Rock Never Dies!

If you guys trade you rubber ducky for a cigar box and your paper clip collection for a soap dish can I be your Mr. Hooper?

If you guys trade you rubber ducky for a cigar box and your paper clip collection for a soap dish can I be your Mr. Hooper?

If you guys trade you rubber ducky for a cigar box and your paper clip collection for a soap dish can I be your Mr. Hooper?

So uhm, my friend from the hospital, Trevor, told me to make one of these blogs as he so calls it. So yeah…

How do I tag him?

Oh.

@tmoneylefkowitz69

Finally did it!

Anyway, I thought this was all water under the bridge. Haven’t dealt with her in, like, two years. Hetty and I were supposed to be married this past weekend, but that’s when I suddenly felt myself being torn apart literally like in a weird ritual. And then the trailer for the episode that showed last night dropped making it look like I was hooking-up with my friend, Patience, who I guess is Misery’s sister or something. As the show aired last night, I suddenly felt that dismemberment thing again, but ten times worse, which is how I landed in ICU. I could see visions of the episode while going through that, like those visions were planted there, and it was pretty much the same exact thing that happened with Misery.

( @owleyedmaiden )

( @owleyedmaiden )

“Satire is tragedy plus time.”

Rp Blog for Crash from Ghosts CBS | Penned by Jay (she/they/he, 30+) | follows back from @foxytonic | read rules and about before interacting | heavily headcanon based

Rules

About

Verses

"Excuse me, have you seen-"

@runyou-clever-boy

“Ghost stories?” he repeated with a thin, skeptical smile, flipping open his notebook as if that small act could tether him to the real world. “Not my department. I’m just looking for Axel Gilmore. Old reports, missing person. There’s a lead he might’ve come through here before the trail went cold.”

He forced his tone into neutrality, that careful balance between disarming and detached that he’d perfected in interviews with half-mad warlocks and cult survivors. “If you’ve got anything worth quoting, I’ll take it. Otherwise—” His pen hesitated midair, the tiniest crack in composure.

Something about the way Jesse was watching him felt wrong. Not threatening, but familiar. Too familiar. Like a memory he shouldn’t have.

‘Missing persons case.’ The phrase crashed over him like a tidal wave, bringing with it the worry that he’d always carried for his friend in life, and a conclusion that didn’t make sense. “Axel’s missin’? The fuck? I thought he was still with the band!” Jesse was well aware of the fame that Absent Sons had garnered after his death. Jay had a collection of their albums, and Sam had shown them to him not too long after he’d made his way out of the dirt. He’d been a roiling mix of proud, jealous, bitter, and happy, and had a hard time processing all of it, but Axel was there on every track, every inner cover photo. Growing. Aging. Surely, if the singer had gone missing, someone would’ve told him about it. But then he realized that Zach had also mentioned that this was a cold case. Not recent. “Or is your missin’ person Jesse Strange?” Saying his own name felt odd. Like he was talking about someone who existed in some far away time and place.

“I was there that day,” he blurted, forcing himself to calm down. “When their guitarist got…” Jesse almost choked on the word, “killed. I saw who did it. Crazy old man we didn’t know. Came barrelin’ into rehearsal, lookin’ to make Axel pay for sleepin’ with his old lady, which Axel didn’t do. I…Jesse stepped in to try and deescalate things, but Axel was angry at being accused, and kept tauntin’ the guy. We didn’t see the gun until it was too late…” His voice strained as he recounted what he could remember in a flood of words, blue eyes beginning to water. He didn’t have the wherewithal to wonder now if the stranger would realize that he looked like a twenty-year-old, not a sixty-year-old. “But I…Jesse shouldn’t be missin’…they called the cops…I saw ‘em zip up my body…” He was spiraling now, lost in the memories of his death and the aftermath of it that he’d tried so hard not to think about.

Just then, the front door opened. Jesse barely registered the sound until he heard a familiar voice growing closer and light footsteps striding across the driveway. “Oh, hello! Can I help you?” Sam asked, her usual chipper tone being enough to ground Jesse despite the fact that she was addressing the stranger. Ignoring the ghost to keep from looking like she was talking to thin air. He was used to the routine by now.

“Sam,” he called out quietly, “he can see me. I’ve been talkin’ to him for a good while, but I’m not sure he knows that I’m a dead man walkin’ yet. Hey, Gumshoe, remember what I said about ghost stories?”

"Excuse me, have you seen-"

@runyou-clever-boy

Still, his pulse jumped despite his reasoning. He didn’t want to linger on it, didn’t want to admit to himself that maybe, just maybe, he was seeing someone—someone impossible. He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “Okay, Zach. Keep it together. Focus.”

He straightened, brushing an invisible speck off his jacket, and spoke cautiously, keeping his voice casual. “I’m… looking for Axel Gilmore,” he said, carefully vague. “He’s—part of the band that used to play here. I need to ask him a few questions. Just… general stuff.”

His eyes flicked again toward the figure, but he forced himself not to linger. “You… haven’t seen him around, have you?” The words were almost casual, but there was an edge there, a quiet urgency Zach couldn’t hide. He didn’t want to draw attention to the figure, didn’t want to risk thinking too hard about what he was seeing.

He ran a hand through his hair, keeping his gaze low, careful not to stare, careful not to admit he even noticed this impossible presence at all. “Look, I’m just—doing some… reporting. Need to track him down. Any idea where I might find him?”

Every ounce of humor drained from Jesse’s face when he heard that name. Axel Gilmore. His former best friend, bandmate, and…partner in many things. It felt odd to hear someone else say it after so long. Beyond odd. Disconcerting. Painful. He had to fight once more to regain his composure, and this time it wasn’t nearly as solid.

He hesitated, then cleared his throat, keeping his tone neutral. “It’s just… follow-up work,” he said vaguely, though his voice was careful, measured. “Old files, cold stories, people who slipped through the cracks. Sometimes there’s more to find, that’s all.”

The cigarette smoke coiled lazily in the air between them, thick and slow, and Zach found himself watching the way it clung to the stranger’s silhouette. He wasn’t sure why that made his chest feel tight.

“Look, I don’t want to cause trouble,” he added, softer this time, though he still couldn’t quite meet the man’s eyes. “I’m just trying to piece together a few details. Axel Gilmore’s name came up… more than once.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding the question about the shooting entirely. “You said you haven’t seen him in forty years? Guess that explains why I can't track him down proper.” His attempt at levity landed flat, the silence swallowing it whole.

Something about the way the man’s fingers dug into the statue’s shoulder unsettled him. Zach took a small step back, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t feeling a temperature drop—that it was just nerves, the pressure of a decades-old mystery pressing in.

“Look, if you—if you do see him, or hear something,” he said, tone firm but wary, “tell him someone’s still looking for answers. That’s all.”

He paused, eyes flicking to the cigarette again. The ember burned a deep orange, but the ash never seemed to fall.

Zach forced a shaky smile. “Anyway. Sorry to bother you. Didn’t mean to… interrupt.”

That still didn’t make sense to him. None of it did. “Fell through the cracks…?” he repeated quietly, free hand slipping from the statue’s shoulder to idly fiddle with the strap that slung over his bullet riddled chest to keep the crimson guitar in place on his back. “Is that what happened to me?” He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. It just sort of slipped out while he was processing the stranger’s words.

Jesse shook his head, refocusing on the reporter, who had turned to leave. Oh no. He couldn’t have that. Not now.