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Old 02-04-2015, 12:50 AM   #1
Zelphon
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Zelphy Hosts: Stories by PASBL

This thread will be used both for helping me keep all the stories I commission from members of the PASBL community (I use the in-league currency of SP cause I'm a cheap-o) as well as sharing said stories with ya'll.

Just a note that I'd love for just about anyone to write for me, but I have no idea what I'd be able to offer as compensation to those outside the league.

(credit is always given and links are provided to the profiles of the writers]


With that said here's the first and only story I've had done so far, it's about a Banette my Favorite pokemon & it was written by a member of the evil Serebii mod empire...Miror!

Spoiler: show

Fragments

November 18, 1836; Outskirts of Lexington, Kentucky

Crack

A rosary bounces on the neckline of a young woman as she awakes with a start. The glow of moonlight illuminates the small inn room she is resting in, revealing clues about her surroundings that an untrained eye could scarcely detect. Another thump is followed by a mischievous giggle. The sound is almost child-like.

"God damn it, this is the third time this month."

Her tousled hair bounces slightly in its curls as she turns, placing her bare feet on the oaken floor. Stepping gingerly over to the small desk in the other corner of the room, she pulls out a match and pliers, crushing the capsule between the two sides for ignition, lighting a candle. The faint lunar lighting is swept away by this far brighter flame, while the woman assesses the situation that only she knows she is in.

"C'mon you little imp, where are you this time? I know you are here," she whispers.

Unclasping her necklace, she holds her rosary aloft, the cross shining a dull orange in the candlelight. The snores of other patrons can be heard through the walls of the cabin-esque structure. Listening carefully, she swings around, staring for a good while at the top of the window. Nothing. She creaks open the door to her room, checking the hallway to see if there is any evidence of the noise that brought her out of her sleep in the first place. Still fruitless.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes with her free hand, she gathers her thoughts.

'Could it all have just been a dream? But that's where it likes to intrude the most...hmmph.'

This disgruntled sniff escapes her as she turns back, closing her door. She approaches the window, looking out into the darkness cast by the fir trees outside. Had she actually gotten away for once? She'd been trying for years to escape, so it seemed pretty implausible. Gazing over the grounds encompassing the inn, a slight breeze was the only sign of movement or life that she could see. Then again, what she was dealing with wasn't alive.

Stepping away from the window, the candle is returned to its place on the table and blown out. The wisps of smoke reflect in the light of the moon as the slight smell of it also permeates the room. Sighing, the young lady returns to the bed, splaying out underneath the large quilt on the bedspread. Her eyes droop as she begins to drift off, returning to the peaceful void once more.

But the peace doesn't last. It never does.

The small embers in the candle's wick grow dimmer and dimmer. A shadow passes over the small amount of light being put forth; another small giggle can be heard. The wick reignites, casting light across the room unexpectedly. The woman senses something amiss and sits up once more, rosary outstretched as she eyes the now bright blue flame. In an instant the candle tips, and the little flame quickly becomes a roaring blaze as it engulfs the desk.

Another loud crack echoes through the room as a large object suddenly bursts through the floorboards, ripping up through the bed and missing the woman by inches. She jumps off the now punctured mattress with a scream as another rusty, nail-like construct rips through the dilapidated fabric, sending feathers flying in its wake. Stumbling over her nightgown, she lands with a clunk to the floor as her rosary skids out of reach. Her hands scrabbling for it, she crawls forward quickly, the small wooden piece of protection so close. Snap. With an earsplitting shriek and crunch of bone, a final nail obliterates her left hip, and her vision swims and dims quickly as blood gushes over the floor. A spectral creature can be seen against the backdrop of the intense blue fire, and it lets out a malevolent cackle as it views its impaled victim, who stares up at it with flashing eyes.

"I knew it, I knew it, I knew it..."

----------

June 3, 1817; London, England

Wimbleton Estates. Nighttime has fallen over this impressive structure, with only glimmers of light from inside indicating that any life was present. A jarring creak rings through the darkness as the large birch doors slowly move open, allowing access to a small figure to slip quietly into the void. Murdoc Wimbleton. Quite an unusual name for a upper class English girl, but fitting for one so outspoken and quite out of the societal norm. This young child looks behind her cautiously as the moonlight casts her shadow across the well-trimmed grounds. She stumbles slightly over a particularly bumpy patch of turf, but regains her footing and continues quickly across the lawn, her course taking her towards a white pavilion, a small creek circling around it.

