[arkhampsych]

𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇. 𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗹𝗼𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘂𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝗸𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑. 𝗳𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗰𝗶𝗮𝗿. *𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐋𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐂𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓*

*update: I broke my chrome - compatible computer and sadly, cannot cut responses. thank you for your patience : )

[arkhampsych]

I HOPE YOURE DOING WELL DARLING

hey! I meant to post an update. I got a job bartending and I keep really odd hours. I love it. it’s a really fun job — I have lots of crazy stories. I’m also going to be starting testosterone and the process of getting my surgeries soon. so I’ve been doing well.

I really miss you guys though. I think about you all when I’m on the train and add a little to the drafts I have saved. one of these days I might finally take a day off and post.

[d--u--s--k-deactivated20220814]

[howifeltabouthim]

“Karen has avoided the B-movie cliché of choosing evening as the time to explore a dangerous house. Of course real horror does not depend upon the melodrama of shadows or even the conspiracies of night.”

— Mark Z. Danielewski, from House of Leaves

[nemfrog]

Bat. The Home and school reference work. v.1. 1923.

Internet Archive

[nightmarefuele]

@arkhampsych || { cont'd. }

─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────

Motes swim between irises, these liquid-amber refractions, oozing like oil slick into the vitreous where she can feel, where it’s hot mud and grit in her brain. Straight in through the eyes. Tiny little fairies start standing up on her corneas. Watching them sway.

THUD announces the morning, Rise and die! The whole cuckoo clock comes open on her head, skull on a skewer.

❝ Off-f!❞ scraggly hand springing out, chips mismatched polish on the turn of a muscle, or a bone (or calcified fabric)— Jinx slashes a fairy by accident. Cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo . . . her legs thrash at something, face numb in a needling way, barbed wires sucking marrow out her bone. The fairy’s buckling like a circus clown: amber, rust, white, green, color-shapes contort on an edge of shoulder

W̴̙̔͒ḥ̵̰̖̠́͛̽o̷̧̳̎͠ ̷̧̪̳̃̌̌s̴̭̋͐̚͝é̶̡̩̙͉̏ń̵̳̳̠̳͠t̷̯̠̳̂ ̶̱͗ͅÿ̸͇̱̥ò̶͎̫ṵ̷̢͔̗̐?̴̟̳̳͝ and what kind of sound is that

❝ Nobod—❞ HURTS      don’t move

Needles in her face like the thing's looking to graft to her, slip under skin-fabric and use her for a blanket, Don’t move.

Her free hand shoves back, rabid and animal and hunting, Gun, gun, but that’s an empty slot on her belt, it's gone. (Something like a pistol crouches in shadow by his left knee.) Fever in her fingertips, now they scratch on something bigger, rougher, Oh. Grenade.

Grenade, grenade is good, she makes to nab the pin. Tink-tink, the metal hook goes, she’s feeling veins balloon in her face her sclera Where’s the stupid PIN—!

(tink) There it is.

[arkhampsych]

stalk still and hidden behind a screen of dark soot, unbothered by the prey’s flailing. he can barely feel her thrashing against his own hand. his body and mind are silent — not numb, but cold to the senses. a faint ember - like glimmer floats in the pit of one of two holes torn into the mask. shimmering orange ; it burns steadier the longer the husk goes without blinking.

he watches the little thing he caught try to make sense of what’s happening. try to fight back. she’s fumbling for something. her hand wanders … it’s all so slow. she could be looking for a knife or gun. it wouldn’t matter. his nerves are anesthetized to any threat. a bullet, a blade — if time brought him no urgency, what else could ?

gravel beneath them shifts as he steps in. his pale hand tightens around her jaw — he would have thought it impossible, where does this strength come from ? “ put that away. ” a command hidden behind a most dangerously unassuming tone. the mask surfaced from the shadow, hogging what little amber light crossed to the outskirts of the lot. “ I don’t like to repeat myself, ” each word fluttered behind a shapeless frown like moths caught in a thick web. the face — it wanted to open ; for the corpses seams to pull apart and speak on its own volition, rather than the will of its wearer.

