#vampirelover890

"Dan, you coming fer drinks after work?"

Wade walked by Danny's cubicle holding a stack of copies fresh from the printer, still covered in printer slime.

"No. Watch where you're swinging those papers, Wade. I'd rather not have to clarify that I wasn't having personal relations with the thing in the printer."

"God, alright Dan, you're such a downer, man. No drinks, no printer. So uptight. I don't know how the newbie stands you."

Wade walked past some more desks, aloofly talking with the rest of his coworkers moving passively towards the door. Unfortunately, Jake happened to be walking into the office, as Wade rounded the corner to leave through the same door, and they slammed into each other like 2 love interests in a cheesy high school rom-com. Twice as unfortunate was the state of both of their clothes, now stained a bright pink from the printer slime.

"Aw Christ, I just got this shirt dry-cleaned! You gotta watch where you're walkin' Henrece or you're gonna end up with way more paper than you can handle up your ass— like someone I know." Wade shot Danny a sour glace whilst scrambling around, picking up his stack of dropped papers.

Jake wiped his shirt with his hands, ultimately pushing the printer slime even further into his clothes. "Surely this stuff can't be sanitary," he said, walking up to Danny's desk, "what the hell is wrong with our printer anyways? Why's it coat our copies in goop?"

"It's not 'goop,' it's slime," said Danny, only slightly more condescending than normal, "our printer isn't a printer, per se, but a 'copier.' Everyone's got a different name for it, doppelganger, mimic, a- nope, that's all the names for it. We feed it the paper, and it molds itself into the stack of copies we need based on whatever we feed it, and then that detaches from it's corporeal form, and comes out as our copies."

"Why exactly on God's green earth can't we just use a regular printer?"

"Printers put tiny dots on the paper to track the exact time, date, and model of printer. We can't be having that."

"Ok, I'm sort of understanding, but why does the printer just look like a printer then?"

"Confinement and convienience. Can't be having that thing running around willy-nilly without supervision, but unfortunately that doesn't mean that no one lets it out, looking at you Trevor! Also, I'd rather shove paper into a box that I can perceive as soulless instead of thinking about feeding a creature."

"Have you ever touched it?"

"No, but I can point you in the direction of someone who has," growled Danny, voice full of disappointment.

"I'm gonna go touch it."

"Jake, don't touch the—" Danny's voice trailed off as Jake walked past Danny's desk. Again. There were two of them.

"Don't touch the what?" inquired Jake, backpedalling to join Danny's conversation. Upon taking more than a glance at the man Danny was conversing with, Jake was met with a mirror image. An exact copy of himself. He turned back to Danny, hoping, praying that he'd have an explaination.

"So, uh, Danny. Dan. Dan the man. Daniel-Fo-Faniel. Who's uh- who's your friend here?" Jake asked with lots of hands.

"Well, I-"

"Is it a siren? Did you bring a- oh my god, Danny I'm so flattered but-"

"It's not a- it's n- it... No," Danny sighed, "it's not a siren. They can't survive without water."

"So then...?" Jake questioned.

"You touched the copier. It's a copy," Danny said making his disappointment and tiredness apparent, "of you. Which coincidentally, was exactly what I was explaining to it." He said, leading back in his chair after gesturing towards the Jake he'd struck up conversation with. Danny noticed that it's previously very large pink-stain on it's shirt had dissapeared, and wasn't sure when.

The accused copy spoke up, "Hey why can't he be the copy and me be the original?"

"Yeah, what the heck dude, I can be a copy!" Said the second, or perhaps first?

"Okay then," Danny exasperatedly half-apologised, "so then which of you is the copy?"

Both Jakes pointed at each other in unison.

"Fuck me..." Danny sighed into his hands, "Well then do either of you remember what we did yesterday?"

Both Jakes responded at the same time, in the same tone of voice, as if they were handed a script and auditioning for a film, they circled eachother as they talked, ultimately leading to Danny losing track of which was which.

