twelve, to accompany a band of rugged men like we. but providence placed him in our laps and in our company. A runaway from a mother and father who could be dead for all we knew, the boy was so slight of frame he coulda been used as a hat rack…I had him doing some wood chop. Damn snake didn’t even rattle his direction… The hand swole the size of a lemon and Dr. Anderson didn’t say much other than to get Father Vanhassel to the bunks. Poor lad passed at 11:30 that night. Had I not sent him on something else. Of course there would be snakes cooling in the wood piles. Fucking June. I could have brought him with me back to the fort but my pride wouldn't let a boy that age on my horse. I thought him a young man now. Strapping, earning his keep like decent folk should. Time for him to ride his own damned horse. Well, all I can say is, sorry kid. I shoulda just let you climb on.”*

Jim looked up at Miasma who tilted his head. The young boy on the side, a serious face despite his youthful features. “Poison at the Wood Pile” Miasma said, as if naming the title of a tale. And it seemed that way as Jim looked farther through, flipping a few pages, 

*“Benjamin Smith was a mean, damned, drunk and has been sent to the stockade on more than one occasion for his ill affected manners. He damn well knows, and he leant over that side-rail yonder… and under the logs he goes… floating down that river.  It had been two days, maybe more, who knows how water distorts the features, when eh was found. My what the nipping of fish and birds had done, little pieces plucked away, as if shy, and wont be missed. He was lucky those were all that got to him, else he wouldn't have a Christian burial. Imagine the missing limbs thrown around by the wild animals of the hunting variety. Hunter or not, the end was the same really. Someone lived. And someone died. It just so happened the man had accidentally crushed himself tween the  logs and the river. Well, adios Benny boy, you always were a shit worker.”*

Jim blinked, almost shocked. Miasma covered his mouth, clearly seeing the face of a man, who wasn't even looking at the camera, eyes off to the side looking somewhere else, leaning slightly out of frame. Yes. a drunk man��

“Drinking on the job, for work like they were doin’, Christ that is so dangerous.” Jim said, shaking his head. His own experience with addiction differed, but it was enough in common that he could almost imagine himself, high as a kite somewhere, falling to some death. It could have been him…and it made him change the page all the faster.

*“Bryan Taylor, Isaac Allen…black measles…the strongest of men, though what they did on watch, when they were assigned the vantage point together, alone… It wasn’t coyotes, wolves, birds, or anything else having a high falooting fuck up on the ridge. Of course it does seem fitting, they died the same day. I’ve never known two men to be closer, more brave. And hard working. Putting them together is like putting the apple in apple pie. It just fits. They just fit. Was no business of any man or mine, I was heartbroken to see those good men go softly into the night.”*

Jim furrowed his brow. 

Miasma glanced at Jim before looking away, a blush in his cheeks. 

He looked at the photograph. 

Two men noticeably similar in the style of their hats, a bit jauntily set for a photo, despite everyone appearing worn and weathered as if they just came from the job for the company photo. And yet, the two men had distinguished themselves in appearance. And in the photo, one had an arm around the other's shoulder, leaning inward. And the other man’s hand sneaked around his lover’s waist. It could have been a speck on the photo but Miasma knew… and he felt his heart twinge, seeing the lives of such fine people, brought to an end too soon. It wasn’t fair was it…

And he couldn't help but then feel the guilt and shame…for what he had done to the Emeritus brothers. How unfairly they had been cast to the ground. Dethroned. Even beheaded…

He clutched the crucifix at his neck tighter, as if the pain of the metal digging into his palm  would punish him, an outward penance of paying for his deeds. 

Jim skimmed a long time through the pages, looking for names or dates correlating to the bible Miasma let fall from his lap.

I Want to Wake up So Badly plays:

Jim tilted his head, 

*“Hans Olsen… shot once…quick and easy. Easier than he woulda had it had we left him to suffer. It was right. Even though he wasn't’; being weak in the head, delirium setting in. I've seen this suffering on an old blue tick I had as a boy, varmit it chased and bit his face and it took too long for that miserable dog to die. I vowed I'd never let no creature suffer such a fate. I never would let any man suffer it. Not even my enemies. Hell is enough. Hell on earth, well, ain’t no need for it when the reaper comes rapping on your door. Lord have mercy on me. It was the right thing to do. By God and country.”*

Jim shook his head. He knew rabies as one of the evilest things to come from pain and disease for something so simple. He had never seen it himself. But Miasma had. He had been the one always picked to put the animals down. At first it felt wrong. Eventually it felt normal,  and tender is the flesh of creatures so simple…..like humans… 

The itch between his horns made him twitch and feel a shiver pulse through him…

It was, even as a mercy killing, murder. Could a Merciful God really be content to sit back and watch his supposed children slaughter one another and his creations… Some God…