Footsteps on wood can be heard as the child crosses the small bridge to get into the ornate gazebo, and something sliding along behind her can be heard as it makes subtle noises while running over the cracks between the individual boards. She reaches the center of the edifice, and plops down as her small dress poofs outward, then flattens on the ground. The glint of red beads used for eyes can be seen as she pantomimes the toy she carries walking across the ground, climbing up the baluster and then tightroping across the railing it connects to in some sort of adventure that only Murdoc is aware of.

Louder steps are heard as a tall man walks briskly across the bridge, the waxed tips of his mustache gleam briefly in the faint light as he bends down and swoops up his small daughter, with her plaything dangling gently by one arm in her hand. She sighs as she rests her head against his bosom, snuggles into the soft material of his overcoat, and drifts to sleep, her smile being clear evidence that her dream filled mind has returned to the adventure she was acting out just moments before.

----------

Many phases of the moon have passed since that day. We see Murdoc hugging her graying parents, black and white clothing evident under her right arm. A neatly groomed servant rushes out of the front door, carrying a small box in his arms. He hands it to the now young adult, and she looks in. She chuckles softly, pulling out memorabilia from days long past. With a small smirk she pulls out a familiar black doll, now quite worn from first years of use, and more recently, years of moths. Murdoc sighs similarly to how she did as a young child, turning the small toy in her hands, and then ruefully returns it to the box. She motions to the servant, and he nods with a sad smile as he takes the box over to a small bin outside the gate. As the carriage containing the item's former owner rattles by, the lid to the container is removed as the wooden casket for its occupants is tossed in.

----------

A dull thud and then silence. Echoing, deadening silence. Quiet steps walk away from the garbage bin as a small marionette, tangled in strings, lies broken in among the produce remains and paper products. Sides and face brutally mutilated from age, this mangled toy loses cotton as the days pass, a pathetic semblance of its former life. Imprinted with years of memories, this toy like all good toys preformed its service well. But despite this, there hangs some lingering regret, some feelings of neglect. But no matter. After all, it is just a toy.

Suddenly, movement. Light pours into the dusty can as she is taken away. The road traveled is bumpy, very bumpy, and being near the top she finds herself left to rest in the muddy tracks of a shambling cart. More time passes. Unaware, she is taken in. Zippers patch up old wounds, small pins produce new ones. Poor old woman thinks herself a witch, with absurd incantations taken from yellowed paper. But on the day of life, a spell worked.

Summoned me. Brought me back.

Neglect and hatred fueled me as I left the shack to burn. What fun! I can see why she enjoyed poking pins in me, it's great. I feel something though. Left alone? Who left me? Who abandoned me? Wronged me. What was she called? She used to say it. Funny little bitch. Spoke strange. I think Murdoc. Murdoc? Murdoc. Well, it's time to play with her. Make up for lost time. She didn't do anything fun with me for forever. She'll love the way I play now!

---------

A professor of religion's words echo through Murdoc's mind as she boards a ship bound for the former colonies. She remembers his spectacles glinting as he cleaned them on his shirt, staring up at her with a worried expression, and his words as he did so:

"Yours is quite a unique situation Sister Wimbleton, I've never heard of an instance of an old belonging haunting and attempting to kill its previous owner. You say your exorcisms only repel it briefly? Hmmph. I would think that's because of it being a non-living object possessed by something that was once living, as our spiritual removal techniques only work on living subjects. Try moving around, seeing if you can get away from it. Traveling far may either break its hold or it may just lose track of you and move on to other things. Its certainly worth a shot, considering all that you've been through..."

She closes her eyes as she breathes in the salty sea air. Perhaps this move to the Americas would help? She'd been on the run for months now, but it seemed to know Europe like the back of its hand. A whistle cuts across her recollections, signalling the ship's departure. As she moves towards the bow of the ship, staring across the Atlantic that will become a familiar sight for her in the coming months, the shadows below deck seem to grow larger as a small giggle can be heard deep in the bowels of the ship, lost to the rush of the wind as the vessel begins its voyage.
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Life, but a series of paths and flows
Down many one can go
May yours run smoothly and be soft to your feet

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