Tansy Undercrypt

The Night Therapist turned on the light in her office and a green glow spread dimly across the room. Looking at her appointment book, she sighed.  “Snaggletooth” at midnight: a nosferatu dealing with the low self-esteem only Hollywood could create (victims were always so disappointed that he wasn’t handsome and romantic); “Fleabag” at 1am: there was a widespread bullying problem within the werewolf clans; and “See-through” at 2am: having trouble resting in peace when it’d spent its entire life feeling invisible anyway.  She sighed again as she felt the temperature in the room drop slightly. “Come in!” she called out in an even and welcoming tone.

Their family entered the Witness Protection Program and that was that. They stopped being “Garstopovich” and became “Brown”, moving to some podunk, middle-of-nowhere town populated with rejects: the grown kid who carried a blanket around, the evil girl who wanted to be a psychiatrist, the piano prodigy, the little hippy chick who wore sandals all year. “At least they let me have a dog; the dog seems cool,” Ivan murmured to himself (he who was now called “Charlie”).

Olivia spent the afternoon interviewing the monk, walking the manicured grounds of the temple with him, sharing a meal with his awestruck students, and discussing the nature of suffering in plain terms. The monk spoke with great energy and humor, his large eyes and long nose giving him an almost cartoonish expression. “It is natural to desire,” he said with a grin, “but it is better to practice detachment with the objects of our desire … so that we do not become ensnared in desiring. Enlightenment is freedom – a raising up of our consciousness from the base level of wanting to a serene contemplation of how all things exist and are connected.” “Esteemed Coyote Rinpoche,” began one of his students and Olivia’s mouth opened wide as the realization hit her. “Coyote,” she murmured. “Wile E Coyote.” If anyone was qualified to talk about obsession, it was him.

“Mr Peabody appeared twice after his death – both times in the back seat of someone’s car.” Emery’s tone was lighthearted (even amused), but Anderson shuddered. “How horrible!” he said, trying to imagine a face suddenly appearing in his rear view mirror. “An unintended horror,” Emery replied smiling. “In life, Peabody had been a driving instructor and showed up to give the person at the wheel some helpful pointers. He never intended for them to start screaming and drive off of the road. They lived, of course, but he never risked it again; too much advice can be a dangerous thing.”

A notation places this location as “Squeejaw, Rhode Island”. Careful letters on the back read: “[BLANK]“.

(Source: unknown)

Tansy’s answer:  ”Annual Cthulhu Cultist Campout, 1921; guarding the sacrifice.” (Post your own answers and read the genius of others on the Tansy Undercrypt Facebook page here.)

Terry smiled. She could hear “Uncle” Pat losing his shit downstairs, tripping and falling around furniture that’d been in the same arrangements in the same rooms since time began. “Too little intelligence and too much beer,” she told herself. “It must be Saturday night.” Terry’s mom was hiding in the bathroom and she knew it wouldn’t be much longer before Pat began the slow, teetering stumble upstairs. Having a very brief moment of panic, Terry’s eyes scanned her dresser to make sure the bottled imp her cousin Brenda had sent her was still there. It was, its tiny eyes hellfire red, its tiny teeth razor sharp and set in a perpetual smile from ear to ear. She’d followed Brenda’s directions to the letter; the bargain had been made and accepted. Footsteps on the stairs – the first (and the last) of many. She swung her feet off of the bed and retrieved the bottle, ready to remove the stopper. Afterwards, she’d walk to the bus station and head to Des Moines to live with Brenda. It would be a good life. Terry smiled again and waited.

Only one piece of the wreckage was ever retrieved. The two men sat in the lookout above it, staring silently at the burned and twisted metal. The captain sighed. Spock turned to him and whispered, “You are the reason that I cannot have nice things.”

“Really? Just like this? I have to tell you – this is NOT how I expected the story to end,” Burt marveled. The Angel of Death sighed heavily. “I mean, seriously,” Burt continued, speaking animatedly from his hospital bed, “it’s predictable. Unless … UNLESS … you’re planning to walk me down the hall slowly and some skeptical doctor – a neurosurgeon – sees you – actually sees you! – and thinks he’s going insane, but …” The angel touched Burt on the forehead and there was silence for a moment. “Screenwriters,” it thought grimly.

“Good riddance!” Stephen barked at the ‘Welcome to Amityville’ sign, then quickly surveyed the front and back seats to see if he’d disturbed his sleeping family. Not a peep; like him, the strangeness and horror of what they’d just experienced had left them completely exhausted. “I’ll get us somewhere safe,” he whispered to no one in particular, “some place normal.”  He wasn’t ready for the big city, but he’d been researching possible suburbs that would work; Cloverfield was the winner. He leaned back and put the pedal to the metal.

The young scouts walked away from the door smiling.  Everybody loved Mrs Peppers; she was a kind and thoughtful old lady and her house was adorable – neat as a pin and loaded with antiques. She watched them go, shutting the door carefully, the hologram for both her and the room disappearing. Pepper Potts stood in a place that looked more like NASA Mission Control than a living space, with no antiques in sight. “Seriously? You built a safe house in Toledo, Ohio?” she asked the man in front of the wall display. “What? No one’s found us, have they?” Tony Stark smiled. “Hey, did you get …” “Yes, six boxes,” she sighed. “God help the world if Iron Man can’t get his Tagalongs.”