NerdyPuddinCup

[nerdypuddincup]

In the lore of our Haunt, before my character was a werewolf, he was an adulterer, having an affair on his fiancée with a local woman. What he did not know is that the woman he carried on with was a witch! And on his wedding day, she put her curse into effect and he transformed then and there, killing his bride.

Now the witch keeps her former lover bound to the grounds, forever wandering, forever looking for its next meal.

The witch is my wife and makeup artist. She dies amazing work!

[nerdypuddincup]

Werewolf by Night-The Beginning-Chapter 1 Scott Speedman as Jack Russell

It was so serene here. The sun hung low, bathing the sky in a warm orange glow that really made me crave a creamsicle. Here I was, just laying out on a blanket staring up at the clouds. They were thin and wispy, adding texture to the amber heavens above. Laying against me was Satilia. My arm wrapped around her shoulder as we just laid there and existed. We didn’t need to talk. My mother always told me that’s how she knew she was in love with my father. They could just sit there in silence and be content in each other’s presence.

I leaned down to plant a soft kiss upon Tilly’s lips. But when I got to where I thought they would be I felt nothing. I opened my eyes to find that I was alone. The serene beauty had been replaced whilst my eyes were closed. The orange glow was now the pale light of the full moon. Not that I could see much of it through the trees which had swallowed up the sky. Long and jagged, like horrible arms reaching out to blot out the light. In futility I patted the ground where Tilly once lay. Where could she have gone? She was just here? Or had she? She was back in the field. And this was no longer the field. I tried to call out to her, but my voice was caught in my throat.

I shakily rose to my feet, my eyes scanning this unfamiliar place. That was the moment I heard something that chilled my blood. It was a howl. But it was not the howl of some natural animal. Those sounds I was all too familiar with. No. This was the howl of something else. Something unnatural. And something hungry.

I took off in the direction opposite of where I thought the howl had come from. And from behind me I could hear the gallop of feet behind me. Those coupled with the panting growls told me everything I needed to know. I could not let this thing get me or I was dead.

My feet felt heavy, as if I was running in water. The further along I got, the harder the struggle began and the closer the beast at my back seemed to get. It was almost on me now. I could feel the hot wet breath on the back of my neck, the stench of death burning my nose and eyes. I shut them, trying to get the tears out of them but it was no use.

I felt myself trip, and as I did, I felt the terrible jaws wrap around my neck.

And that was when I woke up. I shot up in my bed, breathing hard and covered in sweat. The room was still dark, and the memory of the nightmare still fresh making everything disorienting. I put my hands to my face and pressed them as I tried to control my breathing. It happened again. That same reoccurring dream I’d had since I was young. The dream could start out as anything. Whether it be mundane or fantastical it would always end with me in that forest being chased by that howling beast.

My therapist told me that it was my brain’s way of coping with what happened to me when I was younger. The man who hurt me. But I always argued with him. I insisted that I’d had that dream even before the…incident. He assured me I was just misremembering. The memory of childhood being a malleable thing.

It didn’t matter now of course. After some minutes of heavy breathing in the silence of my bedroom I had managed to at the very least calm down. I still felt the tremors of terror within myself. Like a kid watching a horror movie and being too afraid to leave his room afterwards. Slowly, I brought my feet around the side of my bed and planted them onto the carpeted floor. With a final heavy sigh, I raised myself on shaky legs and I stood.

I laughed to myself as I made my way to the connected bathroom. Here I was, a week from turning 18 and I’m having night terrors like some kid. I do my morning business and then wash my hands and my face in the sink. I study myself in the mirror while my face is still wet. I turn my head from side to side slowly, making a couple of goofy faces as I do. I still had a baby face. I didn’t look like I was about to become a man, and I certainly didn’t feel it either. The thought made me frown. I only know because I saw it happen in the mirror. I wiped my face and then shook off the thought.

As I came back into the room, I stretched my arms and legs. Looking at the alarm clock on the nightstand beside my bed I still had some time to kill before I had to get up for school. Going back to sleep wasn’t an option and so I opted to play on my phone until the time came.

First, I tried in vain to text Tilly. She was a girl who very much enjoyed her sleep. She always waited until the last possible moment that she could until she needed to wake up. It was always a wonder how she even managed to make it to school on time.

Next, I tried texting my best friend, Jason. We’d been buddies since the 5th grade, and though we didn’t always see eye to eye he was important to me. He however, liked sleep even more than Tilly did. And unlike Tilly, he had a habit of showing up late to school or just not showing up at all. I was zero for two so far. I sighed and laid my phone back down on my nightstand, opting to just stare up at the ceiling until the time came for me to properly get up.