They, in unison, said, "Well, we mostly did actual work around the office because you turned down a haunted mansion job because you said it would end up being 'too much paperwork' which doesn't make sense because we take jobs like that all the time like when you had me go to the eldritch coffee shop and pick up everyone's orders because I'm the most mentally stable person in the office and if anyone else went in they'd lose their minds trying to comprehend the horrors, which seemed like exaggeration because I went in and it looked, smelled, and felt like a normal coffee shop but maybe thats just a feat to be credited to my amazingly compotent brain. Anyways it was just paperwork yesterday."

Trevor and his pals hanging around the water cooler snickered, finally hearing Jake's side of that story.

Danny saw he was getting nowhere with these two, and something inside of him snapped. He was tired, sure, but he'd rather write up more paperwork for the incident he was going to cause than try to dentagle the duplicate debacle in front of him. Danny angrily marched out of his cubicle and down to the large pillar in the center of the room with a big red phone. The office fell quiet as everyone working looked on in awe.

Danny was going to call Them.

The red phone rang, and as if someone had tripped the fire alarm, the entire room rang in response. After 4 rings, I picked up the phone, like right now, gimme a sec I gotta take this, ahem.

Danny! My man, how've you been, dude?

"You know how I've been, dude, you're God, and I am not in the mood. Which one is real?"

I don't have any i-diddly-dea what'chure talkin' about man.

"You know exactly what I mean, I know what you do up there, man. I don't wanna be one of your stories, which one is Jake."

Danny pulled a-

"Daniel. When you're talking about me, it's Daniel."

Daniel had clearly had enough of this 'Them' person, and was audibly getting angrier. Anyways so he pulled out his gun and pointed it at the two Jakes and screamed,

"Shut your fucking mouth and tell me which one of them is my partner goddamnit!!"

Alright alright, fine, the one you wanna shoot is on your left.

Daniel slammed the- oh shit he hung up sick I can call him Danny again, so Danny slammed the red landline onto it's reciever as he squeezed his service weapon's trigger, firing a bullet into the head of Jake. Jake staggered back, shaking, praying to some force that he might survive. No answer came. Jake fell to the ground, and melted into a pink slime that Danny would most likely be made to clean up later. The red phone rang again. This time, as one might expect a normal phone to ring. A recieving call. Danny- ahem Daniel picked up the-

"What do you want."

It's for Jake Henrece.

Danny angrily shoved the corded red landline into Jakes chest, grumpily retreating to the janitor's closet to retrieve a mop.

"H- Hello? God?"

Hey, Jake, that coffee shop was not 'eldritch'. It was a regular coffee shop; they made you get everyone's normal order at a normal coffee shop. Just thought you should know.

"Oh, uh... thanks... god?"

No prob.

Jake heard the dialtone, then very camly put the landline to God back onto the pillar in the middle of the New Wallachia Paranormal Hunters Department.

Chief Amdrill moseyed and meandered down the cell block in the New Wallachia prison complex, known as The Den, a smug smirk on his face, full on his coworker's son. The smell of blood in prisoner's veins became stronger as he walked by because they knew that all he'd have to do is pick one to feast upon, and their sentence would come to a bloody end. This thought seemed to pre-occupy Amdrill, as he didn't notice the two men in brown trench coats until he'd bumped into them.

"God! Can't sneak up on me like that, gentlemen. What business do you have here in this fine prison? Why are you here? Who invited you in?

The man on the right, sporting a baker's cap, held out a piece of paper. "I'll tell ya who let us in asshole. The United States government." The paper was a warrant from some sort of investigation. "See, the government knows what really goes down in 'The Den'. We know you've been moochin' a bit off the top. Listen, my name's Jake, and the other guy is Danny, and we'd like to talk to you. You know... away from the prisoners. You got an office, Police Chief Warren Amdrill?"

-

The three men sat in Amdrill's sad little office, a small blue room with barely enough room for a third person to sit comfortably.

"Listen mister," Jake began, "we-"

Warren pounced over the desk, fangs bared, ready to eat. Amdrill has always been a moderate vampire, simply waiting for his time to strike, sometimes going years without food, but something about the Killer Case, and Killer's taste, set ablaze a new passion within the Police Chief. Perhaps he should be who Nick thought he was.

