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@gheistd
# 𝖌𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖉 . an indie rp blog for conrad belanger, a fandomless poltergeist oc with original lore. HAUNTED BY SPECTER. please read rules before interacting . heavily affiliated with @skullfck
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ carrd ✩ ask prompts ✩ pinterest ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
i, uh.... hehe i think im gonna get rid of most of my threads on this blog and start over......
“What interest does a ghost have in the thoughts of the living?” He peers at the tattoo again. “A coffin nail can pierce through dimensions?”
“ maybe? something like that, ” conrad shrugs. he’s supposed to know all of that? “ it was some folklore shit we tried and it worked. i dunno. it was salem’s idea. ”
new blog graphic swag IMMESURABLE thank you @faegfx !!!!!<3
“I’m The Chemist. How did they tattoo you if you’re a disembodied spirit? Is it an illusion?”
“ … stick-and-poke with a coffin nail, if you really gotta know. ” a pause, “ what interest does a chemist have in ghosts? ”
Hyuntae pulls his phone from his pocket, squints a bit as he makes a few taps, and then shows him an old scan of a missing poster circa 2002. He glances at the tattoo on Conrad’s wrist.
“Most people join a gang before they die.”
his stomach drops. is this the first time someone has made the connection on their own? was he told? the smile falls from conrad's face, if only for a second.
“ guess you can say i'm not most people. you still haven't answered my question, though. who are you? ”
“Are you Conrad Bellanger?”
… ? “ well, yeah. yes. who are you? ”
“ not to be rude… but why are you looking at me like that? ” @med1c1nal.
Willow doesn't come out on these trips very often; as light-footed and inconspicuous as she is, her combat skills are so poor that any instance of them actually being discovered will likely result in a very bloody end for both of them. Salem's done a little recon on this side of town, however, and it seemed pretty quiet - so here she is.
Here, holding Salem back from rushing any closer to the stranger they've just encountered with a vice grip on his arm.
As relieved as she is to see another human soul, she knows that her encounter with Salem was a stroke of complete luck -- if he had been anyone else, they might have killed her and taken what she has. This complete stranger, as exhausted as he seems, could also be a threat.
She watches him with wide eyes, full of concern. Wary.
"--Are you wounded?"
THE SHOCK AND AWE OF SEEING PEOPLE, ALIVE, AFTER SO LONG still hasn’t fully hit him yet. For all he knows, in his exhausted state, he’s hallucinating them. Or maybe, he has mistaken some of the creatures outside for people. Maybe these are his last, incoherent moments before he meets a confused end.
Would that really be so bad? Let’s be real, April is probably long gone by now.
Are you wounded? Conrad looks down at himself, down at all the blood and the gore covering the front of him. Then back up at the silhouettes in the doorway, the smaller of them clutching the taller by the upper arm. Only when he is able to make out the figures of them a little better does Conrad realize there is a gun in his face, too. The fear that he was so easily able to suppress before now comes out in full force. Conrad’s eyes get big, his hands raised in a universal sign of surrender — but his smile barely falters.
“ No, I think I’m good. Pretty sure the mess is just from — ” Conrad points down at the previous occupant of this little storage room, who is now still and lifeless at their feet, “ … I’m just looking for my sister — and some food — but if this is… if this is your place, or — I dunno, I can make myself scarce if — ”
“ No, that’s not… ” The taller of the two speaks. By the way he’s fidgeting, Conrad figures he’s not used to acting so tough — maybe he’s even putting on a brave face for his companion, “ … You aren’t bit? ”
“ No? I mean — ” Conrad looks at himself again. He would feel it, wouldn’t he? “ You can check, if you want…? ”
The taller of the strangers looks down at his other, and although Conrad can’t see his face, he’s sure just by his body language that he asks without words — what do you think we should do?
CONRAD GOT HIMSELF INTO QUITE THE PICKLE THIS TIME; he’s exhausted. He ran out of food three days ago, and ran out of drinking water earlier in the day. His temporary shelter? Overrun a week ago; he’s been on the run ever since, hiding out in abandoned cars or in the long dead walk-in freezers of grocery stores. Fate took him to a strip mall full of liquor stores and shitty fast food restaurants, ones that looked quiet — the liquor store might just be a safe place to get a couple minutes of sleep.
Or so he thought, turns out someone else thought the same thing at one point, but they didn’t exactly get what they bargained for. Maybe they were like him, taken off guard by one of the dead, but weren’t able to fight like Conrad can. Conrad just barely avoids a bite, but in the struggle is painted with gore that reeks horribly of rot. He shuts his eyes hard. He would scream if he could. He’s just so tired, and April is nowhere to be found. Maybe she’s gone, maybe it’s just him. Maybe it isn’t such a bad idea to scream.
