#bonetta

Idk, really!

I guess maybe cus he’s small, cute and v good at acting. The way he emotes, the way he develops any of his characters (so far as I’ve seen) also captivates, I’d say.

My bf and I watched Dollman (1991) last year, I loved him in that. We started calling him “the Dollman” even tho that’s not the character he plays (cus he’s so tiny and cute, like a doll lmao). Then over the summer, we dared each other to try watching (the horrendous imho) Dark Shadows (2012), and as soon as he opened the door at the beginning, I immediately recognized him and got stoked. I jumped up and said “Look! it’s our Dollman!” He’s just very charming! Fun to watch!

:•)

he’s neat, sweet, petite etc etc

No we turned it off it was so bad. Im not leaving a full review. It was so horrible. That’s it. Impossible it was like Tim vomited himself all over the screen and then finger painted with it ok I’m done however —

I did like this guy a lot and ended up almost 35 min in solely because of him:

We need more creepy, oily butlers or like groundskeepers or like whatever, that’s my favorite kind of guy.

𐌌𐌉𐌔𐌄ɽ𐌙 𐌉𐌔 𐌀 𐌁𐌵𐌕𐌕𐌄ɽ𐌅𐌋𐌙

LotR fanfic - young Sméagol (Stoor)/Lover (POV)

- -

What happened to him, eh? Well, I don't know. I can tell you about him. My side only. Never say I said - but I will tell you only my side, if only to reflect. It matters not. I've long needed to confess this. Though it matters not.

I saw Sméagol often in my life, very often. Even as we were little ones, he was always 'round. He wasn't a bad child. He wasn't rough and tough, I mean. He wasn't unkind. I say it's my side - he wasn't unkind to me. We all know his grandmother - we did then, and we do even now. The old crone, now. She's our elder; we trust in her. We have all reason to trust in her... it was her decision, of course. So we - so I follow her wisdom.

They say misery is a butterfly, what spreads its heavy wings, and flies 'round even the coziest of dwellings. Those flutterings can take you right away - take o'er a gentle mind.

We were friends, me and him. As children, too, we played sometimes. Often enough. We would meet in a field and clasp hands and I'd beg him to spin me as hard as he could until we both fell away in dizziness, and then start back again. But I'd not gotten to know him better until... Well, once, when we were a long while older, I was making my way toward the river Anduin with my gear, and I saw him on the way out, rummaging through someone's open back window. He was struggling to climb up into it. I saw that it was the hut of the baker.

"Hey-o, Sméagol, what are you up to?" I called to him from the pathway. At this, I recall, he jumped back, and locked his wide-eyes on me. At first, he was startled, and looked so irate, but then he smiled in his friendly way and waved to me. I recall him. I had something soft in me for those large blue eyes - so unlike his grandmother's that we all mused about where he might've got 'em. Some of the men joked thru their tobacco pipes, with their hairy arms crossed, that the lad likely stole 'em. In the sunlight, his eyes...they reflected like pools of water - pools small as any Stoor's eye, but deeper beyond what any of us could dive. That's what I say on it, mind you.

"No matter, no matter," he called back quickly, abandoning whatever it was he was doing, and then he set toward me. "Where does it go?"

I had pointed into the trees, and I told him "a-fishin'."

I recall him. He was what the others called "obsessive". And you ask me, what did they mean? After that day, when he went a-fishin' with me, he stood nearby that baker's hut, by the pathway into the woods, every single day, and at the same time every day. For a while, yes, he did this. And it so happened that I was always heading out to go fishin'. I recall him; he'd begun to grab ahold my hand and lead me to that river each time, regardless that I already knew the way myself. If I wasn't as quick-footed as he, he pulled, almost to drag me along with him. But, I tell you, I liked him. I liked him so. Somehow, he knew exactly what I wanted: I wanted to share in his enthusiasms and schemes.

I recall him. He could plant his feet in a running stream and know exactly when to catch a fish, what slinked between the stones - and with his own hands he'd catch a few, or many, and throw them to me on the wet grass. I became obsessive, too. I would watch him do this, a-marvelin'. I began to desire nothing more than to sit nearby him - and watch him do anything, closely, for hours. He watched me closely, too.

For a Stoor, he was small. Unlike us all, he had little color to him except for the tops of his rather large ears - I mean, he was so milky pale that, under breath, it was his grandmother who got the censure from us ("shading the boy like that under her wing, that's what did it!"). As we aged, he did not grow out his beard, but for the long sideburns that framed his face, and so he looked a youth through his years; and he did not suffer any grit, the way we all did. He kept his dark grown-out hair long and free; his clothing sinched, buttoned and tucked well; his neckerchief (a strip of paisley from his grandmother's own skirts) knotted neatly at his throat. Who did he think he was, eh?

The menfolk would make more of an issue of it, had Sméagol not been of a sturdy nature. Nothing yet would make him cower, and it was difficult to push him over. He was able to swim and fish better than most. He was much stronger than he looked. All fealty and respect we gave him, for he was the grandson of our elder. In the shelter of her reputation, he did as he wished without any serious questionings (Though I do recall my sibling telling me once, "I watch out for Sméagol - he creeps a little too much for my comfort").

But it was merely common envy what made anyone else cross about him. He was a darling, and rather handsome despite the peculiarities. Honestly, we considered him a friend on the whole. He could be very generous and sweet, we knew it. This is how I knew him before.

