Johannes Cabal

allysonkelleyillustration: Doing some late night fan art of...

thewriter8 — Mon, 17 Jun 2013 12:55:16 -0400

Doing some late night fan art of Johannes Cabal cause I can’t wait for the next book!
Such a good series, and I am in love with Cabal. He’s just perfect.
If I don’t find a new book to read be prepared for more fan art!

Hannibal was going to do Johannes a favour, that was all. What...

thewriter8 — Mon, 17 Jun 2013 00:14:06 -0400

Hannibal was going to do Johannes a favour, that was all. What if Leonie Barrow remembered? What if she remembered as clearly as it had happened? Johannes was so close to discovering the secret to resurrection that it just didn’t seem fair for him to be prosecuted. Besides, Johannes was his friend. You protect your friends, don’t you?
-Boy with a broken soul; heart with a gaping hole.

Boy with a broken soul; heart with a gaping hole. [Cabal&Hannibal Crossover, 3600 words]

thewriter8 — Sun, 16 Jun 2013 01:59:00 -0400

“It has never been about the attention.”
“Hasn’t it, though?”
“I prefer to attract the least amount of attention as possible.”
“My good man, we both know that’s not quite the case.”
And it was unclear who had spoken first, or who had sipped his wine after the smallest of smirks, because they had trapped each other and themselves in this charade, and Johannes had been warned by his brother about therapists, and he had been warned by his mother about men like this one, men who hide who they really are and are as dangerous as they don’t appear to be, and he blatantly ignored them all, taking another bite of the enticing appetizer in front of him.
Hannibal Lecter poured them both another glass of blood-red wine. They might’ve toasted something, but not something cliche, like their health or happiness, but to a darker creature, one they were both a bit afraid to acknowledge.
——
Because it was hard after she died. Everyone told Cabal it would get easier with time, of course. But his father saw a need to hurry time up.
“They want you to go to therapy? Honestly, you?”
“Why does that seem so improbable? You’re going to university. I think that’s far more dubious.” Johannes retorted as Horst tied his shoes.
“I care about criminal investigation, whether my family believes in me or not,” Horst rose from his bed, adjusting his suit, “You’re just too practical and… put together for therapy, Johannes.”
“It’s an admirable profession.”
“You think they’re crocks.”
Johannes waved his hand dismissively, “I’ll give it a chance.”
“Because Father wants you to?” Horst raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“Something like that.” And Johannes left the room, fingers itching and tugging at his tie, wishing he had said, ‘because something needs to work or I will fall apart at the seams’.
——
“Congratulations, Mr. Cabal, you’re hired.” Leonie Barrow grinned, moving out from behind her desk. She shook Horst’s hand as he beamed back.
“Thanks so much, I can’t wait for the opportunity to work beside Will Graham. He’s legendary, and a wonderful teacher at that,” He paused, “Apologies if that sounded juvenile, I’m just very excited.”
“Completely understandable. He’s a genius,” Leonie gestured to the door to her office, walking out of it with Horst, “It’ll be beneficial to have your intuitive presence at crime scenes, along with Will’s. He recommended you.”
“When do I start on cases?” Horst asked, eyes focused on her and not on the figure approaching him.
“Now, Mr. Cabal. We’ve been called in.” Will Graham held out his hand for Horst to shake. He took it.
The body had been injected, with what, they couldn’t tell. Horst took a look at the scene after Will was finished with his observations.
The room was silent and cold and empty, save for the body on the ground, still pink, as if her heart was still beating. But of course it was not. Her chest was ripped open, only lungs left inside.
There was care taken, Horst could see that. She was beautiful and at peace, save for the gore strewn across her torso. The injury was rash, uncalled for. Something made him angry, frustrated, put him in a rage. The injection failed. She died. No…All the wounds are post-mortem, well after death, too long after death for him to bother attacking.
The injection failed, yes. But she was already dead. It failed to bring her back to life.
——
He sang to her, because she was his everything. It was always a classical song, traditionally played on a cello or harp or piano, but he hummed the tune to her as she would fall asleep. It was her favourite.
He sang to her as he ripped her to pieces, because she could’ve meant the world, the third of five stolen away, murdered, kept undead, tested, ultimately worthless because he was worthless, unable to think of the right formula, unable to let these women rest because of his selfishness and desire and utter loneliness, and who did he think he was to go about this, these post-mortem murders, these destructions of beautiful things, and who did she think she was to make him do all this, make him kill and test this resurrection potion on scores of innocents?
“Because it will be scores. I will not stop until I am able to bring her back. And because of that, I am monster.”
“I do not think you are, Johannes,” Dr. Lecter locked eyes with his patient. “But let me ask you this: do you think I am a monster for doing what I do?”
