Haunting - Tumblr Posts
(I materialize) look, y'all are in a public library, can you keep the PDA to a minimum? thanks. (I take a swig of frozen peas and walk directly through a bookshelf)
"It is hard for me to be alone with my thoughts. They are not properly thoughts; they are memories which in my weakness haunt me and strangely move me."
Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front
Well, Jack... the thing is, I don't believe in him.
so I made a random concept from S16 where everything will be lost
𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮'𝙧𝙚 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙘𝙖𝙣'𝙩 𝙚𝙭𝙞𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙡. 𝙋𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣
To all the ghosties out there looking for something to do this spooky season
I will be renting out my physical form! If you wanna experience being alive and do my job for a day or so y’all are welcome to apply. You can do whatever just promise not to do crimes while using my body. I will be taking Moments of Peaceful Oblivion, minor haunting fulfillments, and Omens(tm) as payment as I suspect you may no longer have access to traditional funds.
My house was haunted by Rod Serling, but he just narrated my day to day as if my life was a TZ episode.
Just a call away
I am sorry
She’s gone
The person you have reached is currently unavailable
Beyond unreachable
From staring too long into the void
The Diary's Secrets Shaina Tranquilino October 6, 2024
Sophie had always adored her grandmother, a woman of grace and charm who filled every room with warmth. But when her grandmother passed away, Sophie was left with an overwhelming sense of loss. After the funeral, she returned to her grandmother’s quaint, creaky old house to sort through her belongings. Among the porcelain figurines, embroidered pillows, and stacks of faded photographs, Sophie found something unexpected — an old, weathered diary, its leather cover cracked with age.
Her grandmother had never mentioned a diary. The clasp was rusted, but it popped open easily under her fingertips. As she flipped through the yellowing pages, she noticed something strange. The ink appeared faded, yet readable, and as her eyes skimmed the words, she could have sworn she heard something — faint, almost imperceptible whispers.
Sophie frowned and closed the book quickly. The whispers ceased immediately, leaving an unnerving silence in their wake.
"Must be my imagination," she murmured, trying to shake off the chill that crept up her spine.
That night, Sophie took the diary home with her. Curiosity gnawed at her, and she couldn't resist opening it again. The moment she turned the first page, the whispers returned, low and unintelligible, as though the very paper itself was breathing secrets into the air. This time, the whispers were louder, more distinct, like fragmented pieces of conversations just beyond her grasp.
The words on the page were written in her grandmother’s delicate hand. January 5, 1956. The entry was brief, recounting a typical day. But as Sophie read further, the entries became darker, more cryptic.
February 12, 1956: “The shadow came again last night. It watches me. I hear it whispering from the corners of the room.”
Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. She looked around her small apartment, suddenly aware of the shadows pooling in the corners, the way the lamplight flickered just slightly. She swallowed, pushing the growing unease aside, and continued reading.
March 3, 1956: “I tried to speak with it. It knows my name. It knows things about me I never shared with anyone. The whispers grow louder every night.”
The whispers in Sophie’s own ears seemed to swell in response to the words on the page, almost as if the diary itself was reacting to the memories being uncovered. She slammed the book shut, panting, her breath shallow and fast. But the whispers didn’t stop. They lingered in the room, filling the space around her with unseen presences. She could feel something watching her.
Desperate, Sophie shoved the diary into a drawer and stumbled to bed, hoping that sleep would bring her peace. But the dreams came — vivid, terrifying dreams of her grandmother, her face twisted in fear, standing at the edge of Sophie’s bed, mouthing words she couldn’t hear over the cacophony of whispers filling the room.
The next morning, exhausted and shaken, Sophie yanked the diary from the drawer. She had to know what was happening. As soon as she opened it, the whispers returned, louder and more insistent.
April 15, 1956: “I’m not alone. It’s in the house with me. I feel its cold breath on my neck when I sleep. It wants something. I don’t know what, but it won’t leave me in peace.”
Her grandmother had been haunted, tormented by something unseen. The realization sent a cold shiver through Sophie. But there was more, a final entry. It was written in frantic, uneven script, unlike her grandmother’s usual elegant handwriting.
May 2, 1956: “I tried to lock it away. Tried to bind it to these pages. But it’s not enough. I can hear it still, scratching, whispering. It wants out. I fear it will find someone else, someone to continue what I could not finish. God help whoever opens this book after me.”
Sophie’s hands trembled as she dropped the diary. The whispers grew louder, no longer faint but echoing through the apartment, a cacophony of voices overlapping, seething with malevolence.
Suddenly, a gust of wind slammed the windows shut, plunging the room into darkness. The whispers were everywhere now, suffocating, as if invisible hands were reaching out from the shadows to close around her throat. Sophie staggered back, her breath hitching in her chest, eyes darting to the diary lying on the floor.
The pages fluttered on their own, turning violently, as though something trapped inside was desperate to be freed.
"No," Sophie gasped, her voice barely a whisper over the maddening chorus. "Please, no."
But it was too late. From the corners of the room, the shadows began to coalesce, forming a shape, a figure that seemed to crawl out of the very air itself, twisted and hunched, its eyes burning like embers in a sunken face. It moved toward her, slow, deliberate, its presence suffocating the light.
Sophie couldn’t move. The whispers were in her ears, her head, her mind, filling every thought with dread.
"You shouldn't have opened it," the voices hissed in unison.
