CrystalNinjaPhoenix

Hi, I'm Crystal!

24 years old. I'm trying this out. Mostly a fanfiction writer. Pretty much only for jacksepticeye egos haha.


Possessed Prologue

[The very first fanfic I ever posted for JSE, uploaded here. This is the prologue to a six-part series I wrote back in August 2018. Enjoy :)]
.............................................................................................

When I was young, I’d often overhear people tell my parents I was cursed. “He’s so quiet,” they’d say. “And born on the night of the devil!” They’d always see me listening, and their expressions would change to horror as they tried to explain to the little boy that they hadn’t really meant it when they’d said he was a bad omen. I’d always forgiven them, but I wouldn’t pretend their words hadn’t stung.

Perhaps it was those rumors that started my interest in witchcraft. After all, if I was already cursed, what did I have to lose from playing with forces best left alone? I’d started dabbling shortly after moving out, when I first had my own space without parents peering around every corner. I began by practicing small spells: a charm to bring good luck, a ward against evil, the like. Things that wouldn’t cause too much harm if they backfired. But I was curious. Could I pull off bigger, more impressive spells?

The problem was finding spellbooks. My local library stocked a few of them, the ones with harmless magic inside. But I wanted more. And at as my desire to learn more about witchcraft grew, my film career began to take off. There was no problem with being silent in a motion picture. All the words were added in later! So I had to put my search for spells on hold for a while my equal passion for being on the big screen took over.

I stumbled back into witchcraft by pure accident. I went out for a night on the town to unwind after a busy day. Exploring areas of the town I was unfamiliar with, I found a small shop I’d never seen before. The window was filled with leather-bound books, statuettes of spirits, wands made of wood, and various crystals. Walking in, I found the inside sold all those things and more. Eagerly, I swooped upon the books and spent hours browsing the tomes before picking out a few to take back home.

The little old woman who ran the shop let most of my purchases slide by without comment, but when she came to the last volume, bound in black, green, and red, she asked me if I was sure I wanted it. Seeing me nod, she shook her head and said, “I won’t stop you. But be warned: these spells are meant for experienced casters. Ones who know the dangers that they come with. Don’t jump into them unprepared, or you might find yourself damned, or worse. And for god’s sake, don’t give away what you fear.”

I followed her advice. For months, the spellbook lay neglected, hidden beneath the others in the chest I’d gotten for that exact purpose. I practiced other magic, spells for prosperity, for love, for health. Spells to banish evil from someone’s heart, to bring benevolent spirits into my life. Spells that advanced my career, that gave me all the fame I wished for. I devoured everything the books gave me.

But it wasn’t long before that curious itch came over me again. I wondered about the darker kind of spells. I wouldn’t ever use them, but I wanted to know them nonetheless, just for the sake of knowing. My mind wandered back to the spellbook I’d been warned against. Was I experienced enough yet? I’d read enough about possible dangers that could come from malpractice of magic. Was it worth the risk?

Yes, I decided. One day, when I had nothing else to do, I sat down with the book. I’d surrounded myself with protection—I wore amulets and rings, tokens of good will were scattered around the room, candles were lit to repel dark spirits, and I’d drawn a magical circle around where I sat. I opened the book, and read. I learned about demons that would consume souls, spells meant to cause the worst kind of harm, and darker magic that I hesitated to even think about longer than it took to read the passage.

It was late into the night when I turned the page to the final entry. Excited to be done, I turned too fast, and cut my finger. I’d never like seeing blood, let alone my own. I swallowed my panic, then rushed out of the room to get a bandage. At the time, I’d thought my passing had extinguished the candles’ flames, but later I realized I hadn’t caused the great gust of wind required to put out all the candles at once.

After that, I noticed some strange things. It started with a flicker in the corner of my vision, a flicker that I always thought looked like a person. Then, I began getting strange, random nosebleeds that certainly caused a great deal of difficulty when they came on during filming. Time passed, and I thought I heard someone laughing, whispering mocking things in my ear. I was scared. I put up every single form of magical protection I’d ever heard about, only to find them all destroyed. A warding amulet I’d worn seemed to be misplaced, though I couldn’t remember taking it off. A parchment of protection symbols I’d hung over my door ended up on the ground, torn to shreds. Nothing lasted more than a week.

Desperately, I tried to find the shop where I’d purchased my spellbooks, including the one I’d been warned against. But when I found it, it was shut up. For not much longer than a few days, it looked like. There was a note tucked underneath the front door, with various messages on it addressed to different people. At the bottom, it read, “To the silent man, I hope you took my advice. If you’ve returned looking for help, then I’m sorry to say I cannot. Maybe no one can. But I will give you the one bit of knowledge I have: if you’ve found yourself haunted by fear, give him nothing. Don’t tell others, don’t acknowledge him, and don’t say his name.” That last part wouldn’t be hard for me.

Once again, I followed her advice. And for some time, it seemed to get better. The strange flickering and laughing disappeared, and my protection wards remained in place. I relaxed, letting myself focus on my films, on my friends, and on my family. My birthday was approaching, and I wanted to be happy and carefree. I had an idea for a short film—taking a comedic spin on a tradition for the holiday I was born on.

I borrowed a camera from the film company I usually worked with, promising to return it. I bought the pumpkins from a local farmer, and used my candles for a sense of atmosphere. Everything went well, from the preparation to the carving. I got a friend to help in a few locations, but she left quickly, on her way to some dance hall. Before long, the short film was mostly done.

I shouldn’t have let my guard down.

It was time to clean up. I picked up the knife, intending to put the most dangerous object away first. Instead, I found myself stabbing the pumpkin again. I hadn’t done it; my hand had moved by itself. When I tried to pull the knife out of the pumpkin, I cut my palm wide open instead. Horror flooded my mind at the sight of the blood. I kept bandages nearby in preparation for working with knives, and started wrapping up the wound. But something was wrong. I was looking at the camera instead, and smiling. Then, I was bandaging the wound. Then I was staring at the camera again.

I tried to stand up, I tried to run away, but my body was no longer mine to control. A clawed hand was clamped around my mind, my entire being in the grasp of something that was laughing at me. “Stay a while,” it whispered. “ Have some f̷u̵n̴.”

The world was breaking around me, like a corrupted film strip. Red afterimages flickered into existence as all other color drained away. I was laughing—I shouldn’t have been able to laugh, but I could feel it rasping through my throat. I took the knife and cut myself again and again, laughing all the while. The cuts burned like acid had been poured in the open wounds, and I wanted to scream, but even if I could have, the thing wouldn’t let me. It was laughing at my pain, running mental claws down my mind as it drank in my terror like a fine wine.

It was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare. I hoped with every fiber of my being that it was just a dream, but I knew it was false.

“Oh yes, it’s a nightmare, alright,” the thing said to me, its voice coming from my own mind. “But you’ll n̸e̸v̴e̵r̷ wake up. This is just t̷h̴e̴ b̵e̷gi̴nn̶i̴ng̷, my̷ lit̷tl̶e̴ p̶̿upp̷e̵t̵̆̉.”

Everything went dark, and the last thing I heard was his laughter.


You must log in to comment.