Freddy Fazbear
You want the moon? I'll give you the moon.
- 326
- Posts
- 12
- Years
- Age 28
- Bedford Falls
- Seen Dec 19, 2016
Sweat drips from my brow as I dreadfully turn the page. No force on Earth could tear me away from the book that I am so heavily focused on. This book is not a tale; no, it is so much more than that. This book is deadlier than a curse, as deadly as the town it takes place in, and like that town, once you've visited, it will haunt you forever.
The book is obviously of great age. The pages are yellow and crisp, and the writing is faded. Hordes of sketches lurked on the sides of some pages, but they were smudged to the point of being impossible to decipher. The once-majestic purple color is chipped and scratched, and the binding is on the verge of falling off. As soon as I opened the book, an ancient scent invaded my nostrils and installed an eagerness to read.
The title had been enough to enrapture me. Tower of the Accursed. Horror stories have ever been my weakness, and cheesey titles like this drew captured my attention faster than a Quick Ball. The anticipation of finally knowing how a story ends is enough to keep me occupied for hours.
But this book... This book is different. This was no thriller tale. There was no mass murderer in a monster mask running around killing teenagers in nightime forests. I wouldn't even call this book scary.
I'd call it horrifying.
I don't want to continue. I would love nothing more than to jusf throw the book in some fireplace and be done with it. But as if the spirits of the book are possessing me, I press forth.
Others living around the tower passed the enigmatic shadow off as nothing but a spectacular weather phenomenom. Yet another reason for tourists to rush in their caravans to our town. No one would think to dishonor our late, great mayor witch accusations of bringing a plague unto our town. After all, the new tower he had built is a blessing, not a curse! Jobs are being created, and tourism is skyrocketting. What's the worst that could happen? Those Pokemon are dead anyways.
No. Just their bodies. That's all that's left our earth. Or, became part of our earth, rather. Their spirits still roam among us, watching how we go about with our daily lives, and they're growing angry. Angry! Hateful! I have seen the effects of their wrath firsthand. I stood by helplessly when Agatha collapsed in my living room, clawing fiercely at her eyes with long, unkempt nails. I heard our mayor's agonizing shrieks as he impaled himself on his rusty metal staff. The shadow... It was no mist.
It was them. The spirits, I mean. They aren't finished with us yet. Those ghosts are ready to torment this place, and everyone in it. They have laid a wicked curse on our fair town. Or at least, formerly fair. They have desecrated our temple, Pokemon Tower, and destroyed it. And in its place stands the glorified radio tower, which stands tall, shiny and new, and seems to say "Welcome to Lavender."
Greed drove them to it. Desperation, too, maybe. In their rush to support us, they forgot to honor the dead.
And now they have doomed Lavender Town.
I tried to stop it. I protested, peacefully at first, but what can a lone old man like me do against the entire village? I even offered an alternative, turning the old house of Marcia, abandoned since her departure for Snowpoint, into a rest house for Pokemon spirits. But it was too late. Their spirits were disrupted.
I just heard a scream downstairs. A letter arrived, announcing that Marcia died mysteriously in her house just outside Snowpoint. The letter also says Marcia's daughter, only seven, was killed while with her Abra on Tubeline bridge. After handing one of my children the letter, both her and the mailman dropped dead. Now they'll see! I was right! No one can deny it now! The ghosts are coming for us all! I was
It ends abrubtly. I turn the page, searching for more, but am dissapointed. I flip through the next twenty pages. All blank. Finally, I reach the final page.
There is a drawing there, scetched heavilly in pencil. It depicts a young boy, sitting alone in a dark room, reading a book by candlelight. He wears what appears to be robe with writing stiched on it, but it is smudged and I cannot read it. Horror is drawn plainly on his face, as he reads the book intently. On closer inspection, I read the book's title: Tower of the Accursed. But that's not the worst of it.
The boy... is me.
I look out my window, past the flickering candle at Pokemon Tower, a shadow against the night sky. And I swear I hear a hundred agonizing cries of dead Pokemon.
In the corner of the room, I hear a record playing. It's been playing the entire time, I realize. It's an old record, with only one song. It used to be played in Pokemon Tower when the Channelers there preformed the ghastly rituals. It was an eerie tone, and it reminded me of dying. Pulling my deceased mother's robe, which had my name, "Fuji", sewn on its pocket, tighter around me, I go to turn the record off. I snatch the needle off of the spinning black disk, but the tone does not cease. Now truly frightened, I back away to the candle, aching for some light.
