The Mouse Hole

The art blog of Rae Palmer, AKA "Mouse." I draw fandom and personal works, and offer commissions through my commission page and Ko-Fi. NOTICE: This is a new art blog. You may have seen my some of work under another name; that is now my personal blog.

[fansplaining]

⚓️⚓️⚓️ THIS IS IT ⚓️⚓️⚓️ 

We are shutting the Fansplaining Shipping Survey TOMORROW—that’s Monday April 15th (at the end of the day EST). 

As of right now we are closing in on 17,000 responses!! But if you’ve been meaning to take it or want someone else in your life to take it—especially people who aren’t in fandom!—please don’t delay. Go to:

fansplaining.com/shippingsurvey

[fansplaining]

THIS IS ACTUALLY IT: the final day of the survey!! You have about 8 hours to get your answers in…

[antivanonmytongue]

Alexa González is alone. That’s fine.

Following the sudden loss of her long-time gaming partner, Alexa has fallen back to old, nasty habits; namely, wielding her independent nature like a weapon. It’s one thing to be a solo player by choice. It’s another to be a pariah when the UI disappears, taking the logout button with it.

Justin Hayes is not alone. That’s also fine.

As a long-time streamer, Justin’s never played DUSKFALL without an audience to keep his attention off the demon-infested forests and brutal violence.  But hastily chosen teammates in a world gone sideways can have more repercussions than a few bruised feelings.

None of this is fine; not remotely. If either is going to survive, they can’t do it alone, they can’t do it lightly, and they have to figure it out soon… before it’s too late for either of them.

The Forest Dark is releasing for free on Royal Road, one chapter every Sunday. Chapters one & two available now. 

(Please note: you can read on RR without having an account, but accounts are also free. On-site up-votes, reviews, and likes will help me in spades. Of course, if you like the work you can also reblog this post. <3)

Is TFD your kind of story? See the meta tags and warnings behind the cut:

Keep reading

[sketch-a-mouse]

You Have New Messages

Original Fiction, Supernatural Suspense

After the death of his grandfather, Steven Waters couldn't face cleaning out and repairing the man's country home by himself so he hired someone to do it for him. But was it grief driving his decision, or fear?

*BEEP*

Mr. Waters?  It’s Jill.  Jill Mathers?  From Rejuvenate.Home.  I have an update about your grandfather’s house.  Please, call me as soon as you can. Thank you.

*BEEP*

This is Jill. Please, Mr. Waters, call me. This is important.

*BEEP*

It’s been three days. Please call me back.

*BEEP*

Are you avoiding me, Mr. Waters?  I don’t mean to be paranoid, but a week is a long time to wait.  Again, this is important.  Call me.

*BEEP*

Refusing to answer me will not get you out of this conversation.

*BEEP*

It started with a knock, Mr. Waters.  

No.  It started with knocking.  Not “knocking” like someone was at the front door; there is never anyone at the front door.  No one comes out this far—well, no one but me, and I have never felt a reason to knock.  

This didn’t sound like that kind of knocking, anyway. No, this knocking sounded like a washing machine.

You've probably never done your own laundry, or if you did you probably had top-of-the-line equipment you could replace at the drop of a hat if it so much as refused to spin one time.  So maybe you don't know.  But the old ones that have been repaired a dozen times over, whose bases were never quite set right to begin with?  They sound like knocking.  They sound like this knocking. Except this knocking couldn't have been a washing machine, because there is no washing machine. There's no electricity or plumbing.  Not in the basement.  Not yet.  Maybe not ever.

I know I said I could handle this.  I said that local superstition doesn't bother me, and I maintain it does not.  But local superstition is not inexplicable knocking on the basement door.  It is not standing in the kitchen watching that door buck and vibrate with the force whatever is slamming against it from the other side.  It is not standing frozen, slow realization blooming like a deadly and toxic flower that there is no one, not for miles and hours, to hear you if you scream.  No one but you and the person who must surely be on the other side of that door.  Doors don't knock themselves.

Only this one did.  This one does.  

You see, I opened the door.  Not then, of course.  Not while it was heaving with desperate force like a wild creature had been caged inside, now trying to burst it's way through bars that should have been too flimsy to contain it.  

Oh, no.  I waited.  

I waited for whatever—whoever, because I was convinced this had to be a person—I waited for them to tire themselves out and then I found my crowbar.  

