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bluekola — Monster
Published: 2019-09-22 17:28:14 +0000 UTC; Views: 159; Favourites: 18; Downloads: 2
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Comments: 6
NORMALIZE the thing that looks like a giant multiple-jawed skeletal monster demon creature living at the back of your basement
DESTIGMATIZE the act of closing your bedroom air vent to stop it's dry whispering– which you can never tell whether it is random or directed at you– from reaching your ears
ROMANTICIZE the idea of counting the number of stairs it slowly tries to crawl up each night and praying it never makes it to the top
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we HAVE to let people know it's okay for them if they experience:
-Being repulsed by the way the basement demon monster creaks its rigid neckbones and scrapes its claws across the wall everytime it knows you're near
-Feeling sick when seeing any normal shadows because of the thing living in the basement
-Locking your bedroom door even though you know it wouldn't be enough to stop it from finding you
-Letting your bathroom taps run for a few seconds every morning because ever since it arrived more and more of your tap water comes out all gloppy and black as ink
-Questioning why you're the only person who remembers your dog
-Why am I the only person who can remember my dog?
-What actually happened to the dog?? Where did it go??? I'm sure I locked the garden doors
-Oh my god I think I can still hear him whimpering downstairs sometimes late at night underneath the floorboards
-I don't know if its actually him or just that giant monster demon creature thing taunting me and toying with my mind again, trying to lure me into going downstairs so it can catch me and steal my teeth
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The laughing coming from my ceiling? ohh, that's just Gilbert, the cursed lampshade salesman. He's been up there for quite a while now, everytime I try to brush him off the ceiling with a broom he just hisses and croaks obscenities at me. Later... after the sun goes down, and the shadows leap closer and closer... he will become a name without a number ... his Iridescent Fish haunts me still, it's arms running frequently throughout my nightmares. It will be too late. The jelly has already gone sour, the cursed lampshade salesman will have laughed so much that he coughs up his own pelvis and is suffocated by his own bile, and The Sparkling Duck will sadly quack no more. All that remains on my ceiling will be a cloudy, creaking, arcing portal of debris stretching into multiple infinities.
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