This is a fun little idea I got after watching the movie for the 8th time.. I think I want to dump off the life stories of each of our ghostly buddies on my poor, poor Dennis.
Dennis: I hate you. _;
Kori: Oh, wait until you see what I do to you, though! Oh, wait, you're psychic, shouldn't you already know?
Dennis: ......It doesn't work that way.
Kori: Your loss.
Disclaimer: I don't own Thir13en Ghosts.... well.. maybe just Dennis Rafkin... wait... no, I didn't mean it! *dragged off by police and lawyers*
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Outside the remains of the demolished glass house, it was pouring. Rain pelted the countless shards of marked and unmarked glass alike, pinging against the mostly intact frame and giving the impression of hail as the noise resonated through the surrounding line of trees. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously, a lightning flash or two illuminating a pair of forgotten vehicles that sat in the gravel driveway, their interiors slowly but surely collecting dust.
One, a white van labeled with a quickly made and tacky sign reading 'Light and Power Inc.', belonged to Dennis Rafkin. The other, a flashy-looking and obviously expensive sportscar, belonged to Ben Moss. Both met their fates in the now decimated house, now left as a reminder to warn against toying with the devil and the dead. At first glance, it seemed utterly deserted, the only audible thing at first being the pounding of the rain against the steel frame and the eerie whistle of the growing wind through the leaves. After a moment, though, the unmistakable sound of distant voices rose, faint but present. Not one, but thirteen separate voices, their owners nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly, leaning against one of the many corners of the battered frame, appeared a bloodied and disheveled man, arms folded and brow furrowed in thought. More than a little out of place, he shifted about almost nervously, mumbling something to himself and shaking his head. Seeming totally unaffected by the pouring torrents of water, he looked around through sorrowful blue eyes and once again, shook his head, as if in disbelief.
"Cyrus, you stupid son-of-a-bitch... This is all your fault.." Knowing that taking out his urge to hit something on the remains of the house would do him no good, Dennis Rafkin merely stood rigid, positively clueless as to what to do now. He would have left, had he a place to go, and a way to get there, but unfortunately, Dennis Rafkin was dead. Slowly, he looked around, making doubly and triply sure he was alone for the time being. The voices around him, however, continued.
Out of nowhere, as if on cue, appeared another figure, this one a little more weathered. Her face carried a humble sort of sorrow, an expression of longing and loss all wrapped up into one, her somewhat tousled brown hair no longer stuck to her likewise no longer burned left cheek. Dennis's eyes widened in surprise, before he realized that, one; this is the most harmless spirit he'd encountered so far, and two, he was dead, so the last thing he'd need to worry about was having some violent spirit re-break some of his bones.
Upon fully remembering and realizing who the woman was, however, Dennis felt guilty and cast his eyes away in a rare act of shame. He didn't know what to say to this woman, the woman whose soul he helped to capture, and further torment by putting her in nothing more than a box, to be used in a supposed act of devil-summoning. What could he say? 'Uhh, sorry I stole your soul, lady?', he thought to himself, scoffing at the stupidity and lack of plausibility in the whole mess that had happened only mere hours before.
Being dead didn't seem so much different than being alive. He was somehow still constantly in pain from the other ghosts around him; seeing their lives, their hurt, their memories, and he was still, in essence, alone. After a moment, he raised his eyes to look into the soulful orbs that belonged to Jean Kritikos, who was smiling warmly to him. Taking a step forward, she smiled a bit wider as a look of confusion spread across Dennis's features, and he stumbled backwards so as not to let her get too close. Knowing full well what he'd been through and why he was here in the first pleace, Jean spoke softly.
"I just came to thank you, Dennis."
"...Thank me? For what, putting your soul into eternal unrest? If you think that's a good thing, you need some serious-"
"For what you did for Arthur and my children. Without you, none of them would have survived, and Cyrus would be wreaking further havoc. I owe you so much.. " Jean's smile never wavered, and her eyes were filled to the brim with tears. Knowing she couldn't touch Dennis without hurting him, she did the only thing she could think of to show how deep her gratitude was: she clasped her hands together and bowed before him.
