i hear it too

Freedom was… a curious choice of a word, one that Alana took just a moment to jot down on the notepad currently balanced on her crossed thighs. She’d read John’s case files, studied them carefully with an objective lens to the best of her ability, but the crimes were not particularly fun to glance through. Still… they paled in comparison to what she’d seen from Hannibal Lecter and the other killers that had plagued her early years of psychiatry – though their tone was entirely different. Art had been the focus of the others, creating beauty of death in a macabre way, but this man’s? They were part of what he deemed to be a religious mission brought straight from God himself, with faith the instigator of his knife. It wasn’t unheard of, but it would be interesting to decipher sanity from insanity given the facts.

“Of course. I know its stereotypical for a psychiatrist to say it, but that’s what I’m here for, genuinely. I want to hear your side of the story – what you felt before, during, and after your crimes, your thoughts… anything that can help me put together an answer to the question you and I both know you’re here for.” There was a pause, as her bright blue eyes rose to find John’s own, holding them not with fear, but curiosity. “So, whenever you’re ready… is it alright if I call you John?”

𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖻𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗂𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖣𝗂𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗎𝖽𝖾𝖽? 𝖣𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌? 𝖨𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖾? 𝖶𝗁𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗈𝗆? 𝖲𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾? 𝖦𝗈𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋. 𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗌𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖦𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

      ˜”*°•.    Behind  profane  voices did  the  faithful lurk  –  their souls  condemned  to hell,  their  bodies chained  already  –.  Their  spirits twisted  by  a polluted  faith  – for  wasn’t  this the  plan?  Cause  obsessions and  a  heated conflict  //  life and  death  serving a  downfall  –.  ❝ No  no. I  like  this body  actually.  You know,  very  young, comes  with  kind of  a  nice clothing  as  well. ❞  Words  were tossed  out  cavalierly. No.  Possessing  people was  far  from his  aspirations  –  demonic  stereotypical  behaviors  meant for  the  inferiors, tedious  tasks  shouldered by  the  insignificant   –.  

❝ Look.  Very  nice the  whole  God thing,  even  though, I  stopped  listening after  the…  wait,  what  was it  ?   Yes!  After  the  first  word. But. ❞  Elaborating on  the  other’s supposedly  good  will, altruism  and  selflessness? It’d  have  been  a  long story  –  kind  of  amusing indeed  –,  yet still  unnecessary.   No.  His purposes  revolved  around more…  practical  things –  matters  that not  even  hell needed  to  be aware  of  –.  ❝ Let’s  talk about  some  more  entertaining  things. So,  when  you are  doing  God’s slaughter  work,  are you  taking  anything from  those  horrible sinners  ?  Some kind  of  pendant, maybe   ?   ❞  

𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗑𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗇. 𝖧𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖣𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽? 𝖶𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗈𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾? 𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾.  ❝𝖨 𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗆. ❞ 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍, 𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝗍. 𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗅𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾.

 ❛ i had no other choice. you’re the only one who could help me by remaining objective. ❜ ainsley is not keen with the idea of visiting the killer that she once thought was a ghost. however, there is a story that she needs to know the ending of. the youngest whitly needs to know why she cannot remember what happened in her home with endicott and why her memories are starting to resurface after several months.  

𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽. 𝖮𝖿 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖠𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖧𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖭𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅, 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾.

𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖡𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇. 𝖮𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗈𝗆. 𝖦𝗈𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖦𝗈𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖨𝗌𝗋𝖺𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖤𝗀𝗒𝗉𝗍. 

que me face palming myself

@ofsaviours​​ said: “ i’ll be okay. i promise. ”

she smiles for the first time since her father was taken away in handcuffs. ainsley likes her new friend that she named mr. boots. however, he is like a ghost, always appearing and disappearing at the most peculiar of times. the youngest whitly is too naive to understand that she has made a friend with someone who could easily harm her. ‘ my big brother always tells me that it’s going to be okay. thank you for the angel, mr. boots. ‘ 

𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅; 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖽𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅, 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗋. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

@raisedstrong​ liked for a starter

Something he could work with. Despite everything he was still unable to fully stop working. Profiling. If it kept him alive then he had to keep going. Keep fighting. Dying down here would do no one any favours. For fucks sake, he’s a WHITLY in his heart. And no Whitly laid down and died. They fought, tooth and nail until they could do no more. His wound would not kill him. Only slow him down. He could compartmentalise around it.

“ Well my father is a convicted serial killer and since prison has only been there to psychologically screw me up. My mother did her best with the bomb field he left. Neither would do what your parents did.” He would not take jabs at his mother kindly. She had done her best with what she had and had taught him his strength. His ability to get through the toughest situations that were emotional came from HER.

Dr. Whitly would not approve of this. No, there was no experiment here. This was a lesson and one that he’d never put his son through. That night is so broken and hazy to the profiler but he needs to know. It claims his thoughts nightly. “What is your end goal here?”

𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗀𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗆 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄, 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗆’𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗆’𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉. 𝖠𝗇𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖤𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗆’𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗒𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽. 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝟣%, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗎𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌.

❝ 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 ‘𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗁, 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖼 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒. ❞ 𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗄, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗆 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾.  ❝ 𝖡𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖽. 𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗋. ❞ 𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗅𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗇.

𝖠𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌? 𝖶𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 ‘𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌’ 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅.

         ˜”*°•.   Interesting  had  it always  been:  how a  silly  tale or  two  could only  amplify  people’s fears.  How  a few  rumours  here and  there  could send  humans  into  an  almighty terror.  It  took  no  effort either:  his  single presence  enough  to  scare  the other,  cause  quite an  uneasiness,  an anxiety.  His  vaneer still  casual,  his  façade still nonchalant,  and  yet the  other  was apprehensive,  nervous  – oh  he  could only  imagine  the  man’s  reaction  should his  vessel  have looked  wilder  –.   Quite  enthralling  really.  But..  business  was  business,  and  right  now,  buisness  asked  THIS.  

❝ Yeah..  this whole  ‘  let’s eat  people  alive and  then  dance  in  their remains ‘  ?  Not really  my  thing. ❞   A casual  apathy  accompanied his  shrug.  ❝ No no.  The  question  is   NOT   what I  want.  The question  is  what  do   YOU   want. ❞  Came the  correction  – gaze  travelling  around, scrutinizing  the  place //  not  bad,  yet…  kind of  boring,  mundane –.   ❝ Wow.  You  really  live   here  ?  I  mean,  no  offence  obviously,  but.. ❞  

Eating people? What was the guy...demon talking about? John had never once said or even believed that demons ate people. Possession yes, but not cannibalism. His mind had never considered the possibility, so there was no reason for it to go there. Cannibalism was the sort of things you heard of in strange stories, or from crazed civilisations in the middle of nowhere. Did other people really expect demons to eat people? Or had this demon in particular been approaching fanatical people?