❝ there's no room in this hell; there's no room in the next ❞

[lucency]

psychedelic horror open post

Inspired by films such as Hausu and Suspiria, “psychedelic horror” refers to an intense sense of disconnection from reality along with gothic elements of fear and haunting. the scene; You find yourself isolated from town in a dilapidated mansion. It’s spooky. Prompts are below. Take it from there. Put some prefs in your top level! Post multiple starters! Post a blank one and take what lands with you! We're up all night to get spooky. the prompts; ✦ The Getaway: You came here to take in the idyllic scenery of the countryside, to honor your family’s ancient estate, or to find some shelter from the rain (although, what, exactly, has you traveling through the middle of nowhere in such weather?). Maybe you’re even just dedicated to exploring abandoned places, but the mansion’s glory days have clearly passed. Have fun — or something like it — exploring, but keep in mind that it’s not exactly normal for blood to seep from the walls at sundown, nor for your doorknobs to rattle like bones. ✦ The Ritual: The moon is dark, the woods are deathly silent, but the estate bustles with activity. A freshly-cooked meal fills the halls with smells and the dining room tables with dishes beyond imagination. The centerpiece, however, is a massive goblet, passed around to all in attendance. Do you eat, drink, and make merry? It would be rude to decline, of course, on such an auspicious evening. One thing nobody mentions, though, are the hallucinogens steeped in the wine. Bon voyage! ✦ The Seance: Do you believe in ghosts? Whether it’s the isolation or collective nerves of the others present within the manor, there’s an undeniable presence seeping through the very structure itself. The storm outside whips up the screaming wind, making the doors and shutters rattle in agreement. The house can’t speak verbally, but perhaps a conduit can. There’s a cabinet full of candles and matches, and maybe if we all just hold hands… ✦ Dream Curse: If you’re expecting a reprieve through sweet sleep, you’re unfortunately mistaken. Have you upset the ghosts? Or maybe you drank too much of the wine during the festivities. The pages etched with strange symbols you found in the estate’s library could be a culprit, but regardless of the reason, your dreams are haunted with the same terrors that creep through your waking world. The subconscious, though, sees and interacts differently through sleep. Who do you meet, and what secrets come to light? Most importantly, do you remember them in the morning? ✦ Wildcard! Feel free to use all or none of the above. If you’ve got another idea that vibes with the setting, go wild. No rules (just keep in mind, the walls do talk).

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spill the beans, willie world news

[newswire]

( if i could speak in shorthand, i would. i need to keep this short. i don't normally do these country bumpkin sorts of stories. the ones that get me away from my contacts and a well-stocked bar and require that i pack galoshes and dodge deer. but i heard from a reliable source about — well. the particulars aren't very important. at least not right now. no, no. all will be revealed in due time. that's how these kinds of stories begin, right? an innocent young girl arrives at a mansion as the new governess or maid or just to get away from it all. but then she's pushed into an unknown and strange world of terror, paranoia, and death. well, dear reader, i am neither innocent nor young, but even i was pushed into that world. but, as i said, all will be revealed.

it began in the late afternoon of march 24. it was gray. like it had been all day and the previous day. i arrived at the mansion, rang the doorbell, and waited...

kolchak waits for a couple of seconds before ringing the doorbell again, pressing his thumb against the button. the drone of the doorbell is like egg beaters or the dull hum of a beehive. it's the only sound for miles. but no one comes. sensing the futility of this, he releases his finger and then glances over his shoulder. he's the only life for miles. he tries the doorknob and it's unlocked. it swings open, easily, like it had been expecting him. he takes it as an invitation and enters.

the mansion is a nice, big place. a little old-fashioned for him and very reminiscent of those old monster movies kolchak used to take girls to as an opportunity to make out. gothic revival architecture, velvet persian rugs, mahogany furniture, looming oil portraits of stern-faced ancestors, and a musty stench like a mausoleum. yes, very dracula meets the wolf-man. he adjusts his bag on his shoulder, looking around him to anybody. in front of him is a grand staircase (also made from mahogany with velvet carpet) and he's tempted to climb up in his search of a person. but...

but he would prefer to stay on the ground level for now. it makes for a quicker escape. at least until he's scoped out his surroundings. even with a silver cross and bottle of holy water weighing heavily in his bag, kolchak still feels unsure about who (or what) lurks in these halls.

he adjusts his bag again and walks further into the mansion. he's between the parlor and the library (where colonel mustard was with the candlestick) when a man smelling of wet grass with a face like the sun behind a veil of smoke appears from outside. kolchak looks behind the guy and, through the glass panes of the door, spots a garden and, beyond that on a slope, a cemetery. tombstones jut out from the ground like fragments of a shipwreck wedged in the sand.

the man asks for a shovel and the question draws kolchak's brows together. ) No. Can't say I have. Actually, I'm looking for the uh proprietor of this castle, Mr. Barnabas Collins. Oh sorry. ( he reaches inside his tan linen suit and pulls out a business card. quick and charming, two essential traits for a reporter. ) Carl Kolchak, reporter for the Chicago Tribune.

( or does the business card read the denver post? back when the mountain air filled his lungs and a failed government experiment (half-man, half-cougar, your tax money at work) terrorized denver. he's been fired from so many newspapers it's difficult (and expensive) to keep his business cards up to date. but quick and charming, a flash of the business card and a flash of a smile to the guy. keep the questions firing and they'll eventually spill everything. )

he will (not)

[graverobbings]

Wait, what?

[ Willie takes the card, bafflement etched all over his face, but he (luckily) doesn't read it. Instead, he flips it over, flips it back, tucks it into the pocket of his jeans. It's just his luck — he finally gets a vacation, but the surprise visits don't, and what the hell kind of business does a reporter have here anyway?

Willie looks up, squinting at the new visitor. They aren't even near Illinois. Sharp as a tack, this one. ]

What're you lookin' for Mr. Barnabas for? No, he don't live here. He's up at the Old House.

[ Willie extends an arm and gestures vaguely behind him and — shit. The last thing Barnabas needs is anybody snooping around, although, honestly, it seems to happen at least weekly, at this point, and nobody's any wiser to anything. Even with a blabbermouth (Willie? Debatable.) living in such close quarters. It's almost impressive.

Besides, that's not the point right now. The point is the body buried in the yard, and sure, it probably isn't going anywhere (although Willie also has some concerns about that), but it probably wouldn't be great press for an out-of-town reporter to catch wind of. Nor would be Barnabas' situation.

He's nervous. His feet shift, he scratches the back of his neck. ]

I could probably take a message, if you want.