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.:Syndrome:.

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Fern
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.:Syndrome:.

Post by Fern on Wed Apr 08, 2015 12:41 pm

.   .   .   .
SYNDROME
.   .   .   .

PREFACE

Despite being an avid writer, I have never actually liked the idea for a story so much that I have the drive to see it through. I think this time, however, I do. I think each and every one of you are my inspiration. Stalking Reading your posts and seeing your motivation to do your best allowed me to do this. You guys are awesome. <3 This being my very first full-fledged story, it may not be the best, but I hope you enjoy anyhow. ^-^ I love feedback, so if you ever have anything good or bad to say, please shoot me a PM. I'm always down for it. c; This story takes place after the fall of Team Rocket and the building of the Radio Tower, but before the House of Memories was built. It's kind of an alternate universe where the bodies weren't moved immediately. I'll also cover why there are no ghosts to fight in the House Of Memories, why Mr. Fuji can access the chambers, and why the House is much smaller than its predecessor.There will be blood, gore, violence, and tragedy. Hopefully we can have fun with it, though. c:

So, without further ado, I present to you Syndrome. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!

PROLOGUE

Stephen King wrote:"Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win."

1


"Do you believe in ghosts?"

Coming from a little girl, the inquiry was ominously deadpan, though he supposed it was innocent enough. After all, they were standing on a literal burial ground. Living in such a sinister atmosphere must have messed with the child's head.

'Creepy, scary, spooky'--that's the only adjectives anyone ever used to describe this damn town. And he knew if he were still a boy, he'd mimic her actions exactly, preying on the average passerby in hopes they were superstitious enough to fear him.

Yet, there seemed like there was a hushed symbolism to the query that was far deeper than he could reach. The question was an iceberg, looming small and faultless above the water, but beneath it, stretched to a colossal size. The human eye could not see its depth until they, too, were sinking.

(Do you believe in ghosts?)

No, he had to rationalize. The girl was not omniscient. She was just a curious, bratty whelp seeking fun by utilizing the towns history to her advantage. (But history isn't a plaything.)

"Hasn't anyone told you not to talk to strangers?" he replied in a deliberately chiseled tone, and was met with grim satisfaction as the girl recoiled slightly with wide eyes. "There are worse things to fear than ghosts, y-"

"Aren't you talking to a stranger yourself?" the girl cheekily interrupted, tilting her head with a wry grin and chinked eyes. She was dangerously pompous for such a young child. He gritted his teeth in frustration as she flashed a toothy, vexing grin. "You don't scare me, mister." The man narrowed his eyes in indignation as he tugged on his sleeve with a piqued flair. Before he could move his tongue from where it had buried itself in his cheek, she was blathering again. "Just answer the question!" she giggled cheerily, bouncing in place as her pink pigtails bobbed like buoys.

"What would you do if I told you 'no'?" He wrung his calloused hands. She slowed. He coughed. She stopped bouncing.

"I'd say 'Oh, that white hand on your shoulder, I must be imagining it.'" She paused for what he assumed was an eerie effect, but he was unmoved.

"That's not a very go-"

"And then I'd tell you to tell me the truth," she glared at him, her bottom lip pouted slightly, pronouncing her rosy cheeks. Her tiny arms were crossed and she tapped her foot impatiently. (Must be emulating her mother.)

"Alright, alright. Yes. I believe in ghosts," he responded, gazing skyward at the Radio Tower. Seeing the modern architecture instead of the decrepit, looming cemetery caused his heart to churn in his chest. Disgusted bile threatened to rise from his stomach. He forced it down with a loud gulp.

There was something in there, still.

The pair stood in silence for a long moment, until she broke it. Her voice lacked the teasing cadence she had possessed before. "They're angry, you know."

"I know," he exhaled windily. His face was blank as he immersed himself in a pool of thought. He remained submerged beneath it, then an idea came to him like a life preserver. The man gripped it tightly, pulling himself up and away from the prodigious iceberg that threatened him. Yes, all his problems could be solved.

He chuckled darkly, turning to the little girl who was now staring hazily up at him. Her eyes were now glassy with unshed tears, as if her little heart were broken by this ordeal. It probably was. If she were truly interested in spirits, if they were truly tangible to her like they were to him, then she could also hear the unceasing screams of the agonized dead.

"I know how to calm them down."

"How?" He ignored her irritating knack for asking questions.

"Give them what they want, of course."

"Freedom?"

"Precisely."

For once since their meeting, they beamed at each other with a peculiar sense of knowing.

(Little do they know, freedom comes with a heavy price.)

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Re: .:Syndrome:.

Post by Fern on Mon Apr 13, 2015 7:38 pm

2


The boulevard was alive that night; it spoke with the thud of his clad feet on the brick, and it watched with its street-lamp eyes. Beneath the roads' milky gaze he crept, appearing calm despite the darkness encircling him. As far as he was concerned, he was momentarily unafraid of the night (or what was lurking in it, anyways) as determination flooded through him with every footfall.

It was a solemn walk. It was a humble walk. It was the walk he had taken when he left church after he prayed to a God he didn't believe in. It was the walk he had taken when he left funerals, silent to show respect, but inside he was giddy to be leaving the sob-fest; he was content with the thought that he was vacating the depressing environment and could go home and change and drink tea and forget about his horrible wasted hours.