Perhaps it sounds strange that I have one, but understand, sir, I end up in a lot of places like this: old farm houses and country homes way out past nowhere with nothing and no one for miles.  It's my specialty.

Maybe that should make me less wary.  Most who grow up out this way seem to believe the country far safer than the cities, with their overcrowding and crime rates. I grew up in the country, so I know.  

I also know it isn't true. Too often I've woken to rabbit screams and distant howling.  Too often have I wondered "Was that gunfire or fireworks or thunder?"  I've mostly got the noises worked out, but that doesn't stop the panic and remembrance of a thousand horror movies I never should have watched but hadn't yet foreseen my eventual occupation and its similarities.

The point is, I keep a crowbar.  Not a gun; I find no comfort in guns, even when they're my own property.  There's too little predictability, too much potential, with guns.  Crowbars are safer.

Mine was propped just beside the bed I've been using—the one in the attic, not your grandfathers'—and I had to run all the way up there to grab it.  So maybe whoever it was left.  I just don't know how, exactly.

The basement door was locked, like all the doors in the house had been locked until I began opening them, one by one, to clear them of their century's worth of furniture and trinkets.  The basement was closest to the front.  I'd cleared it first.  

There'd been nothing of worth down there: newspapers stacked by the hundreds, empty cigar boxes, and the old furnace.  That was surprising.  Basements and attics; those are the places one usually finds the strange things, the items no one has seen in years and years, and almost forgot existed.  Yet here, the basement seemed abandoned not to dust and forgetfulness but snobbery.  It felt like the basement wasn't good enough for anything but refuse.

I thought about burning it all in the furnace.  That would have been easier than carting it all up the stairs, and there weren't any windows down there to shove it through; not even the kind way up high on the ceiling and low to the ground outside.  It was just one big, dark box without the lantern hung from the ceiling, powered by an extension cord snaking across naked rafters and disappearing into a hole in the wall, only to come out just behind the refrigerator.  With that on, it was still a big cement box, but slightly brighter.

Burning anything down there would heat the house to an uncomfortable degree, and since the majority of it was paper there'd be all kinds of loose bits to clean up.  It'd probably get sucked into the ducts, and wouldn't that be swell?

So I hauled it up armful by armful into the backyard where there was already a helpful mark scorched into the ground. I could imagine a thousand Halloweens and Fourths of July being celebrated there.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary about the basement after that if you overlooked the lack of electricity or water lines, which was likely due to the house's age.  It was just a basement.  I closed the door.  I locked it.  I moved on.

There weren't any windows.  That fact circled through my mind as I descended from the attic, crowbar clenched in one hand.  There was no way into the basement except that door and my key.

When you contacted me about this job, I told you I can follow rules, no matter how strange.  People are often strange about their houses, even when those houses aren't homes anymore.  People are stranger still about the homes of their recently departed.  I didn't tell you that part.  I probably shouldn't phrase it that way even now, and I am sorry if it's cruel, but I believe in honesty, sir, and bluntness where it is due.  Grief is a strange thing, however natural.  The forms it takes are many and often bizarre to their witnesses, if not their actors.

You told me never to let the house keys out of my possession, no matter what, not even for a second.  So I put them on an extendable clip, and fixed that to a lanyard around my neck.  I haven't taken it off, sir.  Not once.  Not even when I bathe.

You did not tell me to lock the doors behind me, but I did that anyway.  The reason I don't balk at local superstition is not because I think it ridiculous, but because I've learned there is often some truth to the things people whisper.  Not all; just enough.

There is truth here.  That's what you wanted to know, isn't it?

I opened the door, but not before I plugged in the light.  Then I turned the key in the lock as slowly as I could, listening for the sound of someone on the other side.

You already know there wasn't anyone there.  There was nothing there; just a concrete box with a furnace, and an extension cord, and a gently swinging lantern light.  

I've been in a lot of old houses with old wiring and old people's old things.  I've gotten used to the smells, to the dust, to surprise animals living in forgotten cupboards, and the subtle, pervasive sensation of trespassing that fades gradually with every object removed.

But that empty, purposeless basement?  That inexplicably swinging lantern?

I didn't go in, sir.  I didn't check the shadows collecting in the far corners, or the blackness inside the furnace.  I shut the door.  I locked it.  I went outside.