Jake would have been the vampire's lunch, had it not been for his partner's quick action. With one hand, he shoved Warren's face, throwing off his momentum, leading him to crash into the file cabinet behind them, and with the other, retrieving a stake from his satchel, and driving it deep into the Police Chief's heart. Blood leaked out of every orifiace, and thick black smoke billowed out of his eyes and mouth.

Jake screamed, "Jesus fucking Christ!!! What the fuck did you do to him!!? We were just here to arrest him right?! For embezzling funds from the prison and making up prisoners right???"

Danny screamed back at him, "Get you fucking head in the game Jake!!! Did you join the fucking 'Puppies and Hugs Department'? No you joined the fucking New Wallachia Paranormal Hunters Department!!"

"Jesus fucking Christ he was actually a vampire?"

"Yes, Jake, he was actually a vampire, but now he's dead. C'mon, we gotta write this up now. I can hunt fucking vampires and unicorns all day, but easily the worst part is writing reports."

I pulled an entire ass creation myth out of my ass featuring a spontaneously existing being named "Mons" so that I could justify calling one (1) creature from the creation age a 'Mons'ter.

And screw it this is a tag game now too. Stupidest Lore Justification.

I'm tagging @leahnardo-da-veggie, @illarian-rambling, @drchenquill, and open tag.

(CW: Depiction of death, gore, dismemberment, and janitorial work ahead)

There was nothingness, indescribability. Weightlessness yet weight, feeling yet none, hunger yet- no… there was nothing to abet the deep, voracious hunger; and then there was light, and cold, and discomfort. The feelings began and wouldn’t stop! It existed; perhaps it had once not, but now, it undeniably did. It did not know what it was, nor why it existed, but its existence was indisputable. It’s eyes opened, taking in the white tiled floors of it’s birth place and the pale, smooth skin that belonged to none other than itself. It did not know where it was, nor its goal, but it knew it’s hunger grew.

As it began to adapt to its limbs, flexing the muscles in its body, not minutes after it’s birth and it could walk and comprehend. It surmised that its location was not natural, but artificial, it was surrounded by tiles and steel. Where it had come up with these ideas of material and naturalness in it’s new home, it could not tell you. It seemed to simply know.

(CW: Disregard of human life, mentions of death, consumption of harmful chemicals, and 9–5 jobs ahead)

Siobhan finds herself trapped on the third floor of the Grey Building, between her and the staircase to her sad solitary closet full of leftovers and cleaning chemicals, stands the machine. Siobhan was but a cadaver a month ago. She was not herself then, she was just... it. It did not feel, did not know, only hungered—a feeling Siobhan is all too familiar with—but it felt no joy, no pain, it simply had a goal with no reason, not but a reaction to circumstance, it hungered, and so it consumed. With the offset of starvation, came back the emotion, the identity, and then crawls back the hunger.

Siobhan was stuck in an awful cycle, of moping and mopping around the building, picking off the oddballs, assholes, and underperformers, persisting like a parasite off of the people who happened to be employed at the Grey Building so that she might continue to exist in her closet.

The machine, however...

The machine was efficient. It did not dawdle, mope, and it especially did not rot. The machine did not hide away in the dark corners while people were around. The machine did not hide its scars and decay beneath a large jumpsuit, nor its exposed flesh and bone behind a medical mask. The machine did not act in self-interest or preservation. The machine did not hunger. The machine simply cleaned. A mere reaction to circumstance. It was programmed to clean, and so it did.

Siobhan shimmied past the uncaring machine, not daring to look at it, lest she should see a reflection of herself within its shiny metal exterior. She sulked into her safe space, the Grey Building's Janitor Closet. Scattered about were various mops and other janitorial clutter, plentiful bottles and containers full of chemicals Siobhan uses to clean up the particularly nasty messes her unique diet produces, and the leftovers of her lunch, Barbara.