“I cannot pass judgement on the choices of others.” Cabal mumbled, rubbing his face.
“Learn to judge yourself as you do others. You are not a monster.” Hannibal said with finality. Johannes nodded once.
“You’ll continue to help me with the formula?”
“I will.”
They finished their conversation. Hannibal played a record as the two shared another meal together. Johannes hummed along. He knew one of the songs all too well.
——
Horst watched his brother one morning at breakfast, peering over the headlines of the newspaper in his hands. He saw Johannes better than everyone else, better than the murderers he analyzed, better than the monsters he became. He looked at his brother, and couldn’t tell or wouldn’t believe what he saw. He’s healing, getting better, just like everyone else thinks he is. But why are his eyes so dark?
He returned to his paper, read what the press was saying about The Necromancer, the name of the newest killer, a dark, scary title used to keep children inside after sunset. He read about the fourth victim, recalled her body at the crime scene.
He looked at his brother. Johannes smiled briefly before taking a sip of tea.
Horst decided nothing was wrong. Right?
——
There was a dinner party, a small gathering of friends, at Dr. Lecter’s house. The Cabal brothers invited each other, not knowing they had both been invited already, Horst by Will, Johannes by the host himself.
So they went. Horst tried to relax, tried to let go of the fact that Johannes did not seem much himself, tried to enjoy the meal (which was excellent), the company (which was entertaining), the atmosphere (which was refined but maybe a little dangerous).
Horst introduced Johannes to Leonie Barrow. Johannes introduced Horst to Dr. Lecter. The clock struck midnight, and it was just a bit ironic, the way the men had the same hungry expression, the way Johannes’s fingertips reached after Leonie’s elbow, the way Hannibal offered Horst a fifth glass of wine, the way they met in the kitchen later, after everyone else moved to the living room and the two men remained behind to clean.
“Have you been enjoying yourself?” Hannibal broke the ice first, his back to Johannes as the two washed and dried.
“Yes, I have. Have you?”
Hannibal rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, turned on the water to the hottest he could stand. “Your brother is fascinating.”
“Oh?”
“He’s very similar to Will. That surprises me. I always assumed Will was one of a kind.”
“Don’t let my brother hear you say that,” Johannes smirked, Hannibal chuckled. Johannes licked his lips before continuing, “He is extremely intelligent and cunning.”
Hannibal glanced over his shoulder at the other man. “I feel as though you have more to say, Johannes.”
“He’s on our trail. He’s my brother, I…”
“So which are you more concerned with? That he’ll catch you, or you’ll feel the need to remove him?”
Johannes whirled, fist clenched around the drying rag. His face was the pinkest it had been in months. He was so angry, angrier than when he was first sent to therapy, than when Hannibal figured him out in two seconds flat, than when those women refused to come back to life.
But he said nothing, because he had no answer. He couldn’t decide. Hannibal passed him a wine glass, steam rolling off in delicate strands.
“He knows as much as Will, no more, no less. You must be careful, however.”
“Haven’t I been?”
“Yes. But with stakes like these, you cannot risk a single thing.” Hannibal turned back to his dishes. Johannes thought for a moment.
“You asked me if I’m more worried about my brother finding out I’m a killer or that I’ll have to get rid of him.”
“Yes.”
“What about you and Will?”
Johannes accepted another glass to dry, Hannibal turned off the water. “You think I won’t kill Will.”
“You think I will kill my brother.”
“I never said I did. I think you are more worried about the former in your situation, because you are ashamed to be doing these things. You would hate nothing more than if your brother knew The Necromancer was you.”
“I would hate for him to be dead.” Johannes whispered fiercely, holding tightly to the wine glass in his hand to keep from throwing it.
“As I would Will.”
It was the admittance before a stalemate, because they were both a little bit damaged, and a little bit lonely, and a little bit me-against-the-world. But they’d make it.
So long as no one stood in their way.
——
And it wasn’t her fault. Johannes knew that. But she knew too much, looked too similar.
Will Graham would be devastated. Johannes knew that too. But it was just too easy, the timing too perfect for anything else.
Hannibal asked if Johannes would need help. He responded with a no, of course. He preferred to work alone. They both did.
Leonie Barrow didn’t hear Johannes walk back into the living room from the kitchen. She remained facing the fireplace, admiring pictures on the mantle, pictures of Horst, pictures of the Cabal family, pictures of a woman she didn’t know.
She didn’t hear him until he was directly behind her, his socked feet finding the telltale creak in the floor. Her muscles tensed, ready to turn around.
He grabbed her, nearly twice her size. He encircled his arms around her body. He dragged her to the couch, forcing her down. She screamed. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t tell you who his closest neighbor was.
