Sir Thomas Sharpe (justametaphor) wrote in noexits, @ 2021-09-20 19:48:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread/narrative, ₴ inactive: richie tozier, ₴ inactive: thomas sharpe, → week 021 (rest) |
Rest Week | Day 3
Richie is watching the repeating episodes of the Weird Science Guy on one of the Derleth TV sets when the channel gets interrupted.
Richie felt...jittery. Like he was buzzing, really - something skittering over his skin, spiders jumping in his veins. Different than his usual state of being, and probably related to what he now knew of as the Shining. Not that he was particularly in tune with weird mind powers but he liked to think he was getting better at them, especially since he remembered what it felt like in the Leave it to Beaver town to not have them. It was an extra sense that had been snuffed out, just when he’d gotten used to it being there and being able to call upon it, even if the muscle wasn’t exactly exercised. Or very strong. He practiced, however. He tried to. He’d reach out and let that ability unfurl like a fern and touch Dan’s mind (no bad touch jokes here, though Richie guessed that was...fair?), and they could talk and he felt less alone and like he was going fucking crazy because being tossed around in the washing machine that was this experiment was going to drive him up some kinda wall, he knew that much. The television in the theater room was also going to drive him up some kinda wall too - Richie had been staring at it for the past however many minutes, as he sat on the couch and watched the flickering that resembled an electrical storm, the light bathing the sharp angles of his face. Eventually he figured out that one channel was prominent and that was the Weird Science channel. The exact process of how an Altered Item is born...eludes us. He tilted his head, neck popping - ...certain events to happen over and over again. “Yeah, dude. You don’t fucking say?” he spoke to the television - and the jittery feelings just increased tenfold. When the Weird Science minute ended, it just started up again - and he wasn’t sure if it was because he wanted it to, or it was on a loop. But yet it was still happening. The entities on the second and third floor had been notoriously quiet since the arrival of the monolith. Like their living, breathing counterparts on the other side of the barrier, the ghosts didn’t enjoy the sensation of being watched. And the monolith, whatever it was, watched everything. It peered through the magical wards that had been in place ever since another Derleth event and pierced what remained of their tormented souls. It made them restless. But it also made them hush their psychic rumblings. And it was because of that unnerving quiescence that some of the ghosts — the ones who were paying attention — could hear better. Thomas, in particular, had always been attentive to what was going on outside of the locked floors. He listened through the walls. He heard who arrived and who left. His nights were stricken with the sounds of snoring and weeping and sleep talking. He heard the echoes of lovemaking and arguments. Of conversations meant to be private. Most of the time he had no formal way of interacting with the living. Most of the time he didn’t want to. But he listened all the same. Forced himself to bear witness to the inane dialogue and superfluous stupidity of so many of them just to make sure they kept their distance. To make sure they didn’t try to unlock the floors. Because someone always did try. Someone was always foolish enough to think that a locked door meant answers. Someone was always an idiot. Richie’s shine — be it from lack of practice or sheer strength of will — had been particularly meddlesome since Derleth had reset itself to the Void. It stirred the spirits. They started to make a ruckus again. Some of them salivated for a taste of life. And Richie, unknowingly, was prodding them. Taunting them. Like poking a bear with a stick while wearing a string of sausages around his neck. This would not do. When the Weird Science stream repeated itself for the upteenth time, the man on the screen disappeared, replaced by someone else. For a split second it looked like Richie himself, walking onto the screen from stage left in a white lab coat. Then the television fizzled like the old ‘snow’ screens from the 1980s, and the Richie look-a-like was replaced with someone else. Someone who resembled Loki, but didn’t at the same time. And instead of wearing a bowtie like the odd Science Man, he wore an ascot, and his expression was deadpan serious. “I won’t stand for this, Richard. It’s time you—” The TV screen jittered and a flashing image of a semi-transparent bleeding ghost face crossed the screen. When it returned to normal, Thomas, looking like a regular healthy human being, was holding a clipboard and writing something in red pen. Part of his dialogue had been skipped over. “—I’m only going to give you one warning. Get your bloody brain under control. I don’t have time to deal with your insipid psychic disruptions.” What the fuck? Richie jumped, not expecting to be addressed by whatever was on the television - and the image kept flickering, same as the fiery timbre of his thoughts, because maybe ADHD brain and the Shining wasn’t a good combination but he was working on it. He only just learned like three weeks ago that he even had anything to work with at all. But clearly his ineptitude was bothering something and he relaxed back into the couch after the initial act of nearly separating his skeleton from his skin out of sheer surprise. “Why