richie "trashmouth" tozier (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
measuringdicks) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenace2020-03-14 04:49 pm
measuringdicks) wrote in maskormenace2020-03-14 04:49 pm
004 | temporary memshare, video, v much not anon + text
[ooc warning: clowns, horror, harm intended towards a minor, reference to child death and murder, evil cannibalistic eldritch horrors, attempted child-eating, corpse of a minor, a derogatory reference to drug addicts, all the warnings that come with Pennywise the Dancing Clown. also, this post icly will only last for a few days on the network until it disappears with all the other memories that are uploaded onto the Internet.]
[You’re in a dark room in a room full of ghosts.
All right, no, not really ghosts—just sheets thrown over indistinct shapes, but in the darkness, they look like ghosts anyway. You walk through the room, hardly able to breathe from the dust that’s built up in this room. Jesus Christ, how long has it been since anyone has been here? This place is so fucking creepy, not even the crackheads who sleep in this house will touch it, apparently, so what the fuck is Eddie doing in here, huh? You could swear you saw him hiding in this dusty little room.
Eddie! you hiss into the dark. Where the fuck are you? We’re not playing hide or seek, dipshit.
You hear footsteps behind you. You turn, and your best friend Bill’s running towards the door, calling your name. You walk forward and the door slams shut. The feed glitches here—you can’t hear what you’re saying, what Bill is saying, but the panic that swamps your body is real. You are stuck here, in this room of ghosts, and you’re rattling the doorknob screaming for Bill to come get you and pull you out—
And then the audio cuts back in, just in time for you to hear the sound of heavy fabric hitting the ground. You turn, real slow, and your breath catches in your throat.
Fucking shitfire hellfire fucking shit. First the missing poster with your face on it, now fucking clowns, of all fucking things. Yeah, you weren’t exactly telling the truth when you told the other Losers you were scared of clowns, but Jesus fucking Christ, a room full of clown statues is just too goddamn much. No fucking wonder they all had sheets over them, they’re creepy as all hell.
One of them laughs. If you weren’t afraid of clowns before, you sure as fuck are now. You step back, and your foot nudges up against something that wasn’t there before. Your heart leaps into your throat as you jump away from the thing, look down and see yet another goddamn clown holy fucking shit what the hell, your heart is beating so fast you think, shitshitshitshit am I having a heart attack is that what’s happening here. Either you’re choking on dust or your breath is coming shorter and shorter, and you don’t know which is worse.
Despite the rapid beat of your heart, you reach towards one of the clown statues and knock your fingertips against its face. The hollow sound of your nails knocking against wood oddly reassures you.
The sound of fabric hitting the floor echoes through the room once more. Slowly you turn to see a coffin, lying in state, and before your wide, horrified eyes, the lid lifts upward by itself.
Your missing poster is plastered to the inside of the lid. There it is, your smiling face, your bug-eyed countenance behind your glasses, and scrawled across the lid is the word FOUND. It’s too dark to tell, but you have this funny feeling that out in the light, the word would be colored a bloody red.
You want to leave. You want to run away and never come back to this place. You want to burrow deep under the ground and forget you ever came here, to this horrible monstrous place, but instead of following your brain, your feet step forward. Your feet take you past the white-faced statues, grinning and scowling and smiling and frowning at you, and up, up, up to the coffin, and all the while your heart is climbing into your throat, your head is screaming at you to run goddammit run, even as your own footsteps echo in the room. You don’t want to look. You have to. You have to.
There is a sheet over the corpse. Something is shifting under the sheet. You swallow the bile that threatens to come up your throat and out of your mouth, and reach out to yank the covers back—
—and it’s you. Sort of. If you were a little white-faced puppet with your lips sewn shut and maggots wriggling out of your cheek and your mouth oh Jesus fucking Christ you’re gonna lose your lunch and your breakfast and yesterday’s dinner at this rate oh god—
You slam the lid shut and step away.
No sooner have you done that than the lid bursts open, and a clown comes flying out of it. This one’s not a statue. This one’s dressed in white and looks as fleshy as you are, its suit a horrible white, as it lands back on the lid of the coffin and grins at you. Beep beep, Richie, the clown says, grinning horribly, gesturing like it’s squeezing a horn at you. And then it jumps towards you, teeth bared (so many teeth so many sharp teeth, all the better to eat you with, all the better to tear your arm off and snap your bones and eat the marrow out) and you scramble backward, screaming.