Mouth hanging ajar, Dennis stared dumbly at Jean for a moment, before swallowing hard and managing a nod. Slowly, Jean rose, and, still smiling, took a step back and vanished into the rain. Letting out the unneccessary breath he'd held in, Dennis slumped against the steel, which he knew should be cold, but wasn't. After a few moments of silent contemplation, Dennis came to the simple conclusion that he missed being alive. He missed it to the point that it hurt. Under any other circumstances, it wouldn't bother him at all, not having to eat, sleep, or avoid living people touching him. No -- this seemed worse by far; being stuck with eleven of the remaining ghosts for God knows how long. And, believe me, being dead gives you plenty of time to think about such things.
At a loss, Dennis sighed. There was nowhere to go, and definitely nothing to do. Not that he'd actually tried leaving, but from past experience, he'd come to the conclusion that there would be no leaving this place, not without being shoved into a containment cube and dragged far, far away. And there was no one left to do that, as off-the-wall and immoral as it seemed. Staring blankly over at what had once been his van, Dennis mumbled a string of curses, bending over and picking up a good sized chunk of glass. After studying it silently for a brief moment, rage overtook him and he hurled it with all his might towards Ben Moss's abandoned Lexus.
At the same time as the glass piece burst through the windshield, a deafening crash of thunder rolled through the night, mixing with the insane laughter of what could only be Dennis's least favorite, and uncontestedly most disturbed, ghost. Dennis stood at attention, looking around in panic and backing himself into one of the few standing walls, only able to feel it because of the aggravating containment spells engraved into it. He gaped in shock as one by one, the remaining eleven ghosts appeared before him, trapping him against the wall and staring him down. Slowly, he let his eyes travel over each one, seeing the rage and strange look of need in their eyes.
First, his eyes met with the deep pits that belonged to Dana Newman, otherwise known as the Angry Princess. Feeling himself become paralyzed with fear, he jolted as she made a sudden stabbing motion at the air, obviously wishing she'd had the satisfaction of killing him. Quickly, he shifted his gaze to the left, only to be staring at the half-mutilated face of Royce Clayton, the Torn Prince. Smirking, as cocky as ever, Royce lifted his ever-handy baseball bat, pointing the end squarely at Dennis's face and staring down it at him. Knowing it wouldn't be wise to be a smartass just then, Dennis slowly turned his head to look to the left again, trying to make himself smaller as he found himself almost face to face with the Juggernaut, the Jackal, and the Hammer, all standing right next to each other with empty eyes boring right into him. Trying to suppress a giggle (and failing), the Jackal swiped a clawed hand at Dennis, licking his lips maniacally. Dennis pressed himself into the wall, mind racing at a mile a minute, trying to come up with exactly what they might want from him.
Accidentally crying out in fear when the Pilgrimess appeared before him, closer than the rest, he looked around quickly for some method of escape. Hope sinking quickly the longer he searched, he returned his eyes to the gaggle of ghosts, now complete with all eleven, looming over him. 'Well, at least I know they can't fucking kill me... They took care of that already..' he thought to himself, a low moan of horror spilling from his open mouth. Oddly enough, they all just stood there, staring him into the ground, watching as he trembled in fear despite his lack of life to lose. Finally, anger flaring up inside him, he got up the nerve to scream at them over the raging storm.
"What the fuck do you want from me?! Huh?! You killed me, what the fuck else could you POSSIBLY want?!" He snapped his head from side to side, quite tempted even through his fear to make a rude hand gesture or two. A few of the ghosts grinned maliciously, even stepping closer. Dennis struggled, digging through his mind as his head began to throb, and soon pound, for some reason, any reason at all, for being cornered. Suddenly, it shot through his mind like a bullet.
These ghosts knew he could feel their pain. They'd known it all along. All it would take was a single touch to send him into seizures, as well as seeing their entire and undoubtedly miserable lives flash before his eyes. He realized, swallowing hard, that this must be exactly why they had surrounded him here, right where he couldn't pass: to 'share' their pain with him.
'Fucking Latin spells... I'm gonna fucking get jumped by eleven fucking ghosts, and there's nothing I can do about it!' Dennis's mind began to scream as the Jackal stepped forward, one set of almost skinless fingers reaching for him. Slumping down against the wall until he was curled into a tiny ball, Dennis jolted as the Jackal slowly, as if to rub the pain in, moved forward. Finally, the Jackal grabbed onto Dennis's shoulder and dug in, grinning maniacally as Dennis began to scream.