I played back the good moments of my dream in my head. The warm light, Tilly in my arms, the sweet silence. It was interesting to me that my brain brought up what my mother had told me about sweet silence. It had been one of the very few times my mother would talk about my real dad. Her new husband didn’t like those talks and so the information I got about him was sparing to put it generously. As much as I hated my stepdad, he couldn’t be all bad. Only because he gave my mother the daughter she always wanted. And as much as she is a pain in my ass, my sister Lissa means the world to me.

My stupid brain had a habit of going from one thing to another to another without any rhyme or reason to it. Like Six Degrees to Kevin Bacon but even more random. I had a learning disability when I was younger. Probably still do to be honest. I had in school therapy to help me out with that, but I never actually bothered to ask what I have. If I was ever diagnosed when I was younger, I’ve forgotten by this point. Like my actual therapist said, malleable.

I was drifting in thought when the sound of my alarm finally started chiming and grounded me squarely back into reality and out of my head. I yawned and again stretched, having gotten comfortable as I was. I put on deodorant, got changed, and headed out my bedroom door only to be met with the toothy grin of my little sister. Twelve years old, freckles, blonde hair in pigtails, and a smile with a missing tooth. The missing tooth was the reason she was in front of my right now gloating about how the Tooth Fairy had taken her tooth and given her a crisp five-dollar bill.

“Hey, when I was your age, the Fairy only gave you ones.” I said to her, trying to hide my amusement.

“She likes me better that you.” Lissa said, sticking out her tongue at me.

“Most people do.” I pointed out. I then ruffled her hair, knowing she hates that. She tried to kick my shin, but I moved around her and laughed. “Come on squirt. Smells like breakfast is ready.” The two of us headed downstairs where indeed I was correct. On the table was quite the spread. But it was always done big here. Phillip Russell, my stepdad and Lissa’s biological was a big-time movie producer. We lived here in his Hollywood mansion with him, my mother, a few maids, and his personal muscle Grant who lived in the pool house.

It was a pretty cozy life most of the time. Especially when Phil and Grant weren’t around. Phil never really liked me due to me not being his kid. But I was a packaged deal with Mom and he had to deal. When in front of Mom, Phil was polite if not a little curt. But when she wasn’t around, he wasn’t shy about his distain. And his loyal lapdog Grant was the one who really let me have it. Since my 13th birthday, Grant was happy to start hitting me. I was warned that if I told my mother, that he’d start hitting her too. Being a kid, there wasn’t much I could do but take it. When my mother would ask me about my injuries, I’d just say I fell off my bike or I was being picked on in school.

Suffice to say, when I started driving, I was spending less and less time at home. I grabbed some food, kissed Mom good morning and then I headed out the door. Last thing I heard was Lissa excitedly telling Mom about the money she’d gotten.

I got to my car parked in the garage to find Grant there, leaning on the tailgate. He gave me a cruel smirk as he lowered his sunglasses to look at me. “Mornin’ Rich Boy.” He said, his favorite nickname for me. He was a tall, muscular guy who favored wearing wife-beaters, jeans, and cowboy boots. On his head he wore a cap with his favorite team’s logo on it. He spat at my feet and laughed at his action.

“Get off my car Grant.” I said in a bored tone.

“Oh, you want me off your car Rich Boy? How’s about you make me?”

“Is your life really so shitty that you need to harass a goddamn highschooler for kicks?” I could tell Grant didn’t like that. Like any bully, once his ego and authority are challenged, they start to see red.

“Oh, I get it. It's almost your birthday, and you’re feelin’ like a real man huh?” Grant said, kicking off the rear of the car and heading towards me with purpose. He cracked his knuckles, and I knew what was coming. I tried to move out of the way, but he grabbed onto the collar of my shirt and then threw his knee into my stomach. That took the air out of my lungs, and I fell onto the ground. Try as I may, I just wasn’t built to be a fighter. Grant was right. I was just a soft rich boy.

“Don’t think you can start mouthin’ off to me Rich Boy.” Grant growled as I tried to get up. “Your Dad owns your ass and pays me to make sure it stays in line.”

“Just like how he owns yours right? Does he at least lube up first before he~” And that earned me a kick to the ribs. I rolled onto my side coughing.

“What’d I just fucking say?” Grant said, kneeling to be close to eye level with me. “The only reason you continue to breathe is because your father allows it. Remember that.” He spat in my face and walked away.

After wiping both the blood and the spit from my face using the rag I keep in my car, I could finally drive away from this place. My front was all in pain. Those boots he wore had steel toes and getting kicked by them wasn’t something I’d recommend. Despite the pain, I was pleased to have gotten under his skin as well as I had. I may not be a fighter, but I’m a real smart ass.

