Spirit Work (Five Nights At Freddys Whump)

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Spirit Work (Five Nights at Freddy’s whump)

The witch stepped out of her van, sighing to herself as she stared through the darkness at the abandoned restaurant meters away from her. The exterior lights were on, illuminating the overgrown building and parking lot—but not much else.

This was stupid. Why was she taking advice from a pendulum?

She knew the answer to that, as much as she disliked it. She’d been desperate for a lead, for a real encounter with a haunting. She’d begged her pendulum for a hint, and it had drifted towards this spot on her map…

An abandoned pizza place. Odd, she couldn’t find it plausible that anyone had died here. But it certainly fit the usual profile of the haunted buildings she’d conduct her sessions in—poorly maintained, crumbling, left to rot for one reason or another.

It was a particularly warm night, so the witch felt comfortable sitting on the pavement just outside the old building. She held a stone in one hand, gripping it with intense effort and closing her eyes.

Show me what’s here.

She immediately recognized the shift in the air, the way her surroundings seemed to grow quiet. Even the buzz of the overhead lights seemed to soften as she listened for signs.

But…after a few minutes, the silence seemed deafening. Had there really been *nothing* here? Not a single voice, not even—

She opened her eyes as she moved to push herself up, and immediately locked eyes with someone. They were pressed against the window, staring right back at her. She couldn’t make out any details, and they seemed to shrink into the darkness as soon as she’d risen to stand.

“Hey!” She shouted, more out of surprise than expecting a response. So…there was something here. Paranormal or not.

As the witch pushed the old metal door open, pepper spray in hand, she reminded herself that she was smarter than the people in horror movies. She could run, she had a weapon, she knew better. She’d be fine. Most likely, this was just a squatter. But…for her own sake, she had to know.

The place was a mess, tables and chairs strewn about the place. Water damage was corroding every inch of the walls, something she knew her own dad would cringe at. The smell was typical of the abandoned places she’d visited—mold, rain, and dust all mingling together. She crouched down next to an overturned diner booth, admiring the painted artwork of a cartoon bear.

Kids probably used to love this place, germs and all. She wondered if this was another case like she’d seen in Florida a few years back—a child who’d died early and gone back to a happy memory to haunt.

But, she was getting ahead of herself. The shape in the window didn’t even look like a child. Did it? Did it look like anything?

She set her bag down, digging around in the dark with one hand to find her infrared camera. The place was getting darker the more she explored, and it’d be easy to find spirits (or squatters, her logical side reminded her) if she was looking for heat signatures.

As soon as her fingers wrapped around the camera, however, a splitting pain cracked across the back of her skull. Everything became dark and blurred after that.

Yeeeeaaaahhhh

the audible damage to a whumpee's voice from the harm that's come to them... hoarse and quiet from being choked, or from screaming until their voice gives out, or from crying so hard for such a long time. the raspy way everything is forced out, the way their voice cracks and squeaks, the way they wince and cringe and swallow hard before trying again. it hurts to listen to them.

When I first started writing stories I would only write in cursive with a black pen. Then a blue pen. Then print/pencil. Then cursive/pencil. Then cursive/eraseable pen, etc.

Reblog this if you had to learn cursive writing as a child

If you were ever told or were made to learn cursive writing when you were in grade school. I wanna see how many of you suffered like I did.

THESE. DEPRIVE YOUR DARLINGS.

Make your Whumpee tired.

Whumpees that have been deprived of sleep by Whumper, so much so that they don't remember how to walk in a straight line and can't figure out whether the recent appearance of little black bugs in their cell are real or a hallucination.

Whumpees that can't get a full night's rest. They doze off, only to be jolted awake by their own anxiety of not knowing when Whumper would come back. Perhaps they are awakened by phlegm-coated coughs induced by their illness. They are awakened by nightmares, or by Caregiver who is worried they may succumb to hypothermia, or by a thunderstorm, or the rough blanket scratching their open wounds, or so on.

Whumpees who pull all nighters to protect their friends or lovers.

Whumpees whose eyes burn when they finally can close their eyes. Whumpees whose muscles twitch, who can't stop yawning no matter how hard they try to stifle it. Whumpees with dark, glassy eyes. Whumpees who are slow to react or have a hard time keeping up with the conversation. Whumpees with throbbing headaches. Whumpees with brain fog and memory loss.

Whumpees who have been on the run and have over exhausted their bodies. Their muscles and joints continue to scream long after its over. Whumpees with extensive blood loss. Whumpees who are malnourished.

Whumpees whose survivor's guilt keeps them awake, wondering what they might have done differently, whether it was all their fault, or why they were the ones to live.

Whumpees whose bodies are in chronic pain or illness and who have to hide it, causing muscle and mental fatigue. They keep going with a smile until they collapse or pass out.

Whumpees who break down in tears, begging to be left alone so they can rest. Whumpees who sob when they are told that the bed in front of them is theirs to use whenever they want.

OH yeah.....

‘Can you stand?’ A asked. B nodded shakily, trying to pull themselves to their feet.

Just as soon as they managed to get upright, their knees buckled. B’s vision went blurry as they tried to grab the wall, or anything, really, to stop them from-

A catches them before they hit the ground, helping B sit back down. ‘S-sorry,’ B stutters. ‘I-’

‘It’s okay.’ A slips a hand under B’s legs and another behind their back and picks them up easily. ‘It’s okay, I’ve got you.’