And he was always adorned with trinkets. These he would let me see, let me examine. He handed me, once, a lengthy chain, longer than could be wrapped 'round someone so small as he. From out his pocket, like a magician, he pulled it, unending collection. Dangling from each link were his findings, which, he at once whispered to me, were secrets. What looked like shells, glazed buttons, beastly teeth, some fish bones dipped in silver, green and red beads of glass, a miniature bell, and many finely crafted fish hooks - these Sméagol coiled into my open palms, and he looked satisfied as I examined.

"A true fisherman's catch," I remember the compliment I gave to him. My admiration of these charms - the way they tinkled in my hands - seemed to excite him at length, vicarious. I heard him sigh, and he quietly said to me, in a way he'd not spoken to me before -

"Do these shiny things speak to it, my love?"

(Cont. below)

Down a lonesome dirt road through weeping willows and junipers, situated within a crown of tall cypress, kept behind an old moss-ridden brick wall, stands a mansion. Bone-white and ghostly, you can see its rooftop from a sure distance through trees and kudzu vines. It's rather ornate, with its encircling muted green wrought ironwork and matching shuttered windows. It looks like a funeral home. In a way, it is. Don't they say, "Tomb Sweet Tomb?" There, inside every crooked hall, a ghost makes its way through. Beyond the house, expanding out like a city of its own, lay tombs and graves, which glow bright in the darkness with the living dead. Zombies in high collars and ghouls in sheets and shrouds pry themselves out of their confines to mingle at the 13th strike of a terrible clock, every single nightfall. Here, Halloween is never-ending, the overpowering reek of dust, white pepper and clove pervades, and time is a silly joke that only mortals take seriously.

If you were brave enough to come and stay, you'd meet around 999 ghosts in total - but you're a cowardly person, aren't you? A bit of a chicken? Yellow-bellied? Scaredy-cat?? Shaking like milk, aren't you? You couldn't fathom the full spectrum of specters that reside in every nook and coffin within (and without) the house, and so, I'll only introduce you to one ghost. Does that sound reasonable? Oh, stop crying! Pull yourself together!

Look up there, to that open terrace at the back of the house. I just saw a shadowy figure move away from the cloudy daylight, back into the dark recesses of the mansion's attic. Let's call to him, shall we?

Here in the attic is where "The Hatbox Ghost" stays. In life, he was Harland Boniface, the skilled owner of a long-gone hatmakers in the area. In death, his friends and lovers call him "Hattie". As you can see, he stands in short stature - would-be average but for his hunch and his marked lean over his cane; he's been in the coffin buried out in the pines since the 19th century, and so his stovepipe hat is bent, bristling whiskers, void of sheen and color, are kinked into a frenzy about his skull, and his black inverness cloak is wrinkled and patched up with decay.

If what stood out to you first is his being a ghastly skeleton with a golden tooth that winks just about as much as his sunken, yellow eyes, then I suppose I understand that. He's got a grin like he knows where my scruples falter. Indeed, he is the type to triple-dog-dare you at the drop of his head! His boney fingers are wrapped round the handle of a gaudy looking hatbox, and he motions for you to come closer - to peek inside the lid. You never expect his shrieking severed head, wagging his tongue at you!

An incredibly lively spirit, he is able to materialize well in the mortal plane, and with all his boisterous, recycled energy, he goes about making his friends and enemies. He can shake hands with us mortals and interact with just about any object we've got, from hat ribbons to bottles of bubbly to television knobs - watch him get his hands on that remote control and you'll have to sit through Three Stooges marathons and parades of washed-up stand-up comics. He's got a laugh like a hyena down in a coalmine - the shrillest cackle you'd never want to hear in the dark. His obsession with childish jokes and banana-peel hijinks brings on this scary laughter, which can be heard throughout the mansion at the eeriest of times. In exchange for your patience, he'll make you a smart-looking hat or bring you some vexing charm from The Beyond.

Most of his gifts to friends come from his mighty collection. He's the soul-preserver of hundreds of old hats from back in the day, though he is also partial to collecting bones, stones, frocks, socks, spools of wool and shoes (in fact, its known amongst frequent mansion guests that leaving your shoes in front of your bedroom door overnight will result in them being exchanged with some random trinket from the Hatbox Ghost's strange collection, a 'thank you' for a new pair of shoes to add to the pile). His passing fixations accrue a lot of little bits and bobs, which he's always trying to circulate (he is no miser!). Trading with Hattie will get you just about anything you desire (but don't ask him any questions or he'll concoct some horrifying answers for you, and laugh at the face you make).

New people tend to find Hattie intimidating and scary - especially as he is one of the louder ghosts in the mansion. Whether with a group of ghoulies causing a ruckus or slinking through corridors, planning tricks in the dark with his lone-self, you can hear his anxious giggling, his dragging limp echoing through empty doorways and through the walls.

Cont. below 👻

Tags: Christine Daae/Erik (Phantom of the Opera 1925); just a scene I wrote to make myself happy, SFW romance, this is based off the Lon Chaney Phantom but you do you, I just like ‘em freaky, Björk lyrics, Gaston Leroux, Lerik

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“ …This "Angel" had swooped over her. No, he was a bat in the night. He had held out his hand to her - those hands that conduct and take lead, that play up and down on the smooth necks of violins and on pipe-organ keys so expertly... she shivered watching him play. She could fall apart in those hands. Crooked five fingers aligned themselves perfectly to take her wrists gently in handshake - and did this scare her? It electrified her. Hands that speak power to anything his face would otherwise express... but for that mask. Boney, yet skilled fingers that curl and beckon her to follow him deep into the belly of the opera house. A grave elegance so overpowering…”