[nerdypuddincup]

Godzilla, the Phantom of Toho Studios

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The Wolfman cosplay

[collectingmuses]

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MCU Jack could never

[cgbcomics]

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Fallout before Fallout

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"The darkest hours of Hell lie before you." ~Sir John Talbot

[nerdypuddincup]

So theory/headcanon time.

I'm reading through the Novelization of Wolfman 2010 because I love that film and I want more of it. But one thing caught my eye as I'm reading it. The old man who gifts Lawrence the iconic silver wolf head cane is an enigmatic figure in the film, but in the book there's something more to him. He feels a kinship with Lawrence. And when he offers Talbot his cane, their fingers touch for a moment. Lawrence physically moves his hand away from how deathly cold the man's touch is. And instantly my mind went to the cane's appearance in last year's underrated Last Voyage of the Demeter where the cane was in Dracula's possession.

So my theory now is that Last Voyage was an older script that was going to use the cane as connective tissue to the Wolfman and try to give the Universal Monsters another attempt at a cinematic universe. But due to the poor return on Wolfman they held off on the script.

And my headcanon shall now forever be that the old man was indeed Dracula sensing the kindred darkness in Lawrence, gifts him his cane. And that Wolfman 2010 and Last Voyage take place in the same universe.

[nerdypuddincup]

The Case of the Secret Room-Part 1 It is of my friend Sherlock Holmes, and the woman whom he would come to be involved with which is why I am putting this tale to paper. No, I doubt that I shall ever publish this one as I had so many other adventures that my friend and I had gone on. Alas, this must be written down just so I may forever keep the memory of when Lady Anna Windsor came into our lives and changed everything, forever.

The year was 1889, I was to be married to a woman that Holmes and I had met during an adventure known as the Sign of Four. A rather nasty affair in which I have already detailed. Regardless, it was at this time that I had begin to collect my things from 221 B Baker Street and begun to move in with my fiancée. To say that my friend was upset at my leaving would be an understatement. He attempted to pass off his melancholy state due to the fact that he was out of work. But, it didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to see the true reason behind his poor humor. In a way, I felt bad for my friend. He and I had been through so very much over the past few years and due to that we had become very close indeed. The cynic in me felt that Holmes was simply upset because he would have no one to stare in amazement as he went off on one of his rather admittedly brilliant deductions.

Despite how many times I had advised against it, Sherlock had gotten himself into his habit of a seven-percent solution of cocaine. I detested such a thing but when confronted he would simply reply that he detested the bore of mundane. While most sought comfort in the familiar, Holmes hated it with a passion to rival any. He craved excitement, mental or physical stimulation. And, if he could not receive such naturally then he simply would chemically instead. He sat there in his chair, staring at the fireplace with his pipe in hand. He had already gone through smoking three pipes worth of tobacco as I collected my things. Of course, he never offered to help. Why would he? Regardless, it was clear to me that even with the cocaine going through my friend's system he wasn't truly nourished. His violent mood swings were beating out the artificial stimulation he had hoped the solution would bring him.

As I grabbed the last of my bags and headed for the door I said my goodbyes to my friend. I assured him that this wasn't the end, and that we should get together for lunch or a nice spot of tea soon. I also told him to go easy on our poor land lady. It was she whom I felt the most pain for. Without me around, there would be no one that would save her from the antics of the world's foremost consulting detective. And oh how he enjoyed his petty torments. I recall, a week before I moved out Mrs. Hudson had stopped me in the hallway and begged me to stay so that she wouldn't have to be alone with him. Poor woman.

"Come now Holmes. I know that I am leaving but the least you could do is be more chipper. Happy for me that I'm moving on with my life. A hearty handshake would be nice." I said to him. Then, his cold blue eyes fell upon me and my heart stopped a moment. I saw such pain and hurt and a bit of anger in the eyes of my most cherished friend as he looked upon me.

"A hearty handshake? Be happy for you? Perish the thought Watson. You are leaving me at a very inconvenient time." Said, Holmes.

"And why makes this so inconvenient?" I asked.

"You have known me long enough to know how my mind works. How it rebels against me in stagnation, how it cannot function properly without proper stimuli. And here I sit, with none whatsoever." He practically flew out of his chair as he went over to his large stack of requests for cases which he had lovingly stabbed through with a dagger atop of the fireplace. "There is no cases to be had here. Due to the notoriety in which you have given me, every single last person who has lost a simple object or requires some sort of legal advice have written to me." With that, he pulled from the top of the pile and looked at it. "Lost pencil, sorority girl needs advice, puppy gone missing..." As he continued to pull the requests he crumpled them up and threw them into the fire where they were quickly reduced to ash. "Any infantile child or Scotland Yard detective with a quarter of a brain would be able to solve such petty things."