a ghost colored shape dipped into the shadow of his charcoal coat pocket, and returned to view with a small silver contraption in its clutches. his thumb rested beside a trigger positioned at the base of a steel funnel, “ who — ”

“ Hey. I think we have uh … a problem. ” perhaps the most irritating quality to the sound calling for attention, from across the lot, was the uncertainty in its tone. that invincifying cool was beginning to grow tainted with ire. he forced his gaze forward on his little subject, hoping that the lack of attention would encourage the footfall he heard crunching gravel to turn away.

but his back burned under another set of eyes. he could feel the gunman hanging a ways back. in his periphery. like a sheep. the doctor had half the mind to turn a thick swarm of nightmares against the idiot in exchange for this interruption. Instead, he staid his grip on the trespasser’s jaw and cautiously looked over his shoulder — just enough to suggest he was turning his attention in the direction of the hired help.

… “ problem ? ” he said at last. The gunman squirmed under the sightless gaze of the doctor’s warped face, “ Yeah. ” another pause. crane’s bubbling irritation began to exude from his pinstriped form … “ what problem. ” he scoffed incredulously, taking a step back from his prey and turning out to properly face the hired help.

[bahrullmarta]

Sunny guy

[arkhampsych]

his lips couldn’t help but pull apart into a softened, though still somewhat ill - amused smile. lee readily took the tablets from his hand. her actions were likely influenced by the onset of fatigue — that didn’t make her trust appear any less endearing.

students, patients, even a few unlucky colleagues — all pulled away from whatever deceitfully unassuming contents waited silently in the good doctor’s palm. for all they knew, it could have been a poison. lorelai, might have been the only person to accept his offer with a smile. how easy it would have been to slip her something much less kind … crane pitied his luck.

It wouldn’t have done him any good to envenom her dreams, he thought as he straightened up and turned to let her sleep in peace. his knowledge of her fears and insecurities was growing intuitive. if he wanted to threaten her, all he’d need to do was trap her — and for that, he didn’t need the help of a drug.

he stopped at the edge of his doorway, extending an arm towards the floor to pluck lorelai’s stained top from the ground. as he ambled down the hall, he scrubbed the discolored material between his index and thumb. crane decided that if she really missed the piece, she could buy another of its likeness — and discarded the cloth in a trash can hiding under his sink.

the paneled walls of his study were carved to look something like a vault capturing an earlier decade in a ‘ newer fashion. ’ gotham’s aesthetic obsession. the contemporary way was to take something archaic, such as this study, and make it appear as though it’s been transformed by obscuring it’s faults with something pitifully sheer yet pleasing to the eye — a coat of lacquer.

crane was never particular about architecture. though despite the obvious contingency enacted by the apartment’s designers, he felt drawn to this room in particular. no amount of light could expose its corners to the fullest. it was as though it were designed to trap shadows as an organic contour. it felt like a good place to keep secrets. 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬

a quiet place to develop his work — or, observing the unintelligible scribbles that crawled ceaselessly from page to weathered page of his notes, one might think the doctor languished there intermittently after his research 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘥 him. crane’s sleek briefcase slid over a few papers, pushing their corners flat against themselves as they were pressed into the desk’s glass top. a swivel chair’s mahogany seat huffed as he settled into it, gripping it’s arms and dragging it beneath himself so he could sit closer to a collection of notes that laid like a scattered pile of fallen leaves. his fingertips fell onto one of them, pressing idly on the dry paper. his palm hovered just above an almost rorschachian shape that looked more like it were carved into the paper than illustrated — a small tear at its center serving as evidence of the aggresivity with which it was scribbled.

his eyes trailed after a line of spidery characters that crawled across two sheets without care for their margins. at the corner of one page the letters quickly unraveled into a violent dash that twisted into an anguished face. he stared expectantly, as though he anticipated it to speak. no words came to mind. the wraith’s jaw hung open, taunting him with its silence.