Johannes used a pillow. He straddled her and placed it over her face. It wasn’t dynamic or elegant, but it was effective, and she would soon be still, leaving the body near-perfect.
And she did. Her fighting hands skimmed the floor as they fell. Johannes stood, adjusted his shirt and glasses and cravat. He removed the pillow after another moment.
Yes, Will Graham would be devastated to lose such a pretty face. After all, Cabal was when he lost his everything.
——
“I am sorry for your loss, Will, though I’m sure you’ve heard that enough over the past three days.”
Hannibal watched his patient pace around his office, watched Will simmer. He waited for the breakdown, or the explosion, or the admittance, but there was none of that. He didn’t speak, just paced.
“Is there anything I can do to help you in this time of mourning?”
“I’m not mourning.”
“I hate to disagree, Will, but-“
“She was only my friend.”
“Only one of your closest friends.” Hannibal countered, moving to the other man. He placed a hand on his shoulder to still him. Will obeyed, leaning forward as if he wanted to rest his head against Hannibal’s arm.
“Jack’s going to take me off the case now, isn’t he? It’s too personal? He’ll think I’ll want to seek revenge instead of safely find The Necromancer?”
“That is my prediction.”
“I trust Horst.” Will admitted, looking at the ground. Hannibal released his shoulder.
“As your therapist, but, moreover, your friend, I must advise you take leave from work. Any and all work you are doing. Horst can handle the case, and your class will go on without you.”
They looked at each other, and Hannibal thought he would have to kill Will right then and there. But Will nodded after a moment, smirked, said, in his wryest voice, “Do you expect me to take a vacation?”
“I expect you to do whatever you need to do to safely mourn Miss Barrow’s death, and I expect you to continue seeing me.”
And Will nodded more honestly this time, gave Hannibal a clap on the shoulder before leaving. And Dr. Lecter released the letter opener he hadn’t realized he had been holding. And he went to lie down on the couch for a while.
——
The funny thing about the lucky number seven is that most people think it’s only lucky if you apply some sort of inane, personal meaning to it. Johannes Cabal didn’t believe in inane, personal meanings, which is why when Leonie Barrow’s body rejected the injection like six other women, he left her in the room, left her to the crime scene, left her dead.
The funny thing about the lucky number seven is that it is lucky no matter who it’s dealing with. And luck hit Leonie Barrow straight in the chest, so hot and fast she woke gasping in darkness. She screamed the same scream she had released when her face was crammed into a pillow, and how long ago was that, she couldn’t tell, where was she now, her hands flailed and pounded against metal when she realized she couldn’t get too far, and she felt her body under a sheet and she wanted to scream even louder and perhaps she wanted to die again.
There are always people on the night shift in morgues. And Leonie Barrow knew she was ever so lucky for that.
——
But she couldn’t remember anything. Wasn’t that lucky?
“Did you wear gloves?”
“Of course I did.”
“She will be arriving here in fifteen minutes. I’d prefer you were not here in case that triggers a memory.”
Johannes didn’t want to listen to Hannibal because his fingers couldn’t stop shaking and his heart finally felt like it was actually beating and this was it. It had worked. He looked at Dr Lecter, perhaps stood a little taller.
“We’ve done it.”
“Do not be rash, Johannes. We do not know what sort of shape Leonie Barrow is in.”
“But she’s alive.”
“Would that be enough for you?”
Cabal inhaled, exhaled, and shook his head. “Please. Please let me know how she is the moment you can.”
“I will do my utmost.”
The Necromancer nodded to The Ripper before leaving, and Hannibal waited for Miss Barrow to arrive.
——
She was alive again, and all Will wanted to do was drink.
“It must’ve been a Romeo and Juliet poison. You know what I’m talking about.” Horst offered, taking a long gulp of his drink. Will finished his second, gave Horst a face.
“But you know that’s not true. You know what The Necromancer was trying to do.”
“Yeah, but I never assumed he’d succeed!” Horst tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. Will ran a hand through his hair, then clenched his fist in the curls. Horst watched him for a long while. “Has she spoken to you?”
“Only briefly. She couldn’t remember my name at first. She was surprised to see me, saying she had just woken up. The nurse said she had been conscious and speaking for the past two hours.”
“She didn’t remember being awake?”
“She lost time.”
Horst took in his words, recalled them from another moment. “Like you do.”
Will didn’t nod, didn’t shake his head. He ordered another drink instead.
——
He always asked them to draw clocks. It was a simple request, and reminded his patients of what they kept on forgetting. After she left, he compared Leonie Barrow’s drawing of a clock to Will Graham’s. They were identical, which pleased Dr. Lecter. The hands remained inside the circle, in their proper place. The numbers slid and skittered to the bottom right of the page. Not a soul would have said it was meant to be a clock.