"And this is somehow my fault?" I asked, obviously offended.

"Yes, yes it is." Was Holmes's only reply.

"And pray tell, just how exactly it is my fault Holmes?"

"Do you truly not know?" He asked as he walked back over to his chair. He moved some papers around and pulled forth a book titled 'A Study in Scarlet' a book that I had written, detailing the first case I had ever been apart of with Holmes. "You have made our exploits into some cheap thrill adventures. You have capitalized upon the crimes that had occurred and not the methodology, the logic, the deduction into how they were solved. You have made me out to be some sort of super powered thing you would find in a Penny Dreadful, not a true consulting detective who has created his own form of investigation. I do not rely on interviews and contradictions in testimony such as Mr. Poirot from France. No, I see minute details and make observations. You should have documented my methods, not the crimes. As I have told you a million times Watson, crime is common but logic is rare. And you~"

At that moment, Holmes stopped. His head tilted towards the door for a moment as if listening. "We have a visitor." Was all he said before quickly falling back into his seat, crossing his legs, and smoking his pipe as if nothing had even transpired between the two of us. "I shall see you soon then my friend. Good day." He tried to shoo me away, but I was going to stay and see who this guest was. And I was still very much put out over what he had said to me and about my writings

[nerdypuddincup]

Cold Morning in Blackmoor

Talbot Hall, once stood above the abject squalor of the village below it. A reminder of the difference between the classes that lived in Blackmoor. But now it sat in cinder and rubble. The fire had been started in the sitting room, where two beasts ripped from folklore and nightmare did battle. Father and son, locked in immortal combat. Now, only ruin was left as a monument to their sins.

Gwen Conliffe who had helped free the last living Talbot from the curse put upon him by his father stood silently as she surveyed what remained of the hall in which she had to her dismay called home for a year. First being engaged to Sir John’s son Ben, and then falling in love with his other son Lawrence after Ben had been slain. She shed a single silent tear for the two men who fell here. And cursed the man who had brutally taken them, all so he could have her alone.

It was a cold morning. It was always a cold morning in Blackmoor. But there on the breeze carried the warmth of the fire with it. It wasn’t much. Only a brief embrace before returning to the frigidness as per usual. Within the tavern of the town sat Inspector Francis Aberline. In his hand was a glass of straight whiskey he was using to numb the pain he was in. Though it helped with the physical, it was the spiritual that caused him to drink himself further and further into stupor still. For he had been attacked by Lawrence Talbot the night before. Or more accurately, he had been attacked by the beast that Lawrence Talbot had turned into.

And, if the legends were true as they shockingly seemed to be now…then in time Francis would indeed befall the same curse. And, whenever the moon was full and the wolfsbane bloomed he would stalk the night as not a man or a beast but something in between. A Werewolf.

That was something that Aberline did not want to think about, but as he drank more the more, he realized that it was something he couldn’t ignore. He had always prided his sharp intellect and hold on logic and reason. But now, it was all crashing down. Just like when nothing ever came of the Ripper case, The man just seemed to bugger off. No longer stalking the whores of Whitechapel. This of course was worse. The Ripper had destroyed his reputation in Scotland Yard, and now this had tarnished his immortal soul.

The girl, the Conliffe girl had told him what had been told to her by the gypsies. That release could only come from someone who loved him. As Aberline got to the bottom of his pint he concluded that he would never find peace then. There was no one who loved him and no one who he loved for that matter either.

The thought popped up a few times in his mind, to take out his service pistol, put it inside of his mouth, and pull the trigger. But would that accomplish anything more than hurting him badly? Would he be dead? Would he survive? Would he seem dead only for the pale light of the full moon to bring him back as a monster? That last one was of course the worst case. The very thought of it chilled his blood more than the damned cold of this accursed little village.

For now, all Aberline could do was weep.

[nerdypuddincup]

The Butcher of Drajkmyr Marsh

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Leroux Phantom of the Opera in the Elder Scrolls V Skyrim

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"NO! DAMN IT ALL TO OBLIVION!" Again the paper was crumbled into a ball and discarded. Erik collapsed forward onto the organ, causing the instrument to cry out along with the tortured genius. Red ink on his hands dripped down onto his face as he held his head. "Why? Why can't I put the music to paper? Why does Don Juan elude me?" He grumbled as he rocked himself back and forth slightly. This piece had been the tormenter of Erik for what seemed like an eternity. The music so very clear and hauntingly beautiful in his mind could not be properly transcribed. He knew he had to stop. To stand and take a break.