the doctor licked his lips and tossed his glasses onto the desk, slumping back into the chair as drew in a sharp inhale through his nose. 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴. too lucid to approach the subconscious’ insight of itself. too pressed for time to examine his outlet with a composed lens. he smiled inwardly and pulled out a pen from behind the lapel of his suit. he and his former patient were trapped under the most ironic of circumstances :

one subject elusive enough to escape time and physical barriers, suddenly faced with a dead end she’s unable to phase - through. another, unaffected by moral predicaments and bound by clinical thought hesitating to follow through with a simple order that would reward him with the realization of a life - long goal, in favor or satisfying an impulsive whim to exact revenge.

the solution to this predicament was simple. it was he complicating the situation over a personal complex. 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. he could’ve debated to no end whether he refused to turn lorelai in because he resented the idea of waller having her way, or if he’d encountered a truly unexpected impasse — his eyes drifted down to the writing tool in his hands. his left thumb and index finger rotating the bottom half of the pen’s dark green exoskeleton back and forth. after a minute or two the doctor relented. jutting out his jaw and sounding his incredulity with a bitter scoff — he hadn’t made up his mind to defy waller’s terms until after the fugitive’s lips crossed his own.

[spirit-x-ing]

The pupils of her turquoise eyes, dilated, as dusk began to fall. Her breath steadied as it took her a moment to realize where she was at. She sat up, shades that were around her slithered back into the walls. She exhaled noticing the numerous spirits that had been watching her sleep scurried away from her awakened presence. Doctor Crane has some shadows he needs to take care of. Whether they came from his own essence or lingered because of actions he did against them. She wasn't sure. She believed they were a mixture of both.

She sighed pushing back some of her unruly locks as she felt less stressed, and rested to a degree. It was just better to live off her own energy. She reached for lenses as she sighed, basking in silence for a moment. She crossed over, getting out of bed before looking for a top to wash it or place it in a bag then in her luggage to find it was missing. She, crossed over, scoffing a sigh, maybe he placed it with his laundry. She thought walking towards her luggage. She unzipped it and pulled out another blouse instead. She immediately began to put it back on. She buttoned it up, her mind wondering on what she was going to do on her last night of freedom.

She mindlessly got ready, not wondering where the whereabouts of Doctor Crane were at the moment. She wanted to party, run, drink, cause a scene. At this moment, she didn't care as she made her way to her shoes and slipped them back on. ❝Keys?❞ she asked herself sensing them, the faint string leading them to them as she neared them and grabbed them. She held them in her hand for a moment she can feel a lingering of Crane's energy on them. GUILT washed over her, she needed to cut that string and she had a feeling it was going to hurt. ❝I'll do it later, ❞she whispered to herself.

CLUB, DRINK, DANCE, SCARE SOME PATRONS, DRAIN THEM HIT THE CEMETARY USE LOCAL SPIRITS AS FREE THERAPIST CLIMB CLOCK TOWER JUMP OFF FROM IT ~ CAUSE A SCENE KISS JONATHAN TURN MYSELF IN SAY HE BLACKMAILED ME. HE GETS CREDIT, HE STAYS SAFE. MAYBE GET A CHOCOLATE MALT?

Her thoughts flashed to things she wanted to do before the night ended. ❝I need to still hide that book,❞ she whispered turning about to head out the door.

[arkhampsych]

maybe an hour had passed. the hollow patter of bare feet gently drummed from the hall. the doctor’s uninspired eyes slowly rolled from the bleeding scribbles on his desk to a doorway just barely lit by his desk lamp. a gaze numbed by time spent ruminating stalled after his guest — looking more so like afterglow that had taken a human form before gliding across his retina’s, in the fuzzy dark. he pressed his palm against the edge of polished wood, crane extended his arm to guide his chair back far enough for him to rise and lurk behind lee — creeping silently from the warm ember - like glow of a well loved study to the static pitch of a void hall.