Just as he designed.
——
“Don’t lie to me!” she screamed at him through tears, hands clutching her forehead, machines beeping out of control, nurses pouring in, ushering him away, and Hannibal watched from the hallway, he watched Will crumble outside the door and all he had done was tell her she had been killed and brought back and was he crazy to believe that because everyone else seemed to think so, especially her, and she was always the one who mattered, and Hannibal watched, then walked over, grabbed Will’s coat, draped it around his shoulders, half-carried the broken man outside.
Dr. Lecter made him dinner. They didn’t talk about it.
And Horst was the only one called by Jack Crawford the next day. The Necromancer had killed another girl. They waited for her to come back to life. She didn’t, most certainly, this time. And Horst could tell this cut the killer deeply. He asked Jack where Will was.
“The hospital. He had a mild seizure. He isn’t doing well.”
“Because of Miss Barrow?”
“I’d imagine. But probably also the stress of what he sees. You know how that is, don’t you?”
Horst nodded. “But I have my brother. He’s got my back, and I’ve got his. Will only has his dogs, and whatever remains of Leonie. I’m worried about him.”
Jack gave Horst’s shoulder a squeeze. “Let’s pray that more of her comes back then.”
And Johannes was sipping a glass of wine when Horst arrived home. Their eyes looked the same, rimmed in shadow, creased with worry. Horst sat beside his brother and wondered when they both grew up, and they went to bed without speaking.
Horst had nightmares. He woke up sweating and certain he had died, that his body had left him without his knowledge. His brother had been in the nightmares. His brother had his mouth sewn shut. His brother looked piteous, except for the shadow looming over him.
Horst was worried. Horst refused to sleep for the next three days, just to be sure he wouldn’t dream. Horst felt ashamed for thinking his brother was dangerous, but mostly he hoped he’d soon feel wrong.
——
He was going to do Johannes a favour, that was all. What if Leonie Barrow remembered? What if she remembered as clearly as it had happened? Johannes was so close to discovering the secret to resurrection that it just didn’t seem fair for him to be prosecuted. Besides, Johannes was his friend. You protect your friends, don’t you?
So Hannibal went to kill her again. She was no longer hooked up to machines in the hospital, and therefore less monitored. It would be simple. It would be easy. It would be necessary.
She was asleep. Hannibal noted the extra mug of coffee next to her bed, still warm. Someone had been here or was still here. So he made sure he was quick.
But Horst wasn’t gone for long. And he saw Dr. Lecter remove the sheet from around Leonie’s neck, saw him rise to his full height and stare. And he saw the shadow he had dreamed about, the one that loomed over his brother’s shoulder. And he wished none of it made sense.
He ran. He dialed as he ran. He listened to the ringing and listened to the answering machine. He whispered, and wished someone heard. “Johannes, help me. Johannes, please, please help me. I know what you’ve done, I know, but I don’t care. I understand. Please, pick up, please-“
——
“I feel like lifetimes have passed since we last spoke.”
“In a way, they have. How have you been getting on?”
“I’ve been floating. I’ve been pretending I’m better but not really believing it.”
“But you are better.”
“I’m glad you seem to think so.”
“I know so. But I understand why you are concerned about your health. You lost a friend, a partner.”
Will exhaled, covered his face in his hands. “And The Necromancer hasn’t killed since Horst Cabal. So I have no idea where he is so I can stop him.”
“Will, you cannot blame yourself for Leonie and Horst’s deaths. None of this was-“
“I don’t believe it wasn’t my fault. Don’t you dare say this isn’t connected to me in some way.”
Dr. Lecter sat back in his chair, nodded assent. “I will say you can’t swear revenge. You must move on. The Necromancer is quiet now. Do not worry about him.”
Will looked his therapist in the eye, might’ve seen something cruel there. “You seem confident.”
Hannibal remained deathly still. “I am.”
——
Because he knew. He knew The Necromancer was quiet now. Because Johannes listened to the voicemail his brother left him each and every day. Sometimes two or three times. He had played it for his therapist. They shared a mourning silence together.
But Hannibal Lecter knew The Necromancer wasn’t of Will’s concern because Johannes had moved out of the city. He had moved out of the state and left behind all he was. He left behind all he was to become the person he should’ve been with her.
Because she was with him now. He had done it. And Hannibal told his patient to leave.
“You’ve accomplished it, Johannes. You don’t need me anymore.”
So Johannes left, and took her with him. And he slowly forgot his old life. He stopped listening to his brother’s last words, though he never deleted the message.
He never saw the way she drew clocks, so their life was perfect for a while.
And Dr. Lecter sipped his wine after a lovely meal, wrote a note in his journal next to a formula Johannes might know a little too well. Hannibal waited for The Necromancer to resurface. He had a feeling he would return.

