Thousands of patrons had visited the horror section of the old library. Over the years, a fresh print or overly excited page turn took a piece of each reader. Papercuts. A little gasp, a little pain, a little blood. Each minute stain it's own dog ear of fright.
When the levee broke, the old library drowned. What the water and mud didn't take got finished by the mold. Down in the horror section, the volumes swirled and churned. They steeped in the dark waters until one story couldn't pull itself from the rest. Together, bound in the blood and shivers of the readers, stained by a psychic deluge of fear, the pages evolved into a will.
When the waters receded, the sun tried to banish what had coalesced in the storm. It dried the surface, but couldn't reach deeper.
That night, a reader who had loved the chill and thrill of the books visited the ruin to see what they could salvage. Not a tome remained, though the ground was plastered with pulp and words. They didn't know why they knelt down and sunk their fingers into the muck, or why they wanted nothing more than to feel the cool, leafy midden on their face.
The pages, on the other hand, did. They had new stories to tell, and many legacies if horror to share.
Jery, I too believe Paperface is formed from banned books, ripped to shreds by fascists and zealots then rebirthed from woven tales. Paperface uses old-school typewriters to craft his letters and stories of premonitions & redemptions. He’s an anti-hero who stalks killers of imagination and freedoms. His weapons: a sharp quill pen in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. He’s ambidextrous, you see. His greatest fear is fire. Water weakens him. Libraries are his sanctuary and dreamscape.
Thousands of patrons had visited the horror section of the old library. Over the years, a fresh print or overly excited page turn took a piece of each reader. Papercuts. A little gasp, a little pain, a little blood. Each minute stain it's own dog ear of fright.
When the levee broke, the old library drowned. What the water and mud didn't take got finished by the mold. Down in the horror section, the volumes swirled and churned. They steeped in the dark waters until one story couldn't pull itself from the rest. Together, bound in the blood and shivers of the readers, stained by a psychic deluge of fear, the pages evolved into a will.
When the waters receded, the sun tried to banish what had coalesced in the storm. It dried the surface, but couldn't reach deeper.
That night, a reader who had loved the chill and thrill of the books visited the ruin to see what they could salvage. Not a tome remained, though the ground was plastered with pulp and words. They didn't know why they knelt down and sunk their fingers into the muck, or why they wanted nothing more than to feel the cool, leafy midden on their face.
The pages, on the other hand, did. They had new stories to tell, and many legacies if horror to share.
Maybe Papercuts is the Robin to Paperface’s Batman.
My great grandma used to tell me stories about a man made of paper who would come in the night if you fell asleep reading a book.
He lived in the sub basement of an abandoned library that was mostly burned down by arsonists attempting to control access to banned books
Jery, I too believe Paperface is formed from banned books, ripped to shreds by fascists and zealots then rebirthed from woven tales. Paperface uses old-school typewriters to craft his letters and stories of premonitions & redemptions. He’s an anti-hero who stalks killers of imagination and freedoms. His weapons: a sharp quill pen in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. He’s ambidextrous, you see. His greatest fear is fire. Water weakens him. Libraries are his sanctuary and dreamscape.
I love this ghoul so much.