she’d waded far enough in the dark for crane’s eyes to distinguish the smoothness of her back disappear behind a turn into the entryway, without the aid of of any lenses. presumably to retrieve one of the many blouses she necessitated enough to pack. instead of turning the corner after her, he waited. leaning back against a wall — one foot bearing his weight in the direction of his study. he could hear her unzip her luggage, snatch up her ring of keys, speak to herself ; a flutter of hushed words charting her cognition.

tepid curiosity peeled the doctor from the wall. in a few relaxed steps he joined his guest in the entryway — just in time to catch the tail of a puzzling but inconsequential phrase. “ book ? ” he repeated rhetorically, waking a square over - head light fixture with the flip of a switch — “ you should be resting. ”

[nemfrog]

Crow. Corvus clericus. Museum Carlsonianum. 1786.

[arkhampsych]

a painted metal door opened. worn stickers and rust turning out towards a damp alleyway. dissonant music followed a strange pair ; a man, set apart from the avant - garde enclave in which he determined to lurk by his drab attire leading a stranger, with an odd bearing, by the elbow. “ 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘 ? 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 ? ” a vapor followed her voice. the street grew cold after the sun had set, falling deeper into the turning of a season. “ yes. that’s how it begins. ” he affirmed thinly before stopping beside a long wooden crate, conveniently turned over to serve as a bench — “ here. ” he bid under his breath, eyes straying after a couple that passed them in the dark. though they staggered and chuckled drunkenly down the opposite end of the road, suspicion wrung the man’s pupils into fine holes. 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸.

a thought that bleeds like a cool black poison over the fleshy folds pressing against the cranium, pooling around the occipital, before departing in an agonizingly slow drip down the spine and into the blood. 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘵. starting with the anticipation that comes of spooning white powder onto the fingertip and dragging it down the crease of the tongue — or when the pin - point of a needle presses against a shivering vein. the poison is fear. 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳. he looked down at his subject and buried his hands deep in his coat pockets to hide them from the cold. it looked as though the feeling might soon pass from the mind to the body. he hoped she wouldn’t scream — she didn’t seem the type. “ the striatum is tantalized by the thought of what places a substance or poor decision might take one — ” he began to explain as though he were standing before a class and not on a swampy side - street, “ this is why many associate a thrill with risk - taking behavior. ” the corner’s of his lips curled, “ … I didn’t catch your name. ” / @strangercrime.

[cm-edits]

CILLIAN MURPHY AS JONATHAN CRANE / SCARECROW IN ‘BATMAN BEGINS ’(2005)

[arkhampsych]

in a drawer beside the sink were several folded, unused, hand towels. tag still intact. crane plucked the plastic anchor fastening the corners of the stack together and tossed them to the ground. they fell, spread out of the mess lorelai made, slowly sapping up dark caffeine. crane tapped the tip of his polished shoe into the pile to drive it flush against the floor. he’d come back in an hour or so to properly clean the mess. right now, lee’s distress was of greater interest to him.

just as he made it to the kitchen’s entrance, lorelai stood and floated down the hall. he watched her lift her top over her head as she made a turn — towards his room, and invite herself in. he scoffed quietly, following after her at his own apathetic pace. it was strange to watch another make themself at home in his own apartment. he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done the same.

doctor crane’s life was nearly confined within asylum walls. he lived — flourished — in the dark corners of inmate cells. sitting beside them, whispering under their muttering from behind a 𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙚 face. some prayed, and prayed, and prayed he’d find another padded room to haunt. but in arkham, he could be a whisper, a shadow, a corridor, a distended reflection — that was the power that came with the metamorphosis of becoming a name : 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸 could be everywhere at once.

here, he had no presence. after all the money crane set aside to buy a place of his own, in an area he’d dreamed of living, he allowed himself to grow unfamiliar with the 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘶𝘴𝘵 accumulating on his books, the food 𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 in his kitchen, and his stiffening bedsheets — 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘺𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳’𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨. this apartment was nothing more to crane than an expensive place to shower. or a quiet spot in which he could entertain his own machinations without the threat of another’s speculation.