don’t you get your bloody face under control,” he replied - because seriously, maybe he didn’t have time for threats from the television poltergeist. “And I’m trying, okay? It’s really not that simple. It’s like telling you - oh, why don’t you just not be dead? Which, by the way, who the fuck are you?” Otherwise he was just going to call him ‘ghost wearing an ascot’ or come up with some other stupid nickname, and honestly, being called Richard by Asscot Ghost ruffled his feathers more than being told he sucked at freaky mind powers. Thomas didn’t even try to hide his annoyed displeasure at how this conversation had started. His eyes rolled back into his head — far enough to momentarily hide the pupils and irises, leaving a bloodshot white void in their place — before blinking back to normal. This guy. Thomas didn’t even need to see his face to recognize him. That voice, full of cheapshots and half-arsed jokes, spanned hundreds of universes. And of all the people in Derleth, Richie was one of the loudest. Thanks to his shine. At least the other one — Dan — had the good sense to not let his mind wander. He clearly had a better understanding of the dangers of skipping through the spiritual daisies. Sometimes the daisies liked to bite. A low rumbling growl filled the background noise of the television screen. It fizzled out again. A scratchy image of black and white snow blocked out Thomas’s image. But the snowy interlude didn’t appear flat. Something moved in the background, causing the screen to wave like a 3D parlor trick. Then it cleared and Thomas was back. The lab coat was replaced by a suit, turn of the century. He stood in the foreground on what appeared to be a nondescript midwestern middle-of-America street. Rainwater trickled into a sewage grate behind him. “Who I am isn’t important,” Thomas said. His left eye glazed over, bored. It blinked slower than the right and the pupil didn’t dilate or constrict with the light. “It is imperative that you cease your telepathic projections. You’re causing a stir that could threaten everything that’s going on. Leash yourself before you accidentally unlock a door you’re not prepared to open.” An origami newspaper boat floated down the street and into the drain. Thomas snapped his fingers at the screen. “Are you paying attention, you half-rate harlequin?” “Stop, fucking stop - “ It was the newspaper boat that did it for him, sent him spiraling down a path he had wanted to block off. Seven teenagers, standing in a circle, holding hands. Bloodied palm to bloodied palm - and one of the teenagers was Richie. He and his friends were all in love with each other, with everything about it. Innocence, the blind faith that children had in each other, in what they believed in... The old, rickety house on Neibolt, a light that burned like a supernova through him. The cycling of power, on and on, forever through time on a little paper boat. Lepers and clowns, one specific clown with hairline cracks in its broken doll face paint, sharp teeth, we all float, everything through a reel of images. Balloons. Blood. More blood. All those missing children. “Stop - “ But he wasn’t sure if he was telling himself that or the ghost, because it was him. He was doing that - he was, and his head suddenly ached with the force of a thunderclap. His eyes flashed milk white, pupil and iris erased and then - it was like he wasn’t even here at all. Not here, he was seeing someone else’s life - a connection forged between him and the spirit in the screen, whether Richie wanted one or not. He was at the University but it wasn’t the University, not this one. It was all gothic revival but brand new - excessive rain and excessive cold. Antique wood and clothing that became more and more voluminous as the century dragged on. Blood-red clay, dug up and mined, beneath a house and the very guts of the structure. A gramophone that tinged like a very inferior guitar, the sing-song repetition of nursery rhymes that gave him the creeps even while in some kind of trance state and - Richie snapped out of it, glaring at the screen as his stomach twisted into knots - it was a wonder he didn’t throw up, but he realized he was gripping the couch cushions way too hard. “I got your point, Asscot. Now leave me the fuck alone.” There were some things that Thomas had learned to anticipate. Having been in Derleth for a very long time meant that he had some knowledge of its residents. And not just the current residents. Other ones. Previous versions of themselves. From other realities. Other worlds. There were threads that connected them all. Sometimes the history was different. Sometimes the appearance. But everyone had keystone moments in their existence. Points in time that seemed to intersect across universes. Richie wasn’t an exception to that rule, but he was something of a conundrum. Other Richies had various levels of shine. Someone none at all. That was a word Thomas had learned over the years, mostly from the telepathic murmurings of Dan Torrance. They were an interesting pair to watch from afar. Sometimes they were close. Other times not. Sometimes Dan didn’t have control. Sometimes he was a worthless alcoholic that called forth the spirits on the second and third floors because of his indolence and his narcissism. But the current Dan had control. The current Richie, however, well … He was proving harder to predict. But Richie’s sudden loss of control sent a kind of seismic shudder through the television set. And it appeared, at least on screen, that his telepathic instability might have breached part of that magical