——
(Inspired by this; feel free to read and listen, because I listened and wrote)

"…Cabal was flipped into the air like an especially sociopathic pancake…"

thewriter8 — Sun, 09 Jun 2013 13:03:13 -0400

“…Cabal was flipped into the air like an especially sociopathic pancake…”

- Joanthan L. Howard: Johannes Cabal the Detective (via msfehrwight)

"He weighed the gun in his hand; the man behind the counter had looked at him quizzically when he’d..."

thewriter8 — Sun, 09 Jun 2013 13:02:20 -0400

“He weighed the gun in his hand; the man behind the counter had looked at him quizzically when he’d enquired whether they stocked the Webley .577 revolver. Thwarted, Cabal had settled on a Senzan revolver, but at least had the mild pleasure of finding one in an equally untidy calibre – 10.35 mm. His mind was usually quite pristine, but – O! secret sin – he had always taken a perverse joy in dangling decimals.”

- Jonathan L. Howard: Johannes Cabal the Detective (via msfehrwight)

"Cabal blinked; the bulb contained the powder of Ibn-Ghazi and its power was to render the invisible..."

thewriter8 — Sun, 09 Jun 2013 01:00:53 -0400

“Cabal blinked; the bulb contained the powder of Ibn-Ghazi and its power was to render the invisible visible. For ten heartbeats, for an eternity, he looked upon the true face of the Bonewind.

“Seen worse,” said Johannes Cabal and bolted for the stairs.

”

- Johannes Cabal & the Blustery Day, by Jonathan L. Howard (via oneinchwonder)

"I let my front garden eat him.” “Your front garden?” He wrinkled his nose. “You didn’t expect me to..."

thewriter8 — Fri, 07 Jun 2013 16:13:06 -0400

““I let my front garden eat him.”
“Your front garden?”
He wrinkled his nose. “You didn’t expect me to do it, did you?””

