apocryphalarchivist | [PH] inbox

apocryphalarchivist

Threaded | Flat

From:

apocryphalarchivist

Make your statement, archive your terror.

This is the submission box for statements to Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. As an avatar of the powerful entity known as the Ceaseless Watcher, Jon’s wellbeing requires him to take in information about the terrifying supernatural experiences of others in the form of statements. If he does not do so on a regular basis, he may begin to feel sickly or exhausted. But you can help!

Using the comments below, write a short narrative (IC) describing a frightening paranormal experience. Jon’s abilities as the Archivist allow you (and to some extent compel you) to describe your experience with great clarity and in the form of prose, so spare no detail.

Statements must be at least 3 paragraphs long and must specifically be about paranormal experiences that left a deep impact of fear on the individual. There is no maximum length. Jon’s target is 5 statements per month, and he gets a small bonus if he meets this quota.

Thank you for your contribution!

Statement begins.

From:

skeletonkeay

[ It's a late October afternoon, sometime before Pumpkinfest is due to open. Gerry stops by Jon's quaint little seaside cottage to see if he wants to grab some of those big ass turkey legs from the food stalls, knocking on the door. ]

From:

needmetodoanyattacking

[The note is in a heavy cream envelope on matching paper. It's written in bright red ink.]

For a Brit, you're not bad.

In all seriousness, I could use your help. Feel free to bring anyone from the Occularum you'd like, including Jean or that Neil bloke.

Check the bulletin board. I'd like to see you.

-I.J.

From:

apocryphalarchivist

The door to Jon's small, seaside home is left unlocked. A light coating of dust begins to form, barring a few surfaces - he clearly didn't stay long, when he returned from his last voyage.

Laid out neatly on his desk is a note, typed out on a typewriter, and poised purposefully beneath the desk's lamp.

To whom it may concern,

I'd like to apologize, first and foremost, for my deception. I've made it known for the last several days that I would be absent for a short time while Jean and I ventured on a study of some of their findings from Dr. Coldwood's expedition. This is not the case, and never had been the case.

If this note is found, that likely means we have been gone for longer than anticipated, and it is possible we will not return.

Our intentions were, to put it as simply as possible, to defeat and potentially kill the Prince of Fools, Mendel. Jean is a warrior with great capabilities of waging onslaughts on those not of our world, and our hopes are for my Sight to be able to guide us beyond the barrier, to the jaws of the Infernal. They have harmed our people enough, and this is our attempt to take direct action.

Doing so does not come without cost, of course. If we are to fail, we will be doing so outside the barrier. I do not believe we will be able to come back from this.

I'm sorry to anyone I've left behind, who are hurt, betrayed, or wounded by my avoidance to discuss it. I won't try to hide behind excuses: it is cowardice on my part, not being able to leave someone with worries so heavy. I can only hope that, should the worst have come, you know that I was doing my best to help the people of this town, and that, someday, you will find it in your hearts to forgive me.

To Zelda: You've been a wonderful friend to me, and I wouldn't have made it nearly as far as I have without you. Thank you for everything.

To Gerry: Be good, will you? Feel free to take any of my journals, as well as my stash of cigarettes in the lockbox beneath my bed, should any of it be of use to you.

To Annabel: I'm so sorry you had to find out like this. You deserved more from me. I love you. I've left you a pocket-watch I found in the sea. Please exercise caution with it. It may be cursed. I hope it isn't.

To Neil: You've bared the greatest brunt of my dishonesty, and for that, I understand if you cannot forgive me for it. I love you dearly, and I hope this cursed town someday sees you as you are: a man so fully of the people, willing to lay his neck on the line, all for the sake of truth and justice.

For anyone I've not written to directly, please take little offense from it - I'm writing this quite late at night, and am still grappling with the idea that it may ultimately be unnecessary. Be well, all of you, and may your lanterns always be lit.

Goodbye.
-Jonathan Sims

From:

xiaoxiuya

"Sims! Are you busy?" Shen Qingqiu's voice is bright and animated with excitement over the sending stone, a far cry from the subdued nervous he'd spoken to Jon when they first met or the clipped and accusing way he tossed words in his face soon afterwards -- but then, they've been on much more friendly terms for nearly a month now, and Shen Qingqiu himself is close to completing his ninth month on Marrow Island. It'd been a surprising little luxury, adapting to the local culture and the cultures of his acquaintances at his at his own pace, picking and choosing which of his own habits he'd keep and which he'd...oh, not discard, certainly not. But put up on a shelf for now.

(A few changes were necessary, in the end. For all his prickliness and pretensions Shen Yuan had always been haunted by a deep-seated need to be liked, and that didn't exactly go away when he became Shen Qingqiu.

If anything it got worse.)

"I found the most amazing thing at Calloway's," he's explaining now, grinning at his sending stone as though Jon can see his face. "You have to see it. Actually you should just come over. Whenever you're free."

From:

theydrewfirstblood

If you need a statement from me, going forward be fucking careful about compelling me. Ask first.

Your ex messed me up bad, and I don’t want to say anything that’ll hurt either one of you.

I hope your current boyfriend is nicer.

-J

P.S.: Helga’s not scamming you for clover anymore, she’s really that hungry. We got a foal coming, you’re second off the ranch to know.

From:

aphroditish

A woman enters the tea shop while Jon is working. She is wearing a red linen dress and a brown leather coat, rough and piecemeal in its construction with a jagged hem, creating an odd silhouette. The pieces of hide that form it look fused, not sewn, and a wreath of battered black fur rests upon her shoulders like laurels. The features of her face draw the eye far more than the coat--- striking attractiveness, raven curls, dark eyes like scalpels, long doe's eyelashes, a cherry red lip like a warning. Danger! Danger!

She sits at the counter. As soon as he makes eye contact, the air is electric as two forces of nature collide. She's old. It doesn't take the Eye's blessing to sense that in a fellow avatar. But her skin has been replaced, her organs refashioned as many times as she needs.

The smell of steak and garlic. Of wine and chocolate. Of blood and sex.

The Flesh.

"Hi honey." A smile finds her lips. Her accent is American with just the slightest hint of German. "Any chance I can get a London Fog?"

Threaded | Flat