As Erik walked along his subterranean house on the lake he paused. His yellow eyes fell upon the sight of a web that had been created in the corner of the room. In the center was a sizeable spider. With great care he approached the arachnid and smiled softly. "It is not often I entertain guests." Erik said with a sigh as he watched the spider working and competing the web. "Look at you, a master builder if I have ever seen one." He chuckled at the thought.

"We're kindred. We both build our own kingdoms deep in the dark. Those that lay their eyes upon us feel fear and disgust. But in truth we cannot help how God created us...we only want to belong in this world free of persecution. But, we embrace the fear they feel. Let them be afraid, and why not? We are deadly creatures, made so because of them!" He shook his head, realizing he was waxing on to this small creature. "If you are going to live here you shall need a name..." He tapped his yellowed chin for a moment as he pondered. "Otto I think. A fitting name, What do you think?" Erik paused and then nodded. "Yes you like it as well I'm sure. Good hunting Monsieur Otto."

With that, Erik stood back up and laughed. That had put him into a reasonable humor, so he decided to return to the organ where he would swiftly put an end to that as he tried to write again. __________________________________________________

Perhaps it would finally be time. After months of being her Angel of Music, the man not the Ghost had wanted to be more. He wanted to reach out, to feel her, to know her, to...love her. But Erik knew better. A lifetime of hatred and repulsion at his very presence had taught him that there was nothing for him but that. Christine Daee, so young, so beautiful, so pure, and oh so enthralling was forever going to be out of reach for him.

If the pursuit was indeed for not, then why continue the charade? Why continue on, building her up? He knew the reason why. Because she had the potential for greatness, an adoration and fame that Erik could never know himself despite his many talents and skills. If the world could not love him, then perhaps they could love the peerless instrument that he had fine-tuned. Oh it was all too much. Feelings and emotions that he had long thought buried within were rising to the surface. He desired something to take the edge off but he had sworn off opium for the sake of his voice.

Erik fell to the floor. It was cold and very wet but his body was unusually heated at the moment. His glazed over yellow eyes slowly focused onto Otto, the spider that he had discovered days earlier. There had been a few flies that had foolishly found their way to being ensnared by Otto’s craftsmanship. But, there was more now. There was another spider on the web. It was beautiful with blues and oranges ordaining its body, warning off any that she was clearly not to be messed with lest you risk a poison bite.

The two spiders sat side by side on the web. Erik rose slightly and crawled over slowly as not to startle the two arachnids. He watched the two and he couldn’t help but smile. “Now...Monsieur, I don’t mind you having a guest.” He whispered faintly, “But I would appreciate it in the future if you would let me know first.” He shook his head at how childish he was being right now. A part of him wanted to just reach out and gently stroke his tiny companion. But this was no pet to do that. It was a predator just like him.

But not like him at the same time. For this spider had found the one thing that Erik could never have. A companion, a mate. He was unsure how loving a spider couple could be but it hardly mattered. He looked upon the web and where once he had seen himself he now saw a stranger. His hand clenched as he began to feel tears well up in his fiery eyes. “Not fair...not fair...not fair…” Erik whispered to himself, turning over on his side, clutching his chest in his arms, and rocking himself back and forth like an infant.

No.

No! Of course, this was a sign! If Otto a creature that seemed so repulsive could find a mate then he would as well. Proof that he should go against all logic and pursue the Swedish girl. The one who haunted his dreams, the one who’s voice invaded his music. He knew that he was in love with Christine and he would have her!

A new sense of determination began to grow within him. He rose up to his feet and fetched his things. His hat, cloak, and most importantly his intricate ornate bone white mask. As his thumb moved over the raised silver etchings he recalled his mother for only the briefest of moments. And the monster that he had seen in the mirror all those years ago. His delicate hands still held the scars of that day as he had tried to smash the beast away.

No time to focus on that of course. His beloved awaited, and she would know him. Finally at long last she would see that her beloved Angel of Music was not the unattainable divine being, but a true creature of flesh and blood that she could have and hold.

He took his boat across the lake and began to ascend up through the bowels until finally reaching back into the inner-walls of the Opera House. He knew the way to Christine’s dressing room by heart now, he could do it blindfolded and spun about. The mirror awaited, the single pane of glass that separated his world from her’s.

He was about to activate the contraption to open it when suddenly he was stopped by the sound of voices. He raised a brow beneath his mask and began to approach the mirror. He could see into the room but she could not see him.

There sat Christine in her chair, but she wasn’t alone. There was a man with her. What was this about? His Christine was not the kind of girl who would invite a man alone into her dressing room. He was taller than Christine but shorter than Erik. He was decently built, sandy blonde hair, and a small mustache. His clothes gave off the impression that he could be someone important. But, being at the Opera one needed to dress a certain way.