- Jonathan L. Howard – Johannes Cabal the Detective (via msfehrwight)

I hate to bother you but I tried to use the link for Exeunt Demon King file and it doesn't work :( is their any way you could post it again, please it's the only one I haven't read yet.

thewriter8 — Sun, 02 Jun 2013 12:43:49 -0400

My apologies, but we’ve removed any digital file of the Johannes Cabal shorts as per Jonathan L. Howard’s request. I would say purchase the magazine (because I did and it is full of other great shorts), but they seem to be sold out of issue 3 on the publisher’s website! My apologies! Here is a link though, to check on in case they get it again. Maybe if you contact them, they can assist you in purchasing a copy.
http://www.wildsidebooks.com/HP-Lovecrafts-Magazine-of-Horror_c_204.html

"Christmas comes around but once a year. To Johannes Cabal, this showed shocking over-familiarity and..."

thewriter8 — Sat, 01 Jun 2013 21:38:50 -0400

“Christmas comes around but once a year. To Johannes Cabal, this showed shocking over-familiarity and ill-breeding.”

- Exeunt Demon King, by Jonathan L. Howard [p.1]. (via oneinchwonder)

"The new day found Johannes Cabal the necromancer sitting by a ruined and rotting train on a long..."

thewriter8 — Sat, 01 Jun 2013 21:38:32 -0400

“The new day found Johannes Cabal the necromancer sitting by a ruined and rotting train on a long abandoned spur line, his head in his hands, the gravel between his feet splashed wet with drops of saline, his sunglasses tossed carelessly to one side when he could no longer see.”

- Jonathan L. Howard: Johannes Cabal, the Necromancer (via msfehrwight)

"And Cabal No.4 draft 0 (i.e. the crappy first draft I don’t show anyone) enters its last third..."

thewriter8 — Sat, 01 Jun 2013 12:37:00 -0400

“And Cabal No.4 draft 0 (i.e. the crappy first draft I don’t show anyone) enters its last third and is still, miraculously, on schedule.”

- Jonathan L. Howard’s Twitter

"Or perhaps you will. People are so insensitive, these days. Once upon a time, all you had to do was..."

thewriter8 — Sat, 01 Jun 2013 12:36:32 -0400

“Or perhaps you will. People are so insensitive, these days. Once upon a time, all you had to do was finish a story with a revelation in the form of a single paragraph in - and this was the powerful part - italics to shred the sanity away from anyone more psychologically vulnerable than a lamppost.
It was his own face.
Or….
There were still two glasses upon the mantelpiece.
Or….
The library book was terribly overdue.”

- - Jonathan L. Howard, Johannes Cabal the Fear Institute (via sarcasmisfluffy)

"He smiled. … The vicar smiled back. Cabal felt a need to check his own smile in a mirror to make..."

thewriter8 — Fri, 31 May 2013 11:43:26 -0400

“He smiled. … The vicar smiled back. Cabal felt a need to check his own smile in a mirror to make sure it was still the thing of fear that he’d carefully cultivated for years.”

- Jonathan L. Howard: Johannes Cabal, the Necromancer (via msfehrwight)

How did YOU stumble upon Johannes Cabal?

thewriter8 — Thu, 30 May 2013 10:31:00 -0400

I was in a Barnes and Noble in Sacramento, and it was on one of the aisle caps for recommended fiction. I picked it up, and an employee walked by and said ‘Oh yeah, I recommended that one. If you like dark humor, it’s right up your alley.”
So, what’s your story?

oneinchwonder: “His whole psychology, his point of orientation, is to dabble with death and yet...

thewriter8 — Tue, 28 May 2013 20:25:30 -0400

oneinchwonder:

“His whole psychology, his point of orientation, is to dabble with death and yet somehow surmount it”
- Philip K. Dick

The man lying on the table shuddered into awareness with a strangled inhalation, that sweet first breath of life all over again, and he stared around him, pale brown eyes bewildered and his previously slack face drawn. Darkness. The darkness was gone, but was it gone for good? He inhaled again, several times, coughing and spluttering, choking and dispelling the dust, the dirt, from his lungs. He blinked once. Twice. Inhaled again because it tasted so sweet, so delicate, and tears sprung to dry, too dry, eyes.

