A drop here, a drop there (a one-shots/snippet book)

drabble dump again

"Are you here to visit the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home?" Cecil asked curiously. "Well, maybe not in your home if you had a home, but she is certainly in all of our homes. Unless she is in your home. But you wouldn't have needed to visit her if she was already in your home so..."

"This town..." The man muttered, then louder, "Yes, I'm here to visit her again."

"Oh, goodie! You can come over and talk to her. Just make sure not to wake Carlos up cause he's really tired." A beat. "So about that interview-"

"For the last time, no, Cecil."

*******
Also...
*******

"What's your wifi password?"

"Gah!" Jeff jumped and turned, wildly slashing the air from where the voice came from. But all he did was literally slash the air, with nobody in sight. He frowned and looked around, before tightening his grip on the knife with narrowed eyes. There was nobody else in the room, but that doesn't mean he was the only one there.

"How rude," the woman's voice huffed, sounding mostly monotone, as Jeff frantically whipped his head around to look for the source. "Is that how you greet guests around here? It's not like those useless metal sticks will do any good with those thin stick arms."

"Who are you?!" The man snarled.

"I'm the faceless old woman who secretly lives in people's homes." The what. "I'm just here to visit. Well, not really. I'm also doing other things, but you don't need to know most of them. One of those things is connecting to your wifi."

"The hell?! I won't tell you the wifi password!"

"I'll just have to get it somewhere else then. Also, I took all of your knives and made an Eiffel Tower with them. They're more pleasing to the eye that way. Your welcome."

"You did what," He said incredulously, and before long he was standing at the doorway of his room, staring, shocked, at the silver miniature Eiffel Tower made out of his precious knives that he hid all over the mansion.

"SLENDERMAAAN! Your faceless ass had better not have something to do with this!"

*******************

The wave of power almost brought him to his knees in its strength. Wind whipped his hair and clothes against his body and stung his eyes, but he was unable to close them, not even squint. Dark eyes blown wide, he can't look away from the spectacle before him, at the undulating whirlwind of darkness.

And something in his blood sang.

He felt awed, breathless. Reverent, for reasons he was unable to understand.

Then, as suddenly as it had manifested, it disappeared. His ears rang at the sudden loss of sound. He blinked rapidly, slightly dazed and almost numb with shock. The demigod stumbled forward. It was only once he was next to the body did he let the weakness of his legs take over, and he fell into a knee.

He reached with a trembling hand, and there, miraculously, was a pulse.

A pulse from someone whom he had seen felled under his Stygian blade.

He dropped his hand and stared at the serene face, unconscious and ignorant to what just happened a few seconds ago.

"Harry Potter, huh," The son of Hades muttered. He was wrong. This wasn't someone who performed a dark ritual to cheat death.

"What are you..?"

This was something else.

******************

"I can't seem to find anything visually unusual in your blood," Carlos finally said, straightening and looking over to the eleven year old sitting on a stool. "I'll have to run more tests and then recreate those tests to further validate the results. Do you mind if I take more samples?"

Harry shrugged. "Nah, go ahead. I'm curious too."

After donating a bit of skin, blood, hair, saliva, and nail clippings in the name of science, he was sent on his way with a complimentary lollipop. On his way out, hefting a heavy hard-cover book and reattaching it to the holster at his side, he heard the smooth voice on the radio report that two new people arrived in town. They arrived suddenly with a deafening tearing sound and a pop in Mission Grove Park, and