“Oh Raoul it is you!” Christine said with glee, raising herself up from her chair and embracing the man in a hug. Seeing the two of them hug sent an invisible knife plunging into Erik’s chest. He felt his breath escape him as he took a step back. The name was familiar to him. The Count de Chagny who was involved with the dancer La Sorelli had a younger brother by that name. But how could a Viscount know a poor orphaned Swedish Girl?

“ Little Lottie! Its is so good to see you again. You surely have grown since last I saw you.” Not only did they know one another, he even had a nickname for her as well. If there was truly a God then truly he hated Erik above any creature that walked upon the Earth. The longer he watched these two prattle on like long lost lovers the more his hatred for this young man began to grow.

In this Raoul de Chagny he saw everything that he found lacking in himself. He could see the effect that the Viscount was having upon his pupil and it made his stomach churn. Then, something unexpected. She began to talk about him...well her Angel of Music. Seeing the fondness in her eyes as she spoke about his guise suddenly warmed the heart that had momentarily been frozen. He remembered in that instant why he had fallen in love with this chorus girl.

And then Raoul spoke again and the illusion was broken. He insisted on taking her to supper. He would fetch his finest white horses and await for him. Erik was pleased when she turned him down. Even mentioning that her Angel was very strict. But, this impudent fool was persistent. He told her he’d come fetch her in five minutes time and with that he left the room.

Erik watched as Christine’s face had grown distraught. Her head fell into her hands as she said that things had changed. They had indeed, and they were about to change forever. For all the anger and hatred he had suddenly grown for this fashion slave were about to be unleashed. He called out to her, throwing his voice so that it swirled all around her within the room. She would know of his disapproval.

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“You cannot be serious Christine!” Growled the Viscount. At that moment, the charming young man that had plunged into the sea to fetch her scarf was gone. A man now stood seemingly unfamiliar to the Prima Donna. She took a step back, she felt that she was back in the lair of the Opera Ghost again. This violent and sudden mood swing that had overcome her betrothed.

It had been three months since Christine Daee had been rescued from the bowels beneath the Opera Garnier Since she had been rescued by Raoul and the mysterious Persian man. Well, in truth it was her that truly rescued them. But it mattered little. Since that time, she had felt something within her. Or perhaps a more astute observation that she did not feel something within her. There was a hollowness in her chest ever since she had left her mentor a crying mass upon the ground of his house on the lake. She was so overwhelmed at the time that these feelings had not fully registered with her. When she again breathed fresh air it all came to her, she prayed silently that these feelings would subside. Yet they would not no matter how hard she tried.

A letter had arrived for her while her fiancée was away for the day. Upon opening it, a chill ran down her spine. The parchment paper and the childlike red handwriting were dead giveaways. This message was from him, her poor Erik. It had been a letter that she had dreaded to receive for quite some time. It was the announcement that he would soon be departing from the Earthly plain. He would finally succumb to that which his visage reflected. The Phantom of the Opera was dying. The letter asked only to see her one last time. He wrote that he wished for his final moment to behold beauty. She wanted to refuse but knew that she couldn’t. Something deep within her knew she would never feel whole again if she did not properly say goodbye.

And that was how it came to be. Christine expressed her intentions upon Raoul when he returned home. She didn’t want to hide anything from him, not ever again. But when she explained she was not at all prepared for the look of disgust and anger that crossed upon his usually soft features. His nostrils flared even as he spoke. “You are to be married soon Christine, and you want to go galivanting about with that inhuman thing!” He roared.

“I am not galivanting anywhere with anyone Raoul. I simply have to do this.” Christine said, feeling rather offended at the accusation.

“Have to do this?” He parroted her. “Go see the man who murdered my brother in cold blood? The thing that locked me in a torture device and made you play some sick game so he could lie to himself and say he won you? Absolutely not!” Raoul’s fist came slamming down upon the table he stood beside. “I forbid you from seeing that beast.”

“You forbid me?” Christine now getting mad. “I am not yours to control anymore than I am his.” Christine yelled, trying her very best to hold back the tears that were threatening to come spilling out. “If you want some puppet who will do your bidding then maybe you’re not the man I thought you were.” With that, Christine turned and ran out of the room. Raoul just glared in her direction and sat down in his chair.

“Damn women.” He grumbled. Ever since the death of his brother, Raoul had taken on the responsibilities of House de Chagny. He was the last male of his bloodline who could. His older sisters already married off and his dear Phillippe now dead. He was worn out from carrying out the tasks of a count. Raoul never took much stock into his title, merely using it when it suited him. But now, with actual responsibility he would have to grow up rather fast. He snapped his fingers for a servant to fetch him some much needed wine.