Beside him stood a blond-haired man dressed in all black, with the exception of a pristine white dress shirt and bright tartan slippers, arms folded across his chest. His face, almost as pale as the lately deceased, the recently returned, bore no emotion save what might be gleaned from the furrowed brow, the pinched-tight lips, which was next to nothing useful. Stony eyes were equally expressionless behind his peculiar, baffled lenses and he watched the man cautiously, curiously, observing his every movement, his every breath, with a sort of anticipation.

The prostrate man licked his lips, swivelled his head around the best he could to take in some more of his surroundings. A metal table, cold, lay beneath him. If he were capable of flushing, if his blood had been circulating properly, he would have turned a lovely shade of carmine when he realize with some serious dismay his state of nudity before this stoic stranger. Once the dire importance of this passed from his mind, the man on the table continued his observation. He seemed to be in an attic of sorts; the ceiling slanted funnily on either side, coming together to form a pinnacle overhead and there was a window lodged in the ceiling. He blinked once. Twice. There was light coming in through the skylight, nothing remarkable, but just enough to make his eyes burn, growing brighter and brighter, making them burn more and more.

That was when he realized the grim-faced man in black was peering into his eyes with a little flashlight.

Well, that most certainly explained quite a lot.

Inhaling heavily as the man stepped back, murmuring something to himself and jotting a few things down in a little notebook he then tucked back into the lining of his black jacket, the man lying on the table watched his every movement. Soon enough the jacket was discarded, and the blonde-haired man with the funny glasses rolled his sleeves up to the elbow. The man said something - his lips moved, there was a muffled sound of sorts - but the one on the table couldn’t hear. Everything in his head was ringing and ringing and ringing. There was a church service happening in his head, someone was ringing vespers and matins and Lord they weren’t doing it properly at all.

The anger it filled him with was startling, horrifying, reminding him of days long past, days that led to dirt, when too much drink had the same effect.

But this - this was an anger he couldn’t control, couldn’t find an outlet for. Rage propelled him up off the table, a primal, vicious longing to dig his fingers into the softest surface he could find, to tear and gouge and scream and rage like he’d never done so before. The drive, the crippling need to do sheer, bloody violence to another, set him on his feet and barrelling towards the blonde-haired man with the funny glasses. No look of fright crossed his face, nor even one of slight surprise or even dismay. Hell, the bastard didn’t even look put out about having a man shrieking murder running for his throat, hands outstretched and teeth bared, and this made him all the angrier.

And then there was blackness all over again; it engulfed him like a rough blanket, like a cold body of water, before he hit the floor and, the moment before the blackness hit him, all he could think of was how damn hungry he was.

Johannes Cabal stood over the previously reanimated, and now very dead, man who lay on his floor. A heavy sigh of disappointment left the necromancer and, stepping around the pool of blood that was spreading on the floor of his lab lest he get some on his slippers and then track it through the rest of his house, he eyed the mop lying against the wall and then he promptly decided that could be taken care of later.

“Such a pity,” said Cabal with a sigh, crossing the room and sitting on a stool at one of his tables, resting his elbow on the surface and his chin in his palm. “He showed so much promise. Where the hell am I going wrong with this?”

Picking up a ledger from his desk, Cabal crossed off the name of the man who now lay dead again on his floor. A fifty-two-year-old man from a small village in Wales whose name resembled something a cat walking across a typewriter might concoct, who died of too much alcohol consumption. He’d been the local bell-ringer, from what he’d been able to glean from the obituary, and very few people missed him.

Cabal spared the mess of a man a pitying glance. He’d been fresh; only two days in the ground, and dead only a day before the burial. The necromancer ran a hand through his hair then dropped that hand to the table, drumming his fingers atop the surface, letting them dance out their frustration. Freshness most certainly did not play a factor in the creation and fostering of sudden aggression; the fresher they were, the better they responded to the science, he’d come to learn, exhibiting less of the general walking dead-like symptoms the ones left for later reanimation did.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, jotting down some notes on the topic, “the fresher they are the more they’ll retain of their personality.”