his silent footfall carried him through the bedroom doorway, to his bathroom, where he opened a medicine cabinet and withdrew a little orange bottle he hadn’t called for since he’d devised an alternative remedy for his own malaise. he shook two tablets from the bottle and ambled into his room, taking slow yet wide strides around his bed — all the way to lorelai’s side.

her dark hair spilled over his charcoal pillowcase and taupe bedsheets like an unraveled coil of 𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘺 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘴. the milky complexion of her relaxed face and shoulders glowed against the umber accents of his room. the color of her lips was the only thing that separated her from the image of a corpse that had gone cold in its sleep.

crane’s head lowered almost sheepishly, as though he were sneaking and underhanded glance at his sleeping guest while under the supervision of another. he allowed his gaze to linger on her lowered eye lashes a while before finally leaning in and placing a cold hand on her shoulder — “ take these. ” he offered his other hand to her, two chalky tablets cradled in his dry palm. “ you’ll feel more at - ease. ”

[spirit-x-ing]

She feels a bit of that toxic energy running within her that's slowly dissipating within the cool confines of linen around her. She exhaled, relaxing enough to lie on her back, letting her arms fan slightly, as she tried to get her breathing to the slow, relaxing rhythm. She was able to manage it and began the irritating process of trying to shut down her mind and overcome anxiety to fall asleep quickly and recover. 

Yet her eyes slowly opened along with a hypno-jerk of her right leg. A small gasp escaped her lips as she felt his cool hand startle her awake. She had instinctively leaned away before realizing he was presenting her with medication. ❝Oh," she breathed out lightly. She sat up a bit and stared at the chalky tablets before taking them off his hands. Lorelai quickly swiped them, her hand momentarily phasing through his at the process before she threw her neck back and swallowed them dryly. 

❝Thanks...❞ she breathed, shifting back down to a comfortable position. ❝Doc,❞ she added with a soft smile. She stared at him for a moment, wondering how long he was going to stand there, or if he was actually tired or not. However, she was too tired to care at the moment. Her eyes slowly blinked at first, before blinking another couple of times before, closing shut. Her body felt heavy on the bed, the sharp energy of anxiety and cosmetic plant dissipating more quickly now. The racing thoughts of tomorrow slowly shut down, as she felt her body relax, her breath steady, and darkness take over once more. 

It's like falling into darkness and landing in a dream. Dreaming was usually a great escape. She sat up. She was lying in a large pile of Autumn leaves. She smiled brightly, she was in a park. Maybe Gotham by the buildings around her. She stood up from the large leaf pile she was in. She looked around before she began kicking some leaves away while making her way out of the leaf pile before feeling something snag on her ankle. 

❝Ah!❞ she let out confused. She looked down, but nothing was there, maybe it was just a tree root as she tried to pull herself free but fell forward instead. She closed her eyes expecting to feel damp dirt, grass, and crunchy leaves below her but instead felt dirt. Lorelai sighed as she pushed herself up and she realized her dream had shifted. ❝Damn it,❞ she swore, luckily lucid enough to realize she was still dreaming. She looked around and noticed the tall, yell, and dry stalks of leaves around her. ❝Uhh...okay,❞ she breathed out. She was in a corn maze. Lorelai began wandering out. When was the last time I was in one? Late 90's she supposes. 

She can hear people talking within the maze, footsteps running by, and children laughing. It all spurred her to quicken her pace and find others wandering through the maze. Yet each time she turned, no one was there. Just voices of people, having fun but never running into them. After running and turning a fourth time she paused with a frustrated sigh. It wasn't as fun, never finding people. What was she in a maze filled with ghosts? She shrugged maybe she was. 

She began trying to find her way out instead, trying to shift the dream to something lighter. Though she wasn't finding her way out. She sighed as she tried to just ghost her way through the cornfield. Though she couldn't. "Lame!" she let out stepping back. She hopped in the air. None of her usual abilities were working. It rarely happened, she lived long enough as a Warden to be awarded these dream perks but now she felt even more....human. She sighed scratching the back of her head before hearing laughing once more. She sighed looking around. Who was laughing at her? She huffed as she tried to continue to find a way out of the maze. Though time was shifting fast and the sun was starting to set. Everything was making her nervous instead. 