Christine had managed to hail herself a carriage and bring herself back to the Opera House. Upon entering she was greeted by the managers who questioned why it was that she was here. A quick lie about leaving something behind easily brushed them off. She made her way to her dressing room where the entrance to the Phantom’s world lay for her to descend into.

She had been taught the trick to opening her mirror and with ease she slipped behind the illusion and found herself at the top of a large staircase that went down into the darkness below. By now she knew the way, she could do so blindfolded. Which would have only been slightly hampering as the void that lay before her was thick and seemingly endless. Taking a deep breath Christine was about to take a step when she felt a hand touch her shoulder. She whipped around to find a man that she recognized but did not know well.

“Ms. Daee.” The Persian said. “You have come. Good, he is expecting us.” He said, pulling a nearly identical letter to her’s from his jacket. “I do not believe we have been properly introduced…” He bowed his head. “I am Nadir Khan, an honor to finally meet you.” Christine took a deep breath and nodded. She was surprised and comforted by his presence here. It would be better if they would not be going alone. Even better was that from beneath his cape he pulled forth a lantern to light their way.

The trek down into the depths below was silent aside from the sound of their footsteps. The small boat had been left behind for them to use. A small ride across the glassy lake and they were once once more at Erik’s house upon the lake. The place where the deformed and half mad genius lay, and was dying. Nadir called out to his old friend but there was no response. Now the silence was cold and ominous. Christine could feel her heart wanting to beat out of her chest. Then she tried, she called out into the seemingly empty house. After a pause that felt like an eternity a response came. It echoed and swirled around her head. However, it was not the hauntingly beautiful tones of the voice that she had once known. Instead it was horse and strained.

“The bedroom.” The voice spoke. Nadir and Christine shared a look between the two of them and then slowly began to make their way. Behind the curtains there lay Erik, in his white coffin. He never looked more like a corpse than he did when he lay there. His chest rising and falling was the only indication that he lived at all. His yellow eyes opened and fell upon the two. Slowly and weakly he lifted himself up and was now sitting within the casket. He hadn’t even bothered to place a mask upon his horrid features.

Where once there was a yellow pigment to his thin skin like that of an Egyptian mummy, now the features were more sunken and pale. His once careful and delicate hands shook as he gripped the sides of the coffin. “I...apologize… for not greeting you...properly.” His voice came out in slow and ragged breaths. “I am...not myself.”

“Shh do not speak Erik.” Nadir said, walking to his side. “We are here now.”

“Daroga...my friend...oh what a friend I have been to you.” Erik’s eyes moved down as he shook his head. Then he turned his head. “And my...my Angel of Music…” He tried to reach a skeletal hand out to touch Christine but pulled away before touching her. To his surprise, Christine had taken it before he could recoil fully. His eyes widened and from within those deep sockets tears began to stream down. “I am so so sorry...to both of you...but to you Christine...oh the horrors I have inflicted…”

“Erik...please, there’s no need for that now.” Christine cooed. “We are here because we care. If we did not, we wouldn’t have come.”

“Care?” Erik whispered. “Never in my life have I been cared for…” His thumb gently caressed her soft and warm hand. His was deathly cold to the touch no matter how long Christine held onto it. “In my final hours...I am finally blessed.”

Nadir took a step back, allowing the two of them to speak. Christine reached her other hand out and cupped Erik’s cheek. “Oh my poor Erik, you will get through this sickness.”

“No...this is a sickness that has poisoned me from my first cry.” Erik insisted. “It finally comes to claim me now that I have known true happiness and redemption. Ironic is it not?””

“You should save your energy.”

“For what purpose? I serve none other than….other than bringing misery and misfortune to others. Like you Christine…”

“It is in the past now, I forgive you.”

“But I do not forgive myself...for the rest of my short life I never shall. I hurt and kept hurting...the one person whom I would have...burned down the world for…” A weak smile formed upon the death’s head. “I love...you...so...much...words cannot…” Before Erik could finish he began to cough rather violently. He clutched at his mouth and fell back into the casket. When his hand moved away a bloodstain was revealed upon his palm.

“I love you too Erik.” Christine whispered, a sad smile upon her beautiful face. She leaned down and just like before she planted her soft lips upon his forehead. She wanted to cry, to pull him close and embrace him. But, she knew that this could never be now. “Goodbye Erik...my Phantom. You will forever haunt my mind.”

“Then...I shall truly be immortal...I thank you for...your kindness and...and...I…” With that, Erik’s eyes closed and his chest ceased rising and falling. The Opera Ghost was dead. Christine let out a cry that echoed throughout the house. Nadir tried to console her but it did no good. She fell down to the foot of the casket and gripped tightly at her dress. It was truly over, he was gone.

