any plans for the weekend? yeah i'm gonna be sitting on my floor staring at the walls thinking about how tim killed himself for nothing. yeah the ritual would have failed whether he was there or not. tim could have lived. he could have learned how to love again. anyway yeah that's me, what are you doing for the weekend
Fandom/Characters: The Magnus Archives - Jonathan "Jon" Sims, Original statement givers
Rating: Mature
Word Count: : 2226
Warnings and Tags: pre unknowing, typical stranger content, fear, horror, death, grief, uncanny, watched, holiday horror, blood, injury, disfigured, kidnapping, disappearances, replacement, stalking, statement fic, original statement fic, mannequins, the NotThem
Summary: Statement of Alisa Dmitrievna regarding her multiple encounters with Christmas decorations. Statement taken direct from subject December 10th 2016 by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.
Written for the Winter Prompt: Holiday horror
Author Notes: Yay holiday horror~ Fuckin' hell this took me a while to come back around to! But I got here and it's done and I love writing horror its always so fun. This was unexpected I really didn't have any ideas until my husband started putting out our little Santas and things forever ago and I was like oh shit that would be freaky wouldn't it? So I wrote started this creepy little tale.
Happy Reading and Happy New Years! I appreciate every like, comment, and reblog! ❤️
Read the opening from, Painted on Faces, Rated Mature, below or in full on my Ao3.
*note, this story (and all of my others) on Ao3 is locked for registered Ao3 user
Painted on Faces
"Sorry about that," Jon said as he ushered Alisa into a seat. "This should work better if you don't mind."
"Yeah," she started, shuffling into a seat with a frown at the recorder that seemed to be running already. "Look I just want to say, for the record, again. I'm not seeing things. Never have. I'm not a nutter or anything, alright? It happened."
"I am not doubting you, Ms. Dmitrievna." Jon nodded with a sigh as he glanced at the recorder. "But since the computer… had difficulties this is the best option." He looked to the tape recorder, fingers hovering over it only to pause when he noticed it was already running. "Of course you're already on," he mumbled to it, frowning at it before dismissing it and looking at her once more. "Just start at the beginning."
She frowned, arms crossed as she looked to recorder before looking to the Archivist. The brunette blew out a breath, steadying herself before nodding.
"Yeah, yeah, okay."
"Thank you. Statement of Alisa Dmitrievna regarding her multiple encounters with Christmas decorations. Statement taken direct from subject December 10th 2016 by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement Begins."
It started when I was a child, really, what's happening now started with my sister. I remember, as a child, being terrified of the angel my mother insisted on toppin' the tree with. I just hated its rosy cheeks and wide painted on eyes. I was always happy I was too small to put it on the tree. That was always my sister's job.
She's older— was older.
I guess I'm older now than she ever was, but that's beside the point I guess.
The point is Angelina had to put the little angel on the top of the tree. She had to hold it and look at it and place it up there gingerly. All while my mother took pictures and grinned so happily at the way it completed the tree every year. She always claimed that the angel — that had been in our family since who knows when, tied all the lights, tinsel, and ornaments together. Mum and Angelina loved the creepy thing, and Angelina always enjoyed the task even as we got older and I could reach. She always came home for the holidays and she would still put the little angel on our sparkling tree. Every year.
By the time I was in my third year the angel, that had already been showing its age on its gown, really wasn't holding up so well. Its poor wings, which I assume had once been white in my mum's youth, were grey with dust and thinned out where they had once been puffy. Its painted on skin was flaking and its eyes seemed to run even as they followed you about the sitting room, just watching you.
God, I hated the thing. Haunted my dreams and when it broke I didn't shed a tear for it.
Angelina though… Angelina had freaked. When it happened, I remember thinking it was because she had broken mum's favourite decoration, but now… now I'm not sure.