There is movement by the front doors — the little bell on the door rings and there are footsteps, intelligent ones too. Conrad’s frozen in place, makeshift spear clutched to his chest as he listens. He can swear he hears whispering, two pairs of footsteps, the sounds of bottle clinking as they are shoved into bags — but it’s wishful thinking, right? He hasn’t seen anyone alive in…
Before he can finish the thought, a flashlight shines in his face. He squints hard against it, recoiling almost as if he’s been shot, swearing softly as he brings a hand up to cover his eyes.
“ Holy shit, ” A voice says in disbelief, presumably the taller of the two, the one holding the offending flashlight, “ @unpossession, is that — ? ”
“ So, what? The world ends and you learn how to harness the light of the sun? ” Conrad’s voice is patient and level, despite his fear, despite his exhaustion. Or maybe BECAUSE of his exhaustion. Who knows. He doesn’t. “ Like, holy fuck, dude. That’s the brightest flashlight I’ve ever fucking seen. ”
Things you should never leave the house without 👇
ur skull
conrads personal spotify <3 ( using this template ) when he starts making music ( and when i have more energy to keep editing ) i'll make ones for his artist profile too :))
Okay, so the LARP-ing runs deep. Violet is dripping with judgement, scowling through the wrought iron gates as he continues to spin his fantasy of being a dead person. She was alive during the peak tumblr years, she's about to dish out some comment about his good friend Mary Sue stopping by a few days prior, until --
-- until she sees the skull.
❝ Holy shit, is that real? ❞
Violet probably has one of those. If she went down to the crawlspace now, what would be left of her? She's occupied with this thought a lot. Can't get the image of her own open mouth, the blowflies buzzing around the whites of her rolled-back eyes. They've probably eaten away at her by now. Left nothing but the bones, her clothes.
She never goes down there, though. The basement is for the others.
❝ I'm Violet. Can I have one of those? ❞ A cigarette, she means.
WHAT IT IS WITH CONRAD AND MEETING PEOPLE WITH COLOR NAMES? He pulls the back of cigarettes back out of his pocket, offering it to her — when she goes to take one he gives it a gentle shove into her hand. Take all of them, I can get more. He doubts it's easy for her to get some, anyways. The bad influence-ness of it doesn’t matter to him in the slightest — she’s already dead, what harm is a cigarette gonna do?
Plus, he was the neighborhood unofficial weed dealer for all the teens when he was alive, he’s no stranger to being a bad influence.
“ Skull’s real, yeah. It’s mine — ” he opens the top of his bag again so she can peer inside and see the top, some of the larger carvings easier to see now up close, “ Can’t go anywhere without it. ”
Looking both ways, Conrad shifts a little closer to the fence — using his body to block the sight of his skull as he pulls it from his bag entirely, cradling it in his hands. No one in LA really cares about seeing a skull, as he has come to find out, but this close to THE Murder House… better safe than sorry. With his cigarette pinched between his fingers, Conrad opens and closes its (his?) jaw, teeth clattering together. He can feel it in his own spectral head, and he giggles.
“ Kinda fucked up, right? ”
THE NORMAL FIT : large jackets, baggy jeans, messenger bags, flannels, converse shoes, rings. IN HIS BAG : motorcycle keys, journal/books, cigarette tin that doubles as a card clip/wallet, lollipop or gum, chapstick, and his own carved skull !!
❝ What kind of weirdo question is that? ❞ This house is famous for all it's dead people. She supposes it's only fair that some creeps who show up at the gates might be into that LARP-ing shit. It's embarrassing, if you ask her, and by his outfit, she can only guess who he's pretending to be. ❝ And aren't you a little old to be cosplaying highschool shooters? ❞
It doesn't occur to her that he might be another spirit, stuck roaming. As far as she's concerned, everyone on the outside is alive and well; she assumes that the other spirits only go walkabout on Halloween, too, when the veil is thinnest.
❝ Fuck off, before I call the cops. ❞ With what phone?
HIS SMILE FADES, ONLY BY A LITTLE, eyes narrowing as he tries to make sense of what she’s saying. He’s only vaguely aware of the existence of a haunted place on this street — doesn’t know where it is, doesn’t put two and two together to realize this is the place! You don’t have to be super smart when you're pretty and have lips like that.
His smile returns though, despite her hostility — teenagers will be teenagers, and under any normal circumstance it would be hella weird for him to come up to her like this anyways — but the circumstances aren’t normal. THEY aren’t normal.
“ Yeah, fuck it. Call ‘em. I’ll even give you my phone, ” Conrad pulls his hands back, fishing through his pockets for his cigarettes. He only speaks again after her lights one, “ Or you could chill the fuck out and we can talk. Here, I’ll go first — ” he takes a long drag of his cigarette, “ Hi, my name’s Conrad — in 2002 I was brutally stabbed to death by my sister as part of a cult initiation and buried in the woods until someone came and dug me back up, now I carry my skull around so I can move around freely. ”
To punctuate his point, he lifts the flap of his messenger bag, lifting his skull up and out with one finger in each eye socket. Another drag of his cigarette as the skull it once again tucked safely away, a chuckle on exhale, “ Your turn. ”
