K
KLV
Guest
Original poster
Creepy was the best, if not the only word that could accurately describe the remains that were called home, by a slightly less creepy man. The building or what remained of it was covered in the evening shadows, all of its details lost in front of the dying sunset. Not that it was much of a sight to see, the majority of it was wasted away, eaten up by an electrical fire that may or may not have been accidental. It was difficult to tell from its current state but the building had once been a highly regarded psychiatric hospital. Those days of course were long over and the remaining land had yet to be dealt with. Still it suited the purpose of its single resident.
One possessing a vivid imagination one would expect the ruins to be haunted, filled with the maniacal cries of its less fortunate residents forever trapped between life and death in their perpetual insanity. Lying in wait for some poor living soul to pass by and fall victim to their deranged fantasies. As soon as they entered its dead grounds they would be marked with an invisible target to alert the occupants who simply refused to move on. It was their right to unfold upon trespassers all the atrocities committed against them in life… Yet in reality no such fantasy was waiting to pass. It was exactly what it looked like…a ruined building in the middle of nowhere. Void of any other life and holding no such thrills for the curious mind. The only possible dangers the building held were in its weakening structure.
Most of the ashes had long been blown away and what hadn't been burned was beginning to peel and weather away. The stubs of burnt door frames here and some odd equipment there stayed to remind everyone that there once had been but that it no longer was. There was nothing particularly interesting to see unless one counted deteriorating hospital beds and charred floorboards as interesting.
Though not without its oddities… while the fire had claimed the lives of several occupants and rendered the majority of the facility useless it remained still home to the man presently crouched on a mattress in one of the few still standing rooms, (which may or may not have been a room for shock therapy) gnawing away at a cold chicken leg he had picked up hours earlier. This was however a step up in dietary habits regardless of the repulsion of it all.
The walls of the room were covered in numerous scratches, words which to begin with had little connection but in some spaces were carved over so many times they were indiscernible. The floor had a lace covering of dust interrupted by multiple sets of footprints all deriving from the same being. Despite the former asylum's depressingly wasted state and lack of lighting this he claimed as his home, his ground. He had been safe within its walls for years and even after it had been flamed and abandoned he remained, either too afraid or too lazy to leave. Possibly a combination of the two, but either way the point was this was where he lived and he wasn't planning on leaving of his own free will. Though anyone coming to remove him was highly unlikely, no one actually knew who or where he was. And it was safe to say no one cared, any soul who did happen to catch a sighting of him wrote him off as a creep that occasionally left whatever pit he came from for short intervals. Who he was, or had been had been in fact assumed to be one of the half a dozen casualties from the fire, despite a body never being found (truth be told they hadn't looked very hard). Presumably if his family knew he was still alive they'd have tracked him down ages ago but no such search occurred and in the most likely scenario he would slowly fade into the background and kill himself off, ever in his pointlessly hidden existence.
He tossed the picked apart bone aside and vigorously scratched the side of his neck where dried blood was caked on. It didn't worry him because it wasn't his and eventually it would wear off wouldn't it? It did when it rained. When it rained all the grunge and dirt seemed to weather away. He loved the rain, but not for that reason. He loved simply standing in it and feeling the drops hit his face. And sometimes rain would gather in the basins formed from broken furnishings and equipment. He liked that too because he knew it came from the rain although it wasn't quite as good. He liked the showers too, they were similar to rain and for a while they could be persuaded to push out what liquid they could find, but they had long since lost their purpose. So the man would sit and wait for the rain to come again.
Few things remained in order under his watch. There was no one there to tell him to keep his bed made, or to wash his hair, or to eat a decent meal, or to not leave potentially foot killing devices lying around. Consequentially he neither kept up with his living space or his appearance leaving him a continuous mess masquerading as a human being. Unless you counted switching clothes every few days as being hygienic. Which he only did because one should never wear white on days that began with "T"…he didn't actually have anything to keep track of the date (or time for that matter) so he left that up to guessing. He estimated today was Saturday so he had no problem putting on the worn dull cotton he had grown so used to. Again no one was around to remind him he had to take care of himself. Simple acts that he found all together were not worth the effort needed to accomplish them even should he be told to.