The last thing Sophie saw was the figure looming over her, its cold breath on her neck, just as her grandmother had described. The diary lay open at her feet, the final page blank — waiting for the next entry.
The Phantom Operator Shaina Tranquilino October 10, 2024
Macy sat alone in her dimly lit apartment, the glow from her TV flickering across the walls as an autumn storm rattled the windows. The wind howled through the trees outside, and rain pattered against the glass like skeletal fingers tapping to get in. She had always loved October’s eeriness, but tonight, an unfamiliar dread settled over her. It started with a ring—sharp and shrill, cutting through the white noise of the storm. Macy glanced at her phone, confused. The screen displayed “Unknown Caller,” a designation she hadn't seen in years. She hesitated but eventually swiped to answer.
“Hello?” she said, her voice tentative.
There was silence on the other end, only the faint hiss of static. Macy was about to hang up when she heard it: a whisper, faint and distant, but unmistakable.
"Macy…"
She froze. The voice was achingly familiar, one she had buried in the deepest recesses of her memory. Her throat tightened as chills crept up her spine.
"Maverick?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
The static crackled again, louder this time. The whisper came through once more, clearer now, unmistakably his voice. "Macy... I miss you."
Her heart pounded in her chest. It had been five years since Maverick died in a car accident. The grief had been suffocating, but she had moved on—or so she thought. The sudden resurgence of his voice felt like a knife turning in a half-healed wound.
“This isn’t funny,” she said, her voice rising. “Who is this?”
But the voice on the other end didn’t respond. The static grew louder, filling her ears, drowning out the storm outside.
“I miss you,” the voice repeated, echoing like it was coming from far away, from somewhere it shouldn’t be able to reach.
With a gasp, Macy dropped the phone onto the couch, staring at it in horror. Her hands were shaking. This had to be a prank—some cruel, heartless prank. But how? Maverick was dead. She had attended his funeral, seen his body lowered into the ground.
The phone went silent. For a long minute, she just stared at it, hoping the nightmare was over. But then, it rang again.
Macy nearly jumped out of her skin. “Unknown Caller” flashed on the screen once more. She didn’t want to answer, but her hand moved involuntarily, as though compelled by some unseen force.
She pressed the green icon and brought the phone to her ear, her pulse hammering in her throat.
This time, the voice came through immediately, but it was different. It wasn’t just a whisper. It was distorted, warped, as though Maverick’s voice had been dragged through layers of static and something darker—something inhuman.
"Why did you leave me?"
Tears welled up in her eyes. "You... you died, Maverick. You’re gone. This isn’t real."
"I’m still here," the voice rasped. The words were drenched in agony, in longing. "I’ve been waiting for you."
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She tried to reason with herself—this was impossible, a trick of the mind. Maybe it was the storm, maybe it was grief resurfacing after all these years. But the voice… it was too real. Too familiar.
The call cut out, plunging the room into silence once more. Macy stared at the phone in her hand, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her fingers hovered over the call log. She needed to know where the calls were coming from.
With trembling hands, she tapped the number.
Nothing.
No record. The call didn’t exist.
A chill swept over her as the storm outside raged on, the wind howling like a mourning soul. She stood, pacing the living room, her mind racing. It couldn’t have been Maverick. He was gone. He had to be.
Suddenly, the phone rang again.
This time, Macy didn’t answer immediately. She let it ring, her stomach twisting into knots as the shrill sound echoed in her small apartment. Finally, with a deep breath, she answered.
“Maverick, please stop this,” she pleaded, tears streaming down her face. “Please… just let me go.”
There was a long pause, the kind of silence that felt like the dead themselves were listening.
"Come back to me," the voice said. It was louder now, more insistent. "You promised."
Her mind raced back to the night of his accident. They had fought—bitterly. She had told him she was leaving him, that she couldn’t take the jealousy, the paranoia anymore. He had driven off in a storm not unlike tonight, his last words to her echoing in her mind: “If you leave, I’ll never let you go.”
The static rose again, and beneath it, Macy could hear something else—a distant noise, growing louder. It was the unmistakable screech of tires on wet pavement, the crunch of metal twisting and shattering.
Then, the voice. His voice. Crying out her name in terror.
The memory slammed into her like a freight train, and she dropped the phone, stumbling backward, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She covered her ears, but she couldn’t block it out—the sound of his death was all around her, suffocating her.
The lights flickered and then went out, plunging the room into darkness. Only the faint glow from her phone illuminated the room. The call was still active, the static crackling like fire.
And then she heard it. Footsteps. Soft, deliberate, moving toward her.
Macy backed into a corner, her heart pounding, tears streaming down her face. “Maverick... I’m sorry…”
The footsteps stopped just behind her. She could feel the air grow cold, could sense something—someone—standing there, unseen but present.
A whisper brushed her ear, so close it felt like icy breath on her skin.
“You can’t leave me. Not again.”
And then, the lights flickered back on. The room was empty, but Macy knew—she wasn’t alone.
The phone went dead in her hand, the call finally over. But the fear remained, gnawing at her, whispering in the back of her mind.
She knew it wasn’t the last time he would call.
Maverick was waiting.
And he always would be.
I'm just a child, but i'm not above violence ♡
"haunting the narrative" is one of those phrases i wanna put up on a shelf. not all characters that are dead haunt the narrative. not all characters that are dead haunt the narrative. not all characters that haunt the narrative are dead.