Why can't I find my way out? 

Anxiety was starting to grow as she tried to shove her way through the corn to find a way out but was getting scratched and cut up. Fog was mysteriously joining the fun as well and the dusk came quickly as she grew so frustrated she finally just dunked, grabbed her head, and shrieked. She yelled out her frustration before uttering. ❝Wake up....wake up,❞ she commanded herself. Wake up!

Her eyes finally opened as she breathed a long soft gasp. 

[arkhampsych]

his lips couldn’t help but pull apart into a softened, though still somewhat ill - amused smile. lee readily took the tablets from his hand. her actions were likely influenced by the onset of fatigue — that didn’t make her trust appear any less endearing.

students, patients, even a few unlucky colleagues — all pulled away from whatever deceitfully unassuming contents waited silently in the good doctor’s palm. for all they knew, it could have been a poison. lorelai, might have been the only person to accept his offer with a smile. how easy it would have been to slip her something much less kind … crane pitied his luck.

It wouldn’t have done him any good to envenom her dreams, he thought as he straightened up and turned to let her sleep in peace. his knowledge of her fears and insecurities was growing intuitive. if he wanted to threaten her, all he’d need to do was trap her — and for that, he didn’t need the help of a drug.

he stopped at the edge of his doorway, extending an arm towards the floor to pluck lorelai’s stained top from the ground. as he ambled down the hall, he scrubbed the discolored material between his index and thumb. crane decided that if she really missed the piece, she could buy another of its likeness — and discarded the cloth in a trash can hiding under his sink.

the paneled walls of his study were carved to look something like a vault capturing an earlier decade in a ‘ newer fashion. ’ gotham’s aesthetic obsession. the contemporary way was to take something archaic, such as this study, and make it appear as though it’s been transformed by obscuring it’s faults with something pitifully sheer yet pleasing to the eye — a coat of lacquer.

crane was never particular about architecture. though despite the obvious contingency enacted by the apartment’s designers, he felt drawn to this room in particular. no amount of light could expose its corners to the fullest. it was as though it were designed to trap shadows as an organic contour. it felt like a good place to keep secrets. 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬

a quiet place to develop his work — or, observing the unintelligible scribbles that crawled ceaselessly from page to weathered page of his notes, one might think the doctor languished there intermittently after his research 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘥 him. crane’s sleek briefcase slid over a few papers, pushing their corners flat against themselves as they were pressed into the desk’s glass top. a swivel chair’s mahogany seat huffed as he settled into it, gripping it’s arms and dragging it beneath himself so he could sit closer to a collection of notes that laid like a scattered pile of fallen leaves. his fingertips fell onto one of them, pressing idly on the dry paper. his palm hovered just above an almost rorschachian shape that looked more like it were carved into the paper than illustrated — a small tear at its center serving as evidence of the aggresivity with which it was scribbled.

his eyes trailed after a line of spidery characters that crawled across two sheets without care for their margins. at the corner of one page the letters quickly unraveled into a violent dash that twisted into an anguished face. he stared expectantly, as though he anticipated it to speak. no words came to mind. the wraith’s jaw hung open, taunting him with its silence.

the doctor licked his lips and tossed his glasses onto the desk, slumping back into the chair as drew in a sharp inhale through his nose. 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴. too lucid to approach the subconscious’ insight of itself. too pressed for time to examine his outlet with a composed lens. he smiled inwardly and pulled out a pen from behind the lapel of his suit. he and his former patient were trapped under the most ironic of circumstances :

one subject elusive enough to escape time and physical barriers, suddenly faced with a dead end she’s unable to phase - through. another, unaffected by moral predicaments and bound by clinical thought hesitating to follow through with a simple order that would reward him with the realization of a life - long goal, in favor or satisfying an impulsive whim to exact revenge.