Siobhan is usually picky about which of her coworkers she consumes. Often she finds supplementary rodents around the building to postpone her stomach's demands, but when she's forced to eat, she usually picks off the assholes, the forgettable, and the already flaky. The types of people not many in the offices would notice missing, and even then wouldn't question it.

Siobhan's recent ration was a different case. Barbara was, in some of her coworkers' terms, the office bitch. She gossiped and spread misinformation. She destroyed work friendships and lied like it was holy gospel. Her problem with Siobhan, whom she always called the Janinator, due to her stiff movements and never caring to learn Siobhan's name, was that Barb quite liked picking on the old janitor, Jamie, and since they were replaced, Siobhan would inherit Jamie's torment in their place. Barb told rumors around her floor that Siobhan ate rats and drank cleaning fluids and slept in the building, which were all simply based on her disheveled appearance and aversion to socialization.

Barbara's rumors were a threat to Siobhan. Siobhan did not know these claims were baseless, and by the time she did, she didn't care. She cared about existing. About feeling. So what if she ate rats so she didn't have to eat people as often; too many disappearing workers would raise suspicion. So what if she drank cleaning fluids; she's dead, the inside is just as rotten and rotting as the outside is, and a diet consisting of rats and people doesn't exactly leave a person with the best smelling breath. So what if she lives in the janitor's closet, she's the Janitor! Despite that being a title she is technically unqualified for, she still does it, if not only as a very shaky alibi.

Siobhan, now in the safety of her closet, sat down, still holding her mop. Looking up, along one of the shelves that used to hold bleach and the like, was a row of 4 heads. Siobhan wouldn't let herself eat them. It would be admitting defeat. Siobhan felt, but did not feel everything. Where her compassion for the people surrounding her once sat was now empty. The only thing she cared about was survival, but surely that must be wrong. Siobhan was alive once and must have felt these emotions. She couldn't recall anything before the morgue, and even anything before her first meal was a haze. She had to prove she could be more than simply a zombie. She would be undead. Not mindless, simply not living. She would keep their heads, as a sign of respect, a reminder of who was lost so that she might continue to exist. It was the humane thing to do...

Hey, I'm Ted!

This is my spooky writing blog, a side blog to my main ( @californyankat ) (a follow from me will be coming from that one). I like writing about monsters! Spooky monsters, not so spooky monsters, and sometimes you get my unrelated stories and poetry.

I do lots of dialogue, it's not good probably but I do it.

I like being tagged in things, but I'm not great at following up (working on it)

I like when characters interact, so mine live in the same world(s).

I like monsters a lot, and so I write about 'em.

A comprehensive list of the things I write can be found HERE, and a summary of the main 6 that are categorized on that list can be found below the cut.

10 out of 9 times I have no clue what I'm writing about, or writing towards, and everything I write is by the seat of my pants. I have """vague""" concepts of where things will go, and even those change as I write more.

Other things about me:

Uh... idk despite the name i think that vampires and werewolves are equally hot

I despise the Twilight franchise

My top 5 vampires are Dio (Phantom Blood), Alucard (Castlevania), Alucard (Hellsing Ultimate), Matt Berry as Laszlo, and Dracula (Castlevania) IN. THAT. ORDER.

Ok here are the story summaries as promised:

8 DAYS????

(Sorry for procrastinating on this lmao)

9 Lines 9 No People Tag!!!!!!!

(I don't know that many people who write)

And so behold, a snippet from NWPHD part 6

Danny angrily marched out of his cubicle down to the large pillar in the center of the room with a big red phone. The office drew quiet as everyone working looked on in awe. Danny was going to call Them. The red phone rang, and as if someone had tripped the fire alarm, the entire room rang in response. After 4 rings, They finally picked up. A loud booming, vaguely coastal voice picked up the phone. "Danny! My man, how've you been, dude?" Danny was taking none of it. "You know how I've been, dude, you're God, and I am not in the mood. Which one is real?

Thank you @leahnardo-da-veggie for tagging me in this and keeping me in the scene at least a little bit and I promise I'll read Ardence soon