Did I mention this happened during the day?

Mid-afternoon, in fact, the sky so cloudless and brilliant it hurt even through my sunglasses.  By the time I'd fumbled them out of my back pocket I'd already begun to doubt the entire incident.  The sunlight does that; brings things into such focus it can be hard to see past the sharp, bloody edges of reality.

But I was still holding the crowbar; that part was harder to deny.  I felt the cold iron heft of it, the way the weight drug down toward the tip, and knew something had shook me badly enough to grab it, even if that supernatural-denying kernel of logic wedged into my brain by science teachers and this secular age of ours kept insisting on some logical explanation, some vibration or airflow that might have caused the whole event.  

It seemed so innocuous, in the aftermath.  Even if what I saw was what I saw, I hadn't been hurt.  I'd barely been scared. There was no reason to leave, to walk away from a well paying job halfway finished.

So I let it go, sir.  I let the sunlight wash the incident off my skin and spent the rest of the day working in the barn, away from basements and locks and doors.

The satellite guy has been ducking my calls.  He's a local, of course, and he's heard the stories.  He swears he doesn't believe them.  I don't think he heard the tremble in his own voice when he confirmed the address, or understands how many of these jobs I've had; how many locals I've seen buck and shy away from that odd house they were raised to fear without ever fully understanding why.  

The point is, there isn't much to do once night has fallen.  I'm too aware of the coyote and bobcats to feel safe moving boxes out to the Pod after dusk, and there's only so much packing one can do a day before the body just says "enough."  So I read, or watch the few DVDs I thought to bring with me—your grandfather had a surprisingly robust collection for a man of his years—and try to relax.  Inevitably, I end up in bed far sooner than I might otherwise.  

I went to bed early that night, locking myself into the little attic room with my crowbar in easy reach of the bedside.  What hadn't been frightening in the sunlight was more bothersome in dark; that's how these things tend to work, I'm sure you understand, and I won't pretend to be immune.

So it was that I kept shunting things aside.  There was no creak of door hinges somewhere in the house beneath me, no quick patter of bare feet up and down and up and down and up the stairs. That one squeaky board in the second-story hall wasn't going off like police sirens.  

It was the doorknob I couldn't ignore; the one to the attic door.  

If it had only been the lightest tap, a quick check of a lock in place, and then nothing...perhaps I would have managed to fall asleep, eventually.  But whomever was on the other side didn't give up.  

The doorknob jingled and jangled and rattled and bucked.  I refused to roll over and watch, as though a lack of witness would somehow make whatever—whomever—it was go away.  I assumed the lock would hold, because I had no idea what I could do if it didn’t. There was only the crowbar with me, after all, and no cell service out this far.  

My hand found the keys at my neck and gripped them hard.  Hard enough to leave an impression.  Hard enough to bleed.  

The cacophony continued with more fervor, and beneath the banging and straining of the wood I began to hear pants and grunts and whimpers.  They didn't sound human.  They sounded more like a dog, kenneled and beaten and scared.  I expected to hear the scrabble of claw on wood, but all that came was the grinding of the knob.

Finally, I couldn't help it.  I knew it was foolish, but I was tired and scared and so very, very alone.

I sat up in bed and screamed, "What do you want?"

And it stopped.

The house was silent.  Silent like a graveyard.  Silent like a grave.  

I didn't trust this silence. It felt more pensive, more aware than silence has any right to be.  My free hand dug around in the darkness until I felt the cold, reassuring length of the crowbar.  I kept my other tight about the key and I waited.

But nothing else happened.  I sat there, staring into the moon-lit grayness of the attic, waiting for an animal to come bursting through the door, or whine, or bark, or to hear footsteps in the hall. It was harder, this time, to convince myself of a rational explanation.  

I sat there until the room became bright with sunlight.  I waited, though my body ached to move and my eyes ached to sleep, until the world was well past sunrise and the light had done its job to remind me there was every possibility everything had been a dream—a nightmare—brought on by that afternoon's strangeness.  Then I hoisted my crowbar higher and slipped from bed.

I tiptoed to the attic door and extended the key from around my neck, fitting it into the lock.

The stairwell leading up to the attic is dark no matter what you do.  Rewiring the light fixture for an actual switch was still on my to-do list, so all that existed now was the sunlight streaming in from behind me, and a cord hung from the bulb at the bottom landing.  