In Dennis's mind, the life of Ryan Kuhn began to play..
Dennis: I hate you. _;
Kori: Oh, wait until you see what I do to you, though! Oh, wait, you're psychic, shouldn't you already know?
Dennis: ......It doesn't work that way.
Kori: Your loss.
Disclaimer: I don't own Thir13en Ghosts.... well.. maybe just Dennis Rafkin... wait... no, I didn't mean it! *dragged off by police and lawyers*
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Outside the remains of the demolished glass house, it was pouring. Rain pelted the countless shards of marked and unmarked glass alike, pinging against the mostly intact frame and giving the impression of hail as the noise resonated through the surrounding line of trees. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously, a lightning flash or two illuminating a pair of forgotten vehicles that sat in the gravel driveway, their interiors slowly but surely collecting dust.
One, a white van labeled with a quickly made and tacky sign reading 'Light and Power Inc.', belonged to Dennis Rafkin. The other, a flashy-looking and obviously expensive sportscar, belonged to Ben Moss. Both met their fates in the now decimated house, now left as a reminder to warn against toying with the devil and the dead. At first glance, it seemed utterly deserted, the only audible thing at first being the pounding of the rain against the steel frame and the eerie whistle of the growing wind through the leaves. After a moment, though, the unmistakable sound of distant voices rose, faint but present. Not one, but thirteen separate voices, their owners nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly, leaning against one of the many corners of the battered frame, appeared a bloodied and disheveled man, arms folded and brow furrowed in thought. More than a little out of place, he shifted about almost nervously, mumbling something to himself and shaking his head. Seeming totally unaffected by the pouring torrents of water, he looked around through sorrowful blue eyes and once again, shook his head, as if in disbelief.
"Cyrus, you stupid son-of-a-bitch... This is all your fault.." Knowing that taking out his urge to hit something on the remains of the house would do him no good, Dennis Rafkin merely stood rigid, positively clueless as to what to do now. He would have left, had he a place to go, and a way to get there, but unfortunately, Dennis Rafkin was dead. Slowly, he looked around, making doubly and triply sure he was alone for the time being. The voices around him, however, continued.
Out of nowhere, as if on cue, appeared another figure, this one a little more weathered. Her face carried a humble sort of sorrow, an expression of longing and loss all wrapped up into one, her somewhat tousled brown hair no longer stuck to her likewise no longer burned left cheek. Dennis's eyes widened in surprise, before he realized that, one; this is the most harmless spirit he'd encountered so far, and two, he was dead, so the last thing he'd need to worry about was having some violent spirit re-break some of his bones.
Upon fully remembering and realizing who the woman was, however, Dennis felt guilty and cast his eyes away in a rare act of shame. He didn't know what to say to this woman, the woman whose soul he helped to capture, and further torment by putting her in nothing more than a box, to be used in a supposed act of devil-summoning. What could he say? 'Uhh, sorry I stole your soul, lady?', he thought to himself, scoffing at the stupidity and lack of plausibility in the whole mess that had happened only mere hours before.
Being dead didn't seem so much different than being alive. He was somehow still constantly in pain from the other ghosts around him; seeing their lives, their hurt, their memories, and he was still, in essence, alone. After a moment, he raised his eyes to look into the soulful orbs that belonged to Jean Kritikos, who was smiling warmly to him. Taking a step forward, she smiled a bit wider as a look of confusion spread across Dennis's features, and he stumbled backwards so as not to let her get too close. Knowing full well what he'd been through and why he was here in the first pleace, Jean spoke softly.
"I just came to thank you, Dennis."
"...Thank me? For what, putting your soul into eternal unrest? If you think that's a good thing, you need some serious-"
"For what you did for Arthur and my children. Without you, none of them would have survived, and Cyrus would be wreaking further havoc. I owe you so much.. " Jean's smile never wavered, and her eyes were filled to the brim with tears. Knowing she couldn't touch Dennis without hurting him, she did the only thing she could think of to show how deep her gratitude was: she clasped her hands together and bowed before him.