The door opens as the clown reaches for you, and Bill yanks you out of the room. You slam the door shut on the monster, and for a moment you think, okay. Okay, this is it. Okay, you’re through the worst now, all you have to do is find Eddie and then get the fuck out of here, sorry Georgie but you’ll have to wait another day if you’re even still alive—
Then you hear a giggle. You turn, and you see your best friend’s head emerging from a mattress in another room.
The feed glitches, then. You could swear you hear another young boy’s voice saying, you wanna play loogie? but the audio is so distorted that it’s hard to tell. The video pixelates, like a low-quality BlueTube video, before it clears back up again, just in time for a young boy’s head to disappear into the mattress it was hiding in, for your panic to kick up a notch when you see black sludge oozing outward from the mattress, eating through the floor underneath it.
Bill pulls you back as the two of you curse up and down, but when you turn again the room you came from is gone. Instead there are three doors: VERY SCARY, SCARY, and NOT SCARY AT ALL are written on them in bloody red letters. You and Bill look at each other, then bolt towards NOT SCARY AT ALL, yanking the doorknob so hard the door flies open. For a moment, you half-think you’re back in the dark room again, that’s how dark it is.
Where’s my shoe? a girl whispers in the darkness.
Then Bill reaches for the light switch.
The light flicks on. Betty Ripsom is dangling by her arms from a bar. Well. Half of Betty Ripsom, anyway.
Her legs are gone. Blood and gore drip from her waist as she looks up at you through lank hair, and her dead eyes see you, her dead eyes say, look at your future, Richie, look at what you’ll amount to, sick boy, dead boy. You and Bill scream, and you slam the door closed on the dead girl.
Where the fuck were her legs?! you scream. Then you look, and see the black sludge moving closer, closer, closer—
This isn’t real, says Bill, grabbing hold of you. R-remember the missing kids’ poster? That wasn’t real so this isn’t real.
You believe him, of course. This is Big Bill. This is your best friend. Of course you would believe him, you’d follow him anywhere, he’s the idea man, your leader and your friend. This isn’t real, this isn’t real. There’s a door that’ll lead to your way out, and you just have to trust what Bill says, damn it. You nod, and you think of things that are real: Bill’s hand on your arm, your heart hammering in your chest, saying with every frantic beat I am alive I am alive. You are not missing. (Yet.)
Ready?
No! you say.
He yanks open the door anyway, but poor Betty Ripsom isn’t there anymore. Thank fucking god. Thank fucking god, for that much. Thank—
And then you hear a scream. Eddie, you think, your heart sinking into your stomach. Bill takes your hand, and the two of you run towards where you heard his voice.
And then the video glitches out, at last.]
[An hour or so later:]
okay what the FUCK is going on THIS TIME
[You’re in a dark room in a room full of ghosts.
All right, no, not really ghosts—just sheets thrown over indistinct shapes, but in the darkness, they look like ghosts anyway. You walk through the room, hardly able to breathe from the dust that’s built up in this room. Jesus Christ, how long has it been since anyone has been here? This place is so fucking creepy, not even the crackheads who sleep in this house will touch it, apparently, so what the fuck is Eddie doing in here, huh? You could swear you saw him hiding in this dusty little room.
Eddie! you hiss into the dark. Where the fuck are you? We’re not playing hide or seek, dipshit.
You hear footsteps behind you. You turn, and your best friend Bill’s running towards the door, calling your name. You walk forward and the door slams shut. The feed glitches here—you can’t hear what you’re saying, what Bill is saying, but the panic that swamps your body is real. You are stuck here, in this room of ghosts, and you’re rattling the doorknob screaming for Bill to come get you and pull you out—
And then the audio cuts back in, just in time for you to hear the sound of heavy fabric hitting the ground. You turn, real slow, and your breath catches in your throat.
Fucking shitfire hellfire fucking shit. First the missing poster with your face on it, now fucking clowns, of all fucking things. Yeah, you weren’t exactly telling the truth when you told the other Losers you were scared of clowns, but Jesus fucking Christ, a room full of clown statues is just too goddamn much. No fucking wonder they all had sheets over them, they’re creepy as all hell.
One of them laughs. If you weren’t afraid of clowns before, you sure as fuck are now. You step back, and your foot nudges up against something that wasn’t there before. Your heart leaps into your throat as you jump away from the thing, look down and see yet another goddamn clown holy fucking shit what the hell, your heart is beating so fast you think, shitshitshitshit am I having a heart attack is that what’s happening here. Either you’re choking on dust or your breath is coming shorter and shorter, and you don’t know which is worse.
Despite the rapid beat of your heart, you reach towards one of the clown statues and knock your fingertips against its face. The hollow sound of your nails knocking against wood oddly reassures you.
