Gluskin has a minion!

The Man Downstairs the Male Zombie Minion

Legacy Name: Gluskin

The Graveyard Malticorn
Owner: Claudius

Age: 8 years, 1 month, 2 weeks

Born: June 23rd, 2012

Adopted: 4 years, 3 months, 6 days ago

Adopted: May 3rd, 2016


  • Level: 1
  • Strength: 12
  • Defense: 10
  • Speed: 10
  • Health: 10
  • HP: 10/10
  • Intelligence: 0
  • Books Read: 0
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Unemployed

This story contains trauma and references to torture/mutilation; if you do not wish to read this, move along please.

Ein Hauch von Furcht liegt in der Luft
Als ihn die Schwester ins Behandlungszimmer ruft
Er schleppt den Körper an den anderen vorbei
Die Seele wartet zwischenzeitlich vor Ordinationsraum 2
Sie hört, wie er sich drinnen streckt
Wie man den Leib mit einem blauen Tuch bedeckt
Gespannt hält sie den Atem an
Und hofft, dass man in ihm nichts Böses finden kann

Doch im Radio wird das Lied plötzlich leiser
Da schreit sich seine Seele draussen vor der Türe heiser:

"Wenn ihr müsst, schneidet ihn auf
Und holt die Wut aus seinem Bauch heraus
Durchkämmt die Zellen, durchsucht jeden Fleck
Doch nehmt mir meinen Körper doch nicht weg!"

"Sie sind noch jung, mit Ihrer Kraft
haben Sie die Sache leichter hinter sich gebracht.
Natürlich sollten Sie es weiter überwachen,
ich würde mir an Ihrer Stelle jedoch keine Sorgen machen."
Der Satz verhallt in seinem Ohr
Und dringt erst gar nicht bis in sein Bewusstsein vor
Die Sommerblumen vor dem Haus
Sehen so als hätte er sie vorher nie gesehen aus

Und im Radio läuft das Lied von gestern
Er denkt an seine Mutter, seine Frau und seine Schwestern
Ans Fliegen, an die Wellen, an den Sand
An die Muscheln in der Hand

"This place can see into your mind. And the things you've done. Oh, they're a sin."

Their damn machines. Over and over again. Torture. Pain. Trapped in this nightmare they call asylum. He doesn't remember how he ended up here. Often he even doesn't remember his name, just like today. And just like days ago when that damn doctor asked him. He only stared at the man in white, part disgusted part puzzled. He was brought back into his solitary cell, but not after they injected him tranquilizer. They said to him they needed to. That he was a threat. He didn't understand, and he still doesn't. Why is he a threat? He could never harm anyone. He told them, and they only laughed and one of the doctors said something like "You wouldn't be in this asylum if you hadn't already hurt others. You mutilated and killed these people, you bastard." He denied these allegations every time. Liars! He didn't want to hurt them, but they made him so furious...

He wanted to end his existence, but they restrained him. For days they would only come for him to bring him into that scary room. It was always the same. Tranquilizer, strapped on a chair, head fixated, that strange movie; dream therapy, how they called it; and then back into the cell. It's dark. So dark and cold. He is alone. Frightened he squats in the corner, hoping they won't notice him anymore. He hears the screams of the other patients, their pleas for help and mercy.

With every therapy session his dreams became darker and scarier. Memories buried deep in his mind slowly came back to the surface, he saw his family, their faked smiles turned into sinister grinning. Every time he fell asleep he woke up moments later alarmed by his own screams. The therapy sessions got longer, the doctors said they needed to, that they were "so close". He is too afraid to sleep and he doesn't know how long he stayed awake. He hears footsteps in front of his cell, but he doesn't raise his head, hoping they won't come inside his cell. 'Just leave me alone... just leave me alone...' Like a prayer he repeats these words over and over again in his head, pushing it deeper with each sentence. He stops breathing, in hope they won't notice him anymore, still repeating his own prayer.

He screams out when he feels their tight grip on his arms, he tries to struggle free but they are stronger. His sleep-deprived body just gives up and without a word he lets them drag him out of the cell. He raises his head to look at the man in the cell across, the only one he ever called friend, but he just stares at the wall, doesn't even notice anything. Only skin and bones. So far away in his own world already. Flies swarming over moldy remains of the food he threw at the wall, screaming for something else, something "he likes". The other patients are watching, some even laugh at him knowing that they are going to be spared today.

"To the Morphogenic Engine today?" He hears them talking. "Yes, he is ready for the first try. Hasn't slept for 2 days." They drag him into an elevator. Down they go. Deep deep down into the abyss. Then a hall, no... a laboratory. Huge monitors are showing the same movie he saw in the therapy sessions. His fear comes back and he tries to struggle, but they are too strong for him. All he can do is scream for help and mercy when they sedate him again and strap him into a round shaped device in a very uncomfortable position. "Life support online. We can begin.", the voice from the speakers tells the doctors.

The next day he is brought back into his cell. "Failure.", they tell him. "But we can try again in a few days." He will fight back. They won't do this again... They won't.

But he doesn't fight back. Only months later, when they finally erased the last bits of sanity that were left in his already damaged mind. The doctors had finished what his family had begun over 40 years ago. The animal broke free from its cage.

It's thirsting for revenge...

"And you can hang like the rest of them."

*Story by me

*Based on Eddie Gluskin
from Outlast: Whistleblower

*Lyrics (c) Samsas Traum (Im Bauch)

Pet Treasure

Grooms Shoes

Scientists Key Ring

Hand Bandage Scraps

Folded Scrap of Paper

Drops of Drool

Arm Bandage Scraps (Left)

Angry Smiley Sticker

Dirty Perfume Bottle

Grooms Jacket

Grooms Undershirt

Grooms Pants

Survivors Crowbar

Curious Broken Clock

Tailoring Scissors

Stained Hosiery Box

Stained and Torn Family Album

Bloody Rag

Secrets to a Happy Marriage

Vintage Dressmaker Form

Darling Poetry

Classic Phonograph

Questionable Tagged Syringe

Torn Blood Stained Fabric Patch

Black Fingerless Gloves

The Eyes: A Mystery

Nightmarish Cloud

Frozen Heart

Bloodred Montre Valentines Day Plushie

Subject Standard Issue Straitjacket

Don Slacks

Bent Rebar

Tattered Wedding Photo Album

Death Head Moth

Film Reel

Measuring Tape

Straight Pins

Wireframe Dressmaker Form

Vintage Film Camera

Rusted Pumpkin Morostide King Film

Plas-Tek Morostide Chained Blade

Coiled Rope

Vintage Sewing Machine

Pet Friends

Sorry, my friend, but I am not your food.

Chris Walker
This is what I call a hunk of a man.

No! No, not again. No! No!

Hey there. You always meet twice.

Hello, cutie.

Darling~ ♥️