He’d seen it before plenty of times, both in his own experiments and reading about the works of others. Animals, some other fellows he’d reanimated. The less time they’d had people sobbing over them, the less time they’d spent cuddling the maggots, the more of their personalities they brought back with them to life. Aggression didn’t always surface, not so brutally like that, but there were always some other issues that tended to come back with them.

(Cabal fought the urge to touch the bandages around his left bicep; one had managed to get a little too close with their teeth, and it was most certainly one of those experiments that belonged in the scrapbook.)

So, perhaps it was more of a damn shame he’d brought back an angry drunkard.

There was a gurgling sound from the floor, from where the pool of blood continued to grow and grow, and without moving from his stool, Johannes Cabal - a necromancer of some little infamy and an even shorter temper - hefted up his formidable Webley, fired off one two three rounds, set the gun back down on the table when the gurgling ceased, and he resumed, with some displeasure, examining his notes related to this particular subject: #1518.

And he found himself back at square one, perhaps a little bit wiser, but with a growing blood stain on the floor and five bullets less than when he started.

“Typical,” he muttered darkly as he began to make plans for whatever sorts of joys subject #1519 might bring. “Typical, typical, typical.”

Absolutely typical, indeed.

"Forewarned is forearmed, thought Cabal as he ploughed through his books seeking a plan. Knowledge is..."

thewriter8 — Tue, 28 May 2013 19:35:29 -0400

“Forewarned is forearmed, thought Cabal as he ploughed through his books seeking a plan. Knowledge is power.”

- Some words of wisdom from Johannes Cabal & the Blustery Day, by Jonathan L. Howard. (via oneinchwonder)

"Cabal drew up a chair and arranged himself comfortably, lounging back so that he might watch the..."

thewriter8 — Tue, 28 May 2013 19:35:14 -0400

“Cabal drew up a chair and arranged himself comfortably, lounging back so that he might watch the Bonewind through the skylights. He reached over to where he had flung his jacket carelessly on the workbench and found his cigar case in the pocket. Lighting up one of the thin, dark cigars he favoured on the rare occasions he smoked, he leaned back and observed the furious entity that had been sent to kill him in a manner too horrible to describe. After a few moments of silent consideration, he started puffing smoke rings at it. The Bonewind made a crackling howl that reverberated around the valley and vanished from view.

Cabal laughed a low laugh and settled down to enjoy his cigar.

”

- Johannes Cabal & the Blustery Day, by Jonathan L. Howard (via oneinchwonder)

"Now I #AmWriting and have just discovered that, hilariously, the certain death situation I have..."

thewriter8 — Mon, 27 May 2013 13:33:02 -0400

“Now I #AmWriting and have just discovered that, hilariously, the certain death situation I have engineered is… certain. I keep doing this.”

- Jonathan L. Howard’s Twitter

insideunder: This was actually an idea I had for a sort of...

thewriter8 — Mon, 20 May 2013 12:02:01 -0400

insideunder:

This was actually an idea I had for a sort of fanfiction/oneshot but then I remembered I’m terrible at writing (especially in relation to this fandom holy cheese you guys are a talented bunch!) So instead I will contribute in the only way I can, and that is with piktures yup.

Idk this is a work-in-progress. I’ll finish it later, I just needed to get the idea down before I went to bed.

somethingwicked-promo: MAIN || INDEX || CHARACTERS || RULES...

thewriter8 — Fri, 17 May 2013 19:06:45 -0400

somethingwicked-promo:

MAIN || INDEX || CHARACTERS || RULES || AUDITION
Johannes Cabal sold his soul years ago in order to learn the laws of necromancy. Now he wants it back. Amused and slightly bored, Satan proposes a little wager: Johannes has to persuade one hundred people to sign over their souls or he will be damned forever. This time for real. Accepting the bargain, Johannes is given one calendar year and a traveling carnival to complete his task. With little time to waste, Johannes raises a motley crew from the dead and enlists his brother, Horst, a charismatic vampire to help him run his nefarious road show, resulting in mayhem at every turn.

Now settled in a small town by the name of Mistique, Johannes has 50 more souls to collect. However this town is their last stop. There are 6 months remaining and he still feels as though time is working against him.