But nothing rushed out at me from the inky blackness. Nothing made a sound.

I held my crowbar before me like a sword or a talisman. As I stepped forward, the air itself seemed to shrink away from my presence.

There was something in that stairwell, sir. I don’t know what it was, but I know that it was there. I know that it was just as aware of me as I was of it. And I know that it was scared.

It’s a strange thing, knowing all this without rhyme or reason. Call it instinct, if you want. Or maybe it was just delusion, brought about by a frightful intruder and lack of sleep. I don’t believe that, but it could be true.

When I reached the bottom, I grabbed the light chord and paused. Something compelled me to pause.

Maybe it was that same instinctive feeling again, telling me to wait, to stop, to listen. Maybe it was the dread bubbling up my throat, desperate to be a scream stopped short by willpower and the clenching of my teeth.

That was a mistake.

In that split second of indecision, scooped back the hair next to my ear. Their fingertips brushed my scalp, and breathy voice whispered against my skin.

“No.”

Sir, I’m going to replace that light fixture, on the house. I mean, obviously it will be in the house, but I mean I will do that for free. It may be the last thing I do here, but it will be done. Because, you see, it’s my fault it’s broken.

That whisper, that inexplicable voice? That was too much for me, sir. Both then, and now. I dislike talking about it. I don’t even care to think about it. I’m only telling you because you need to know if you are going to live there one day.

But when I heard that, sir, I lost the battle I hadn’t been entirely aware of fighting. You see, I screamed. I screamed, and yanked the light fixture so hard it came loose.

In the split second of light that followed, before the bulb came crashing to the ground, I saw exactly what was in the stairwell with me:

Nothing.

There is nothing in that house, sir.  Nothing that can be seen. Or, maybe, nothing that wants to be seen.  But it can be felt.  It can be sensed.  And it can make its presence known.

I got out of the attic eventually.  Obviously.  I got out, and I drove into town to calm myself down, and get a bit of sunlit perspective on what happened.

From my call log, you can probably guess this isn’t the end. You’re right, if you did. But I need you to call me, sir.  This has already gone on way too long, and I have things left to do before I lock myself in the attic tonight.

I understand you’re a busy man, a wealthy man, which—if you’ll pardon me for saying so, sir—usually means you think you’re above listening these sort of issues personally.

Just “Get the job done. I don’t care about the cost,” right?  But you need to listen to this.

So call me.  I’ll be in town tomorrow, same as usual.

*BEEP*

END OF MESSAGE

TO DELETE MESSAGE, PRESS 7.  TO SAVE—

MESSAGE DELETED.

NEXT MESSAGE...

[sketch-a-mouse]

As a kickoff to the summer, I thought I’d run a small giveaway for…well, anyone who wants to enter! You don’t HAVE to be following me, but if you like the art I would certainly appreciate it!

In order to enter, reblog this between NOW - June 21st, 2018 MIDNIGHT CST. That’s midnight at Central Standard Time (American | Chicago). You must have asks or messenger enabled on your blog because that is how I will conact you. If you don’t answer within three business days, I’ll choose another winner for your slot. 

On June 22nd I’ll randomly generate a number from the list and give away three prices, starting with 3rd prize and running to 1st prize. Prizes are: 

3rd Place - (1) monochrome-coloured bust of any OC or fan character you desire!

2nd Place - (1) fully coloured bust of any OC or fan character you desire!

1st Place - (1) textured waste-up of any OC or fan character you desire!

Please have references available, or a strong written description. <3

Rules:

ONLY reblogs count, and you can reblog as often as you like! (Likes are also welcome but won’t count toward the draw.)

no giveaway blogs

keep your ask box open so I can notify you if you win!

You can only win ONE place. 

Winners will be drawn in order via random number generator

I will re-draw a winner if they have not responded in three days

This giveaway ends on June 21st 2018 at MIDNIGHT.

Following this blog (my art blog!) is very, very welcome~ I will be doing more giveaways in the future.

Commissions * Ko-Fi * Twitch 

[sketch-a-mouse]

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd it’s time!

All in all there were 28 entries. :D I’ll be drawing this in order via Google’s random number gen.

3rd place goes to....

@ree-fireparrot!!

2nd place is...

@antivanruffles~

Annnnnnnd 1st place goes to

@Ellorgast!