ward. Thomas was rocked. He stumbled on the sidewalk. The background disappeared and became something more akin to the Void. A pulsing white nothingness, occasionally punctuated by the presence of something outside of it. Like a force pushing against an invisible wall, sending ripples through the background. Then Richie’s eyes went white and Thomas felt his mind penetrated. That was new. Thomas didn’t have control of the images Richie plucked from his memory. They seemed to be snatched at random, but all of the thoughts were prominent features of his existence. Of his life before the Event. Seeing them played through his own mind as Richie’s mental tendrils sifted through the card catalog of his ghostly brain was an intense and disturbing experience. Not just because Thomas had no desire to be reminded of the torments at Allerdale Hall and the atrocities of his Derleth, but because if Richie could touch his mind, then who else could he reach? And when Richie finally did regain control and let go, Thomas felt winded. Which was hilarious because he didn’t breathe. The screen fizzled again. Thomas’s features flashed to something transparent and dead before returning to its normal human countenance. The background eventually returned to the steady classroom setting of the Weird Science Guy. “You leave us alone. Get your bloody shit together as they say. And don’t ever do that again!” Thomas’s tone was rigid, as though he were holding back. But his eyes told a different story. Richie had just scared him. Scared him more than he’d been in a very long time. “You’re lucky I’m the one talking to you and not—” His head turned to the side at a noise that only he could hear. “Shit. I think she heard us.” Thomas looked back at Richie. The malice was gone, replaced by a pleading beg. “I don’t care what you do to fix your brain, but do it quickly. And don’t contact us again. They’re already watching you. You do not want to be a conduit for the things in here.” “I wasn’t trying to contact you in the first place,” Richie insisted, though it was softer on his end too - not so much a snap with his trashmouth, but seeing all those things had brought him back to when he was just a scared little kid, afraid of his own face on a ‘child gone missing’ poster. And that creepy circus outfit and twisted grin, all that wild orange cotton candy hair, floating toward him like some fucked up Mary Poppins carrying those balloons. And he remembered what it all felt like, the horror and dread, the drip-drop of ITs sewer home. It wasn't just a chill, it was a cold that burned and made his mouth taste acrid and metallic. Richie swallowed hard. He could tell the TV ghost was scared too. That was the thing about being in someone's head. Hearing their thoughts, knowing which way the deeper ones traveled and what places they went to. There were some parts of your life that always stuck with you, because you didn't forget that sort of thing. Couldn't blot it out. “Jesus Christ, I’ll fix my fucking brain - “ Not like he was sure how (the Shining didn’t come with an instruction manual) but he’d see if Dan could help him put up extra strong mental walls or something. Then he realized something else, about Nameless Ascot. “Sorry you’re stuck in there with them.” Thomas had never been a really sentimental sort of man. Growing up with Lucille and the toxic claustrophobia of their relationship had stunted much of his emotional development. Somewhere, deep inside, he was a soft-hearted soul. Edith had breached his harsh exterior and freed some of that sad trapped creature underneath. But that was one person. And after he died sentiment hadn’t helped him. If anything, empathy and goodness had worked against him. Because most of the spirits in those locked floors fed off that. They tore apart the weaker ghosts to fill the space with their own evil. As a result a lot of the cold walls Thomas had created in his childhood, the ones that helped him survive the death of his mother and the loneliness of boarding school while his sister was locked up in an asylum, were summoned back. And so while he knew Richie wasn’t purposefully pestering the spirits — while he knew it wasn’t Richie’s fault — he had difficulty showing his sympathy. Sympathy was what got a person killed. Sympathy, sentiment, love, belief, commitment. Any one of those emotions could result in murder. They’d all killed Thomas, after all. And he couldn’t afford to be a man with a weak heart anymore. And now, with the remnants of Richie still tingling in his mind, that’s all he could think about. His death. His weakness. Lucille. We can all be together. And then the sharp piercing stab of a knife in his chest. His shoulder. His cheek. Dug deep until it nicked the brain. Thomas frowned and the wound on his face slowly began to form, as though the injury had just occurred. The blood trickled down his face, dripping over his chin. “Don’t pity me. I’m here by choice,” he said. That wasn’t true. Well, not entirely true. But there was truth to it. “Someone with modicum of sense has to be in here with them. Better me than—” A coarse guttural moan echoed in the background. “I can’t stay much longer. If they figure out how to communicate with you then we’re all doomed.” This time he fixed Richie with a desperate stare. “Find someone to help you. And stay alert. I’ve never seen them this restless before. I think they—” The television fizzled to a snowy black-and-white image of static and then the Weird Science Guy popped back up on the screen, continuing his repetitive chatter as though nothing had interrupted him. |