the solution to this predicament was simple. it was he complicating the situation over a personal complex. 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. he could’ve debated to no end whether he refused to turn lorelai in because he resented the idea of waller having her way, or if he’d encountered a truly unexpected impasse — his eyes drifted down to the writing tool in his hands. his left thumb and index finger rotating the bottom half of the pen’s dark green exoskeleton back and forth. after a minute or two the doctor relented. jutting out his jaw and sounding his incredulity with a bitter scoff — he hadn’t made up his mind to defy waller’s terms until after the fugitive’s lips crossed his own.

[arkhampsych]

a few aluminum chairs groan as they’re bumped into or nudged away from the table. shadows turn their backs to a pair sitting beneath a raw light bulb. it would have swung if a moth beat its wings beside it. as the scuffle of boots filtered out a door hidden somewhere in the deep penumbra surrounding the spot - litten area, the other finally spoke ; “ 𝚜𝚘, 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝙸 𝚘𝚠𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 ? ” a pair of eyelids lifted behind gleaming lenses, looking up from a a set of pale hands tucked between pinstripe thighs. he answered the question with a deceitfully meek bend of his lips — one that mirrored his condensed posture.

“ this won’t take long. ” he muttered tonelessly. sitting up a little. lifting his head so that light poured past his dark hairline and revealed his indiscernible features. the glare that had set upon his spectacles fell, leaving nothing but glass between the poignancy of two tightening pupils and the ghost like rings set around them — taking in the features of the figure opposite of him — a man whom he’d come to know by the apprehension expressed by those who’d uttered his name in passing. 𝙟𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙧. a set of eyes painted like a shadow bleeding over skin that glowed under the light — glowed in morbid contrast to the indentation that marked a permanent, gnarled, grin.

𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺. his expression somehow tightened in order to mimic a relaxed mien ; effectively stoic, but too intentional to conceal a subliminal and curiously vague expression. it could have been concerned. excited. anxious. amused. neurotic — 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤. but afflicted by what malady ? “ you have a, reputation — I’m sure you’re aware. ” the doctor began at a volume that might have been welcome in a church or library, “ from what I hear, you seem to have an interest in upsetting organizations. ” / @chaoticjoke.

[arkhampsych]

i've told you this before but your dash icon on the damn horse is so wicked i love it.

thank you haha. I love it. at some point I’m going to figure out how to incorporate more aesthetically spooky/scarecrow motifs into my blog, but for now the little horse does the trick.

[jonathan-cranes-mistress-of-fear]

LONG HALLOWEEN || ORANGE IS THE NEW FEAR

[arkhampsych]

he touched two fingers to his lip and shot a caustic glare up from the corner of his eye. — “ 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑. 𝚒𝚏 𝚒’𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛. ” — crane’s icy gaze lowered to inspect his fingertips. there was only a ghost of a red wisp floating in the scant strand of saliva he’d transferred from his mouth to the pad of his finger. he felt like he tasted more, pressing the tip of his tongue to against a sore spot inside his mouth. “ I must have misinterpreted that love tap as a warning. ” he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, “ sometimes our actions can be confused. perhaps you should work on using your words. ” / @banschivs.

[arkhampsych]

There’s a dark chocolate muffin on Crane’s desk, a completely ordinary looking muffin. However, if one were to bite into it there’s a small surprise: Blood-like strawberry jam. Happy Friday 13th :3

he silently thanked whoever had left the pleasant surprise. through the day he slowly picked at the treat until it was just crumbs soaking in whatever syrupy red - filling was behind. it was an easy day. he dropped the stained muffin liner in a bin half full of shredded documents, crumpled notes, and papers that where otherwise discarded. a slow yet still productive friday the thirteenth — of course, not one given to superstition, he attached no personal significance to the date. but as he dusted a few dark crumbs from his palm the doctor thought, he had time enough to visit at least one of his subjects on his way out of the asylum …