“May you finally know peace my friend.” Nadir said and then recited a Persian prayer over his body.

[nerdypuddincup]

In the beginning, there was peace. Deep beneath the waves of the Pacific Ocean, there was life untouched by man in the entirety of history itself. And within this vast and unknown world of biodiversity there lived creatures long thought extinct. A family of amphibious creatures lived in harmony. A male, a female, and two offspring. The last of a noble and ancient race.

But nothing truly lasts forever. In 1954 the first in a series of high-yield thermonuclear weapons was tested at the Bikini Atoll. Those islands happened to be above the resting place of this family of creatures. They slept, deep beneath the sea unaware of what was going on the surface. The surface world had not concerned them for a very long time.

Suddenly, their peace was broken in a single instant. A bright light shined where none had existed before. Burning pain ripped through the family, the force even underwater was unimaginable. The offspring were the first to go. The adults did not have time to protect their babies, and they were destroyed. Then. The female. Hers was slower due to her size, but by the time the light was gone there was nothing left. The single miniscule solace was the blinding light and searing pain ensured the male could not watch as its family was reduced to atoms.

Now, only one remained. In pain, such pain. Scarred, and alone. The first contact with the outside world in their lifetime and it came in the burning hot fury of man’s ignorance and desire for power. The cool waters of the ocean could do nothing to temper the pain of the only remaining the creature there laying upon the seabed. In an instant, it had become the last of its race and in a cruel twist of fate it had become the first of something entirely new. The radiation from the bomb had left the creature changed. The pain, much like the blood of the creature began to mutate into something new. Rage. A rage that would not be quelled.

It was humanity’s folly that had taken everything that this peaceful creature once had. It was humanity’s hubris that had left it alone, that had ripped its mate and offspring from it, and left it horribly disfigured and monstrous. When the beast rose to the surface, all that there was left was rage now. Rage that refused to be contained. Rage that would be shared onto the race that had taken everything.

The bright city lights at night brought back memories of the horrible blinding light that had in an instant, changed the creature’s life forever. In the creature’s mind it would equate the two. And so, this city would become the place where this beast would share its rage. Its torment, its sorrow.

The world at that moment would learn of the existence of monsters.

They would know its pain. It would feel the wrath which burned inside of it like fire. The world would know,

Godzilla

[nerdypuddincup]

He wiped the blood from his face as he rose up from his knees. His eyes sunken into his scarred and radiated skull. But they burned with a fire that only the combined trauma of 200 plus years could amass. As he rose, his bones audibly cracked and snapped into place. His mutation did have several draw backs, but he was a hard bastard to kill. So, there was that at the very least.

With a flick of his wrist, his specialty rounds shot out from his modified revolver/shotgun hybrid. The bullet tore through the ar and the machine that had previously put him down was sent crashing down as a bunch of scrap metal.

A collection of blood had pooled in his mouth, which he promptly spat out. The sound of his spurs clinked on the metal floor of the Vault as he repositioned himself. His gun held up at eye level.

“What is this? Who the hell are you?!” A voice asked the Ghoul. A voice that he knew all too well.It was a voice that he had longed to hear. A voice that would whisper sweet nothings as they made love the first time, a voice so tired and yet so sweet when it cooed to their newborn daughter, and a voice that cut like a dagger when he heard it say America would nuke itself.

The sound of her voice rang in his ears, almost made him stumble more than the Mr. Handy ever could. She was older now, a few more deep lines, and hair gray. But compared to himself, she was quite well put together. And out here, in post-apocalyptia one was so much changed than they once were.

“Answer me goddamnit!” Demanded the woman in the Vault Suit demanded. The woman who at one point, had been his wife. Lifetimes ago. An entirely different world, not this strange alien dssert that they had come to know. There were trees, there was drinking water, there was laughter. Now, it was a shriveled caricature of what it once was. Much like the Ghoul who held the woman he knew but did not know him at gunpoint. There were so many things that he wanted to say. He wanted to shout, to scream, to cuss, he also wanted to embrace her, kiss her, and kick her and kill her. He gritted his teeth, focusing. He had been dreaming for a very long time. And he would not squander the opportunity now. He was a professional after all. He had rehearsed the line time and time again. Finally, the bounty hunter spoke. It was a voice etched with indignation that ran deeper than the lines on the woman’s face.

“I am the righteous hand of God.” He said, pulling back the hammer of his gun. “And I am the Devil that you forgot.” His eyes narrowed. “I told you one day that I’d be back, and Hell’d be comin’ with me.”

And with that, his finger pulled the trigger and a bullet ripped through the air.

[nerdypuddincup]

Thank you all so much for the 100 followers but I really gotta ask...why?