The street stopped talking. His steps concluded with a final, gruff thump, and all was still.

The stoic man indulged in the silence. Quiet was seldom for him these days, especially after his failure. Not only did he constantly hear the ghosts scream, but internally, he was screaming too. The only thing he could do was bear it with an impassive expression. That's all he knew how to do.

The man opened his palm and reached down to stroke his prized Pokemon for consolation, but he grasped nothing but air between his fingertips. His heart thudded hard in bitter realization. He forgot that Persian was gone. Again.

(Maybe there's a way that tonight, I can bring him back.)

He clenched his fists shakily, elevating his gaze skyward. Oh, how he pined for his Persian to be at his side once more. He was never the type to be distraught, but Persians' death had been so horrifically unjust that it was impossible to not feel the heartache.

He...he lost his darling to a fucking kid. And they celebrated him for it.

Society viewed the world through a kaleidoscope, and their warped perception was his ruin. He was a 'villain', so they played God with their perverse sense of justice, punishing him by parading about the streets upon his defeat. Upon his sweetlings death.

(Th-there are two sides to every war, though everyone only sees their own.)

A single tear slid from his foggy eyes and hung on his chin like a chrysalis.

And, once it streaked to his neck, the screaming began.
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Re: .:Syndrome:.

Post by Fern on Tue Apr 14, 2015 11:08 am

3


The screams, which were usually a droning white noise that he could easily ignore, were now thunderous. He clasped his hands over his ears in a feeble attempt to muffle the sound. The man felt his eardrums pound as the wails continued to crescendo and oscillate in pressure. He heard another shriek join the others. He numbly realized that it was himself.

He had heard a sound synonymous to this before, although not quite as intense. One of his past flings adored the art of music. She was a soprano, and she often flaunted the fact that she could break glass with just her voice.

He suddenly felt immense pressure on his skull, and there was a popping sensation as the assault continued. He felt a crack, and he cried out. The despairing man was slicked with his own panicked sweat, and veins popped out like whelps on his stocky neck. His eyes bugged and spun wildly as if he were being asphyxiated. He collapsed to his knees with a solid thump.

He was breaking.

He was the glass.

"STOP! I'm here to give you what you want, what I need!" he howled, pushing his larynx almost to its breaking point in desperation. As his screams died and became a weary, raspy gurgle, their screams ceased as well.

A froggy sob absconded from his raw throat in the aftermath, though it was almost soundless. He couldn't pinpoint the exact place the pain began, it was there, there then everywhere, molding into a uniform anguish. Consciousness was precious, he clung to it in earnest.

The world hummed and buzzed around him as people, agog as they were, ventured outside to find the source of the clamor. When they saw the broken man lying on the ground sobbing, they ushered their children back inside despite their protests, locking their doors. They were accustomed to the occasional 'crazy' causing a ruckus in their quiet little town of the dead. They believed this man was no different, just a 'crazy' passing through.

(Maybe I'm no different from their loonies...)

He inhaled deeply, his lungs pained by the effort. He shakily held his weight on his hands as he tried to rise to his feet, but failed, smashing back onto the ground with an agonized cry. In his torment, his eye caught a figure in the distance.

It was diminutive at first, but then it glitched forward at a blinding speed, startling him. He jumped in shock, then groaned at the pain the slight movement caused him. (H...how can mere screams affect me in this way?)

The shape was larger than he first had thought. He lay slack-jawed as he tried to make out the misty silhouette that loomed before him. He tried to touch it with an unsteady hand, and it began to distort like static. It felt cold.

He withdrew his hand with a wince. He caught what he assumed to be a smile from the smoky apparition; it was toothy, yet unnervingly void-like. Languidly, its sinister grin stretched wider as two angled eyes vaporized on its gaseous form, its pupils dangerous pinpricks.

The man did nothing but stare in desensitized confusion as the shape pieced itself together. A pair of discarnate hands materialized, and the figure raised one of its spindly digits to the mans open lips. He instinctively attempted to back away from the chill, but he didn't get very far. The angular hand followed, cupping itself over his open mouth.

"Shh," commanded the shape, followed by an emotionless tilt of its emerging head. It was studying him, scrutinizing him. Horns flared into view and flanked its occipital lobe. The man observed with a dumbstruck disposition.

It was a Haunter. He had never encountered a Haunter (that he remembered) in his lifetime. The man shuddered as the Haunter withdrew its spindly hand from his mouth. He was too frightened and weak to scream. The man lay paralyzed in his fragile position on the ground, his eyes puffy with petrified tears.

"Let's talk business, shall we?" the Haunter cackled, its aeriform teeth clashing madly. "You said," the phantom coughed, then began to talk in an uncanny impersonation of the mans' voice, "I'm here to give you what you want, what I need!" The man almost recoiled at hearing the sound of his own terrified voice. How pathetic he was.

The Haunter swiped an elongated tongue over its teeth with light tsk-tsk. "Now before we do our little transaction, let's introduce each other." He mockingly rubbed a disembodied hand as if he were slicking back hair. "I'm Syndrome. And you are?"

"Giovanni," he wheezed, his throat still ablaze from his screaming. "My name is Giovanni."

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