For that matter no actual being spoke to him much at all. But it would be wrong to assume that he never conversed. For he regularly spoke with his ever present pink pearl…which was no longer very pink. Apparently no one had ever bothered to tell him that erasers were for erasing pencil scratches off of paper not communicating with the dead. The eraser did an excellent job of convincing him that it was a medium to his late brother however. A small trinket remaining with him as means to somehow find a tiny portion of comfort while knowing admittedly that said man was with certainty gone for good. The man still alive meanwhile remained unnoticed and undisturbed.
One possessing a vivid imagination one would expect the ruins to be haunted, filled with the maniacal cries of its less fortunate residents forever trapped between life and death in their perpetual insanity. Lying in wait for some poor living soul to pass by and fall victim to their deranged fantasies. As soon as they entered its dead grounds they would be marked with an invisible target to alert the occupants who simply refused to move on. It was their right to unfold upon trespassers all the atrocities committed against them in life… Yet in reality no such fantasy was waiting to pass. It was exactly what it looked like…a ruined building in the middle of nowhere. Void of any other life and holding no such thrills for the curious mind. The only possible dangers the building held were in its weakening structure.
Most of the ashes had long been blown away and what hadn't been burned was beginning to peel and weather away. The stubs of burnt door frames here and some odd equipment there stayed to remind everyone that there once had been but that it no longer was. There was nothing particularly interesting to see unless one counted deteriorating hospital beds and charred floorboards as interesting.
Though not without its oddities… while the fire had claimed the lives of several occupants and rendered the majority of the facility useless it remained still home to the man presently crouched on a mattress in one of the few still standing rooms, (which may or may not have been a room for shock therapy) gnawing away at a cold chicken leg he had picked up hours earlier. This was however a step up in dietary habits regardless of the repulsion of it all.
The walls of the room were covered in numerous scratches, words which to begin with had little connection but in some spaces were carved over so many times they were indiscernible. The floor had a lace covering of dust interrupted by multiple sets of footprints all deriving from the same being. Despite the former asylum's depressingly wasted state and lack of lighting this he claimed as his home, his ground. He had been safe within its walls for years and even after it had been flamed and abandoned he remained, either too afraid or too lazy to leave. Possibly a combination of the two, but either way the point was this was where he lived and he wasn't planning on leaving of his own free will. Though anyone coming to remove him was highly unlikely, no one actually knew who or where he was. And it was safe to say no one cared, any soul who did happen to catch a sighting of him wrote him off as a creep that occasionally left whatever pit he came from for short intervals. Who he was, or had been had been in fact assumed to be one of the half a dozen casualties from the fire, despite a body never being found (truth be told they hadn't looked very hard). Presumably if his family knew he was still alive they'd have tracked him down ages ago but no such search occurred and in the most likely scenario he would slowly fade into the background and kill himself off, ever in his pointlessly hidden existence.
He tossed the picked apart bone aside and vigorously scratched the side of his neck where dried blood was caked on. It didn't worry him because it wasn't his and eventually it would wear off wouldn't it? It did when it rained. When it rained all the grunge and dirt seemed to weather away. He loved the rain, but not for that reason. He loved simply standing in it and feeling the drops hit his face. And sometimes rain would gather in the basins formed from broken furnishings and equipment. He liked that too because he knew it came from the rain although it wasn't quite as good. He liked the showers too, they were similar to rain and for a while they could be persuaded to push out what liquid they could find, but they had long since lost their purpose. So the man would sit and wait for the rain to come again.
Few things remained in order under his watch. There was no one there to tell him to keep his bed made, or to wash his hair, or to eat a decent meal, or to not leave potentially foot killing devices lying around. Consequentially he neither kept up with his living space or his appearance leaving him a continuous mess masquerading as a human being. Unless you counted switching clothes every few days as being hygienic. Which he only did because one should never wear white on days that began with "T"…he didn't actually have anything to keep track of the date (or time for that matter) so he left that up to guessing. He estimated today was Saturday so he had no problem putting on the worn dull cotton he had grown so used to. Again no one was around to remind him he had to take care of himself. Simple acts that he found all together were not worth the effort needed to accomplish them even should he be told to.
For that matter no actual being spoke to him much at all. But it would be wrong to assume that he never conversed. For he regularly spoke with his ever present pink pearl…which was no longer very pink. Apparently no one had ever bothered to tell him that erasers were for erasing pencil scratches off of paper not communicating with the dead. The eraser did an excellent job of convincing him that it was a medium to his late brother however. A small trinket remaining with him as means to somehow find a tiny portion of comfort while knowing admittedly that said man was with certainty gone for good. The man still alive meanwhile remained unnoticed and undisturbed.