Mouth hanging ajar, Dennis stared dumbly at Jean for a moment, before swallowing hard and managing a nod. Slowly, Jean rose, and, still smiling, took a step back and vanished into the rain. Letting out the unneccessary breath he'd held in, Dennis slumped against the steel, which he knew should be cold, but wasn't. After a few moments of silent contemplation, Dennis came to the simple conclusion that he missed being alive. He missed it to the point that it hurt. Under any other circumstances, it wouldn't bother him at all, not having to eat, sleep, or avoid living people touching him. No -- this seemed worse by far; being stuck with eleven of the remaining ghosts for God knows how long. And, believe me, being dead gives you plenty of time to think about such things.
At a loss, Dennis sighed. There was nowhere to go, and definitely nothing to do. Not that he'd actually tried leaving, but from past experience, he'd come to the conclusion that there would be no leaving this place, not without being shoved into a containment cube and dragged far, far away. And there was no one left to do that, as off-the-wall and immoral as it seemed. Staring blankly over at what had once been his van, Dennis mumbled a string of curses, bending over and picking up a good sized chunk of glass. After studying it silently for a brief moment, rage overtook him and he hurled it with all his might towards Ben Moss's abandoned Lexus.
At the same time as the glass piece burst through the windshield, a deafening crash of thunder rolled through the night, mixing with the insane laughter of what could only be Dennis's least favorite, and uncontestedly most disturbed, ghost. Dennis stood at attention, looking around in panic and backing himself into one of the few standing walls, only able to feel it because of the aggravating containment spells engraved into it. He gaped in shock as one by one, the remaining eleven ghosts appeared before him, trapping him against the wall and staring him down. Slowly, he let his eyes travel over each one, seeing the rage and strange look of need in their eyes.
First, his eyes met with the deep pits that belonged to Dana Newman, otherwise known as the Angry Princess. Feeling himself become paralyzed with fear, he jolted as she made a sudden stabbing motion at the air, obviously wishing she'd had the satisfaction of killing him. Quickly, he shifted his gaze to the left, only to be staring at the half-mutilated face of Royce Clayton, the Torn Prince. Smirking, as cocky as ever, Royce lifted his ever-handy baseball bat, pointing the end squarely at Dennis's face and staring down it at him. Knowing it wouldn't be wise to be a smartass just then, Dennis slowly turned his head to look to the left again, trying to make himself smaller as he found himself almost face to face with the Juggernaut, the Jackal, and the Hammer, all standing right next to each other with empty eyes boring right into him. Trying to suppress a giggle (and failing), the Jackal swiped a clawed hand at Dennis, licking his lips maniacally. Dennis pressed himself into the wall, mind racing at a mile a minute, trying to come up with exactly what they might want from him.
Accidentally crying out in fear when the Pilgrimess appeared before him, closer than the rest, he looked around quickly for some method of escape. Hope sinking quickly the longer he searched, he returned his eyes to the gaggle of ghosts, now complete with all eleven, looming over him. 'Well, at least I know they can't fucking kill me... They took care of that already..' he thought to himself, a low moan of horror spilling from his open mouth. Oddly enough, they all just stood there, staring him into the ground, watching as he trembled in fear despite his lack of life to lose. Finally, anger flaring up inside him, he got up the nerve to scream at them over the raging storm.
"What the fuck do you want from me?! Huh?! You killed me, what the fuck else could you POSSIBLY want?!" He snapped his head from side to side, quite tempted even through his fear to make a rude hand gesture or two. A few of the ghosts grinned maliciously, even stepping closer. Dennis struggled, digging through his mind as his head began to throb, and soon pound, for some reason, any reason at all, for being cornered. Suddenly, it shot through his mind like a bullet.
These ghosts knew he could feel their pain. They'd known it all along. All it would take was a single touch to send him into seizures, as well as seeing their entire and undoubtedly miserable lives flash before his eyes. He realized, swallowing hard, that this must be exactly why they had surrounded him here, right where he couldn't pass: to 'share' their pain with him.
'Fucking Latin spells... I'm gonna fucking get jumped by eleven fucking ghosts, and there's nothing I can do about it!' Dennis's mind began to scream as the Jackal stepped forward, one set of almost skinless fingers reaching for him. Slumping down against the wall until he was curled into a tiny ball, Dennis jolted as the Jackal slowly, as if to rub the pain in, moved forward. Finally, the Jackal grabbed onto Dennis's shoulder and dug in, grinning maniacally as Dennis began to scream.
In Dennis's mind, the life of Ryan Kuhn began to play..