[MEME] OH NO A GHOST

[wolfintheattic]

OKAY LET'S GET DOWN TO BUSINESS.
I wanna play a ghost. Below are some prompts.
I'm not super picky about setting or 'verse.

A- Your character is a paranormal investigator, an obnoxious tv show host, or is otherwise exploring an area that is said to be haunted for whatever reason. Maybe it's a dare.

B- My character's ghost just SHOWS UP in your character's home. Did your character buy some haunted shit off ebay? Maybe my character died nearby or was summoned via Ouija board by some stupid teenagers at that party you hosted last month. Either way, you got yourself a haunted house now. Congrats.

C- Your character is also a ghost. Maybe they died together. Maybe my character is new to this whole being dead thing and yours shows them the ghostly ropes. Maybe it's the other way around. Either way, ghost adventures are had. _{Not currently looking for new PLSs with this plot!}

D- Your character is a necromancer-type-person and has summoned mine's spirit to do their bidding.

E- Your character is an exorcist and is here to shoo mine out of their current haunt or otherwise help them move on.

F- Our characters are friends. Mine died and has returned to hang out/help/finish some business with yours.

G- Your character moves into the house mine is currently haunting. EXCUSE U.

H- POSSESSION. It happened somehow.

IF A CHARACTER YOU WANT TO MEET IS MISSING, LET ME KNOW.

Comments

B, adult flavour JW??

[graphomaniac]

[ After the cuckoo-clock arrived -- complete with cuckoo and quaint Bavarian figures drinking beer and eating sausages -- Lev spends at least a quarter of an hour staring at it and trying to remember why he'd ordered it. There has to have been some sort of reason, even if he'd done it in a painkiller fugue.

Had he meant to show it to Anzu? Lev picks the clock up in awkward, stiff hands and turns it around, examining it. It's not gaudy enough to look like Anzu's thing, so that can't be it.

It appears to be a perfectly ordinary, disgustingly kitschy cuckoo clock. There's a deep gouge in the back panel, like a crooked mouth, but otherwise it looks, well. Disgustingly kitschy and very much like a clock. And Lev can't remember why he'd wanted a cuckoo clock or even when he'd ordered it.

It ends up sitting on the dresser, unwound, wedged between a hefty collection of Sherlock Holmes stories and an ancient manual typewriter that's missing a solid third of its keys. And then Lev forgets about it entirely, until, one night, he wakes up to it ticking.

Ticking just a fraction off-beat.

Lev sits up and fumbles for his glasses and then for the switch of the bedside lamp. He stares at the clock, agog, until finally he finds words. ]

S-stop that. You're unwound!

[ Okay, talking to a clock is stupid. But Lev's half-asleep and he never claimed to be smart. ]

[goldeneyeball]

<sub>[It's taken JW a while to re-situate himself. While he might have been attached to his grandfather's clock, the new setting really threw off his groove. He'd been a formless Nothing drifting through the walls for days on end, hardly leaving cold patches where he idled.]

[But now? Now, he'd gone and gotten himself good and mad. His emotions fueled his ability to interact with the waking world and by god he is going to make that clock tick until its ticker falls out.]

[A far away voice that could have been someone passing outside or maybe a radio in a passing car says, quite defiantly:]</sub>

Make me.

[graphomaniac]

[ That sure is a talking cuckoo clock. That or Lev left his laptop on and a video mysteriously started playing. But the latter seems unlikely to him. Laptops aren't as unreliable as the rest of reality. They rarely do things without someone hitting buttons. And there's no one in the flat but Lev.

Well, Lev and the cuckoo clock, apparently. But the cuckoo clock doesn't have hands. Not literal ones, anyway.

Lev leans forward slightly. His glasses slide down his nose and he nervously pushes them back up. Brow furrowed, he contemplates the cuckoo clock. He's pretty sure it spoke.

Of course, it could be that he messed up his medication and is now hallucinating -- whether he took more painkillers than he meant to or less antipsychotics than he meant to -- but Lev has always been of the opinion that hallucinations and delusions remain valid experiences, whatever their objective reality status. He's not going to dismiss the talking cuckoo clock. ]

Um. I c-could take you apart, you know.

[ That's a bluff. His hands are too stiff and painful after a day of writing to manage that. But the cuckoo clock doesn't know that. ]

[goldeneyeball]

<sub>[The unseen force pauses and thinks about that. The clock is the only thing he's managed to interact with since he'd been unpacked. Now that he was getting stronger by the day, perhaps by sucking the battery life out of various things in Lev's room, he didn't feel so dependent on it. He didn't need any stupid clock!]

[Like a toddler going from coasting to walking.]</sub>

Try it.

_{[Okay, there was a thin lining of worry under that taunt. The shelf itself creaked and the temperature dropped just a hair.]}

[graphomaniac]

[ Lev hesitates. Shit. Now he has to get up and walk over to the clock and take it apart just like he said he would, or he'd be appearing weak in front of a ghost. That's not a good thing. You can't let ghosts think they can push you around. That's how you end up being the one to move out.

But he's in pain and half-asleep. And he doesn't actually want to take apart the clock. He's grown kind of fond of it, even if it is utterly ridiculous.

Lev squeezes the bridge of his nose. ]

Do not play, um-- don't play silly buggers with me? I take your clock apart, you'll be a sad, dismembered clock-ghost. Just stop ticking. Let me sleep.

[ He's half-asleep and exasperated and not having a good time lately, so his accent -- rural Russian, deeply ingrained in his wavering, cracked but still deep voice -- is prominent, hogging centre-stage. ]

[goldeneyeball]

_{[At the mere mention of 'silly buggers', JW bursts out laughing. What a phrase!]}

I'm not afraid of you, meatbag.

_{[His worry is gone. It's a contest now. A book shudders and slides out of place before dropping to the floor with a loud, punctuationg THWOP.]}