The sound of fabric hitting the floor echoes through the room once more. Slowly you turn to see a coffin, lying in state, and before your wide, horrified eyes, the lid lifts upward by itself.
Your missing poster is plastered to the inside of the lid. There it is, your smiling face, your bug-eyed countenance behind your glasses, and scrawled across the lid is the word FOUND. It’s too dark to tell, but you have this funny feeling that out in the light, the word would be colored a bloody red.
You want to leave. You want to run away and never come back to this place. You want to burrow deep under the ground and forget you ever came here, to this horrible monstrous place, but instead of following your brain, your feet step forward. Your feet take you past the white-faced statues, grinning and scowling and smiling and frowning at you, and up, up, up to the coffin, and all the while your heart is climbing into your throat, your head is screaming at you to run goddammit run, even as your own footsteps echo in the room. You don’t want to look. You have to. You have to.
There is a sheet over the corpse. Something is shifting under the sheet. You swallow the bile that threatens to come up your throat and out of your mouth, and reach out to yank the covers back—
—and it’s you. Sort of. If you were a little white-faced puppet with your lips sewn shut and maggots wriggling out of your cheek and your mouth oh Jesus fucking Christ you’re gonna lose your lunch and your breakfast and yesterday’s dinner at this rate oh god—
You slam the lid shut and step away.
No sooner have you done that than the lid bursts open, and a clown comes flying out of it. This one’s not a statue. This one’s dressed in white and looks as fleshy as you are, its suit a horrible white, as it lands back on the lid of the coffin and grins at you. Beep beep, Richie, the clown says, grinning horribly, gesturing like it’s squeezing a horn at you. And then it jumps towards you, teeth bared (so many teeth so many sharp teeth, all the better to eat you with, all the better to tear your arm off and snap your bones and eat the marrow out) and you scramble backward, screaming.
The door opens as the clown reaches for you, and Bill yanks you out of the room. You slam the door shut on the monster, and for a moment you think, okay. Okay, this is it. Okay, you’re through the worst now, all you have to do is find Eddie and then get the fuck out of here, sorry Georgie but you’ll have to wait another day if you’re even still alive—
Then you hear a giggle. You turn, and you see your best friend’s head emerging from a mattress in another room.
The feed glitches, then. You could swear you hear another young boy’s voice saying, you wanna play loogie? but the audio is so distorted that it’s hard to tell. The video pixelates, like a low-quality BlueTube video, before it clears back up again, just in time for a young boy’s head to disappear into the mattress it was hiding in, for your panic to kick up a notch when you see black sludge oozing outward from the mattress, eating through the floor underneath it.
Bill pulls you back as the two of you curse up and down, but when you turn again the room you came from is gone. Instead there are three doors: VERY SCARY, SCARY, and NOT SCARY AT ALL are written on them in bloody red letters. You and Bill look at each other, then bolt towards NOT SCARY AT ALL, yanking the doorknob so hard the door flies open. For a moment, you half-think you’re back in the dark room again, that’s how dark it is.
Where’s my shoe? a girl whispers in the darkness.
Then Bill reaches for the light switch.
The light flicks on. Betty Ripsom is dangling by her arms from a bar. Well. Half of Betty Ripsom, anyway.
Her legs are gone. Blood and gore drip from her waist as she looks up at you through lank hair, and her dead eyes see you, her dead eyes say, look at your future, Richie, look at what you’ll amount to, sick boy, dead boy. You and Bill scream, and you slam the door closed on the dead girl.
Where the fuck were her legs?! you scream. Then you look, and see the black sludge moving closer, closer, closer—
This isn’t real, says Bill, grabbing hold of you. R-remember the missing kids’ poster? That wasn’t real so this isn’t real.
You believe him, of course. This is Big Bill. This is your best friend. Of course you would believe him, you’d follow him anywhere, he’s the idea man, your leader and your friend. This isn’t real, this isn’t real. There’s a door that’ll lead to your way out, and you just have to trust what Bill says, damn it. You nod, and you think of things that are real: Bill’s hand on your arm, your heart hammering in your chest, saying with every frantic beat I am alive I am alive. You are not missing. (Yet.)
Ready?
No! you say.
He yanks open the door anyway, but poor Betty Ripsom isn’t there anymore. Thank fucking god. Thank fucking god, for that much. Thank—
And then you hear a scream. Eddie, you think, your heart sinking into your stomach. Bill takes your hand, and the two of you run towards where you heard his voice.
And then the video glitches out, at last.]
[An hour or so later:]
okay what the FUCK is going on THIS TIME