Jim continued some pages down, 

*“Marshall Wright… antlers to the belly, gored onto a tree.  He shot the buck though. He got to have a taste of it before he died. One of the boys went to get the preacher. Thomas Spencer had been hunting with him. As he bled slowly from his belly wounds, Thomas, sure as fire, cooked up a piece of that venison  and fed it to his fellow friend before he eventually gave up the ghost… all too soon… and all too late the companion arrived with Father Vanhassel. Thomas was never the same after that. And he insisted he go hunting alone after that. He pulled the barrel of his gun on the next poor soul who tried to come along. Something happened or at least, something shoulda happened, out there in those woods. Even I had to come just to get him to get up from that red snow… it was like the angels were crying, their snowflakes almost stinging. I sent men to retrieve the body and the carcass… Funny how both dead things could be equal in death. Hunter is no hunter when he's not hunting, because he’s dead. And well, A buck is just venison after all. And food is food. Death makes equals of us all.”*

“Jesus that’s Morbid” Jim huffed. Miasma tilted his head, tail flicking, “Depending on the food chain, anything dead is up for grabs isnt it… to the scavengers, I mean... But even hunting creatures prey on the dead. It’s just the natural order of things isn’t it…” 

Jim looked at Miasma warily who was examining the photo to wonder what man had died sot terribly as to be gored to death by the very animal he was probably hunting. And his hunting companion seemed to feel guilty. Did he fall asleep? Did he miss his shot? Did he even pull the trigger?...

Jim kept reading, all the while feeling the creepy energy oozing from Miasma now, his hand still clutching that crucifix, the blood diamond in it a reminder of why they were here… Jim re-imagined that horrifying scene from his dreams… and how Miasma seemed to be parroting the words in this book in a way that was twisted and at the very least, seriously sinful. Consuming human flesh, god that was different from drinking blood as a vampire. To consume actual flesh. Digest it. And defecate. “Saints above” Jim shivered.

[The End plays:]

“December 2nd, Saints above”,

the diary read,

“Why now does God take what little comforts we have…Father Evight Vanhassel has joined the holy choir. I swear you can still hear his voice running across these dark mountains. As if a hymn to the lord. But why does it sound like an omen, a harbinger of death.. The death of one good man can become the death of the world. Hell, Jesus Christ was such a man. How many used his name for ill and got their gains. Father Evight was a man of caliber that was so wholly unselfish. He would have made a wonderful father. But as god gave his only begotten, it seemed we had unwittingly sacrificed the purest lamb of this wretched flock. The cold brings the cold hearts of man to live  like revenants above the earth, clutching  their robes, like blankets against the chill. God…it’s so cold…You know, the same world in which death waits in the shadows, so too is that fear. Father Evight had taken his last watch. But by morning, he was stiff, and cold. Indistinguishable from the snow that had piled around him. He met the Lord on virgin snow. For his sake, I hope his passing was as they say it is when one expires from exposure to the frosts like this. Like falling asleep, and feeling warm at last. I pray that was the manner of his passing. As his watch was third, the witching hour or the hour that god hears, it seems Evight Vanhassel now knows if his faith was worth it. If his songs to his God ever fell on imagined ears, or maybe he really is a true watcher now, an angel in the sky, wearing one of those halos and playing harps on the clouds… Then why does his voice, carried on the wind, make these dark mountains seem darker… why does the cracking snow above the pass sound like the stampede of horses. Why does his death loom over us so…”

Miasmas eyes shot up to Jim, who looked sadly at the book. Miasma felt a strange sensation behind his eyes, squeezing and wet. The preacher had died. The moral compass of the company. And what sounded like a good man. And he couldn’t help but feel a certain sadness about it… knowing that…

That…

“Wait” Miasma said, dropping the crucifix to his chest and pulling the bible that had slipped to the floor from his lap, to the first page.

“December 2, Evight Von Hassel…” Miasma said, a claw scraping gently at the page, smearing a droplet of wet ink on his hand. He looked up at Jim and Jim nodded back, a look of bewilderment. This was it. This was the beginning of the end. From this point on, they would know the secrets hidden in this place.

They would learn of those who haunt these grounds. Who haunts this blood stone. Who seemed to be everywhere and nowhere around them,, as if this whole area now was swallowed up in the belly of a great whale. And the darkest of days were now upon them. And with the weight returning to their shoulders, Jim swallowed and crawled from his seat on the floor back towards miasma and held the diary open, while Miasma pointed out the people in the photograph. And as their bated breath halted in their chests, it seemed the air was slowly being sucked out of the room out the open door, that seemed to hang ever so slightly as if perhaps, it might creak shut, and close it’s maw on the Preacher Man, and the Traitorous Ghoul, who sat together, much the same way another certain preacher had sat with the whores, the tax collectors, the poor, the sick, the leperous lame and blind. A support to his friend. And soon, they would know the fate of those who lived and died here. And they hoped they would use the choice words in their precious books to find the answers to just, make it out of this bleak world alive… and really.. That’s what should've happened… Had Jim shut the book and left it there… but he didn't. And upon turning the next page. The true hell on earth began, and it wasn’t the hell of the fire and the flames…it was a hell on earth. And it was ice cold, and far from any god’s grace…

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