Thank you so much, to EVERYONE who participated! I’ll get in contact with the winners shortly :D

[regeener]

artists! i had to drop a project so i need an artist to replace me! [a paid job!!]

hi! Recently, a client approached me to do some simple black and white illustrations for her blog but because of personal and health issues, I had to drop out. I would like to give her a list of artists she can choose from in my stead as she doesn’t have any, so SEND ME YOUR PORTFOLIOS if you’re interested in it! email: ReginaLegaspi [at] gmail [dot] com

Details of the job:

-PAID opportunity plus she will pay for a trial illustration to see if you’re a good fit.

-for a 2x monthly blog, for 1 year, with opportunities later to illustrate her book

-BLACK AND WHITE art only!

If you are interested in the job, please send me LINKS TO YOUR PORTFOLIO and CONTACT INFO to my email above or on my info! if you have any quick questions, my ask is open. And i would also really appreciate it if you shared my post or retweet my twitter post too! I’ll accept portfolios until June 21st!

THANKS!

[sketch-a-mouse]

Working character designs for one of DUSKFALL’s three main characters. Alexa Gonzales is an office worker by day, and one of DUSKFALL’s most brilliant architects by night. Her main focus is building the best self-defending bases on the server.

While I’m pretty happy with her general palette and facial features, I’m having a bit of a hard time locking down the clothing style/direction. The two on the left are probably my favorites so far, for various reasons.

These are no where near the finals, of course~

[antivanonmytongue]

Hardcore wacky wasteland, getting my arse handed to me and proud of it!

I believe we’re slowly working our way to a confrontation with the Great Khans. Ever so slowly.

[antivanonmytongue]

Let's meet the BOOMERS!

The continuing adventures of Courier Six

[sketch-a-mouse]

As a kickoff to the summer, I thought I’d run a small giveaway for...well, anyone who wants to enter! You don’t HAVE to be following me, but if you like the art I would certainly appreciate it!

In order to enter, reblog this between NOW - June 21st, 2018 MIDNIGHT CST. That’s midnight at Central Standard Time (American | Chicago). You must have asks or messenger enabled on your blog because that is how I will conact you. If you don’t answer within three business days, I’ll choose another winner for your slot. 

On June 22nd I’ll randomly generate a number from the list and give away three prices, starting with 3rd prize and running to 1st prize. Prizes are: 

3rd Place - (1) monochrome-coloured bust of any OC or fan character you desire!

2nd Place - (1) fully coloured bust of any OC or fan character you desire!

1st Place - (1) textured waste-up of any OC or fan character you desire!

Please have references available, or a strong written description. <3

Rules:

ONLY reblogs count, and you can reblog as often as you like! (Likes are also welcome but won’t count toward the draw.)

no giveaway blogs

keep your ask box open so I can notify you if you win!

You can only win ONE place. 

Winners will be drawn in order via random number generator

I will re-draw a winner if they have not responded in three days

This giveaway ends on June 21st 2018 at MIDNIGHT.

Following this blog (my art blog!) is very, very welcome~ I will be doing more giveaways in the future.

Commissions * Ko-Fi * Twitch 

[sketch-a-mouse]

Constance McFly; pre-war assassin and “Sole Survivor.” Actually pretty proud of that leather. 

Commissions * Ko-Fi * Twitch

[sketch-a-mouse]

morning warm up sketch; my SoSu Connie, whom I’m currently doing a survival mode run for. 

[antivanruffles]

So in light of hitting 1,986 followers (a fine birth year) @sketch-a-mouse drew me this!?!?!?!? Because she is the actual best!!

LOOKIT MY BEAUTIFUL LITTLE CIRCUS PEANUTS! *sobs*

[lovestruckvoltage]

Happy Pride Month, from all of us at Lovestruck!

[sketch-a-mouse]

Hardcore wacky wasteland adventure!

[sketch-a-mouse]

Going to try Connie again on survival mode

I have some graphic mods and extras on, like UCO. Lets see how long it takes me to die!

Should be going at least two hours~ Drop in when/if you can.

[sketch-a-mouse]

Fallout Fanart ; Shading tutorial, possibly more~

[sketch-a-mouse]

@coffeemages ‘s Lone Wanderer, Sara! I had a bit of fun with the lighting; hopefully it isn’t too Lisa Frank. <3

Commissions * Ko-Fi * Twitch