Without meaning too, I pick up Tower of the Accursed. Reluctantly, I open it once more to the final page. The drawing is gone, replaced by more words. Filled with curiosity, I begin to read once more.
Sweat drips from my brow as I dreadfully turn the page...
The book is obviously of great age. The pages are yellow and crisp, and the writing is faded. Hordes of sketches lurked on the sides of some pages, but they were smudged to the point of being impossible to decipher. The once-majestic purple color is chipped and scratched, and the binding is on the verge of falling off. As soon as I opened the book, an ancient scent invaded my nostrils and installed an eagerness to read.
The title had been enough to enrapture me. Tower of the Accursed. Horror stories have ever been my weakness, and cheesey titles like this drew captured my attention faster than a Quick Ball. The anticipation of finally knowing how a story ends is enough to keep me occupied for hours.
But this book... This book is different. This was no thriller tale. There was no mass murderer in a monster mask running around killing teenagers in nightime forests. I wouldn't even call this book scary.
I'd call it horrifying.
I don't want to continue. I would love nothing more than to jusf throw the book in some fireplace and be done with it. But as if the spirits of the book are possessing me, I press forth.
Others living around the tower passed the enigmatic shadow off as nothing but a spectacular weather phenomenom. Yet another reason for tourists to rush in their caravans to our town. No one would think to dishonor our late, great mayor witch accusations of bringing a plague unto our town. After all, the new tower he had built is a blessing, not a curse! Jobs are being created, and tourism is skyrocketting. What's the worst that could happen? Those Pokemon are dead anyways.
No. Just their bodies. That's all that's left our earth. Or, became part of our earth, rather. Their spirits still roam among us, watching how we go about with our daily lives, and they're growing angry. Angry! Hateful! I have seen the effects of their wrath firsthand. I stood by helplessly when Agatha collapsed in my living room, clawing fiercely at her eyes with long, unkempt nails. I heard our mayor's agonizing shrieks as he impaled himself on his rusty metal staff. The shadow... It was no mist.
It was them. The spirits, I mean. They aren't finished with us yet. Those ghosts are ready to torment this place, and everyone in it. They have laid a wicked curse on our fair town. Or at least, formerly fair. They have desecrated our temple, Pokemon Tower, and destroyed it. And in its place stands the glorified radio tower, which stands tall, shiny and new, and seems to say "Welcome to Lavender."
Greed drove them to it. Desperation, too, maybe. In their rush to support us, they forgot to honor the dead.
And now they have doomed Lavender Town.
I tried to stop it. I protested, peacefully at first, but what can a lone old man like me do against the entire village? I even offered an alternative, turning the old house of Marcia, abandoned since her departure for Snowpoint, into a rest house for Pokemon spirits. But it was too late. Their spirits were disrupted.
I just heard a scream downstairs. A letter arrived, announcing that Marcia died mysteriously in her house just outside Snowpoint. The letter also says Marcia's daughter, only seven, was killed while with her Abra on Tubeline bridge. After handing one of my children the letter, both her and the mailman dropped dead. Now they'll see! I was right! No one can deny it now! The ghosts are coming for us all! I was
It ends abrubtly. I turn the page, searching for more, but am dissapointed. I flip through the next twenty pages. All blank. Finally, I reach the final page.
There is a drawing there, scetched heavilly in pencil. It depicts a young boy, sitting alone in a dark room, reading a book by candlelight. He wears what appears to be robe with writing stiched on it, but it is smudged and I cannot read it. Horror is drawn plainly on his face, as he reads the book intently. On closer inspection, I read the book's title: Tower of the Accursed. But that's not the worst of it.
The boy... is me.
I look out my window, past the flickering candle at Pokemon Tower, a shadow against the night sky. And I swear I hear a hundred agonizing cries of dead Pokemon.
In the corner of the room, I hear a record playing. It's been playing the entire time, I realize. It's an old record, with only one song. It used to be played in Pokemon Tower when the Channelers there preformed the ghastly rituals. It was an eerie tone, and it reminded me of dying. Pulling my deceased mother's robe, which had my name, "Fuji", sewn on its pocket, tighter around me, I go to turn the record off. I snatch the needle off of the spinning black disk, but the tone does not cease. Now truly frightened, I back away to the candle, aching for some light.
Without meaning too, I pick up Tower of the Accursed. Reluctantly, I open it once more to the final page. The drawing is gone, replaced by more words. Filled with curiosity, I begin to read once more.
Sweat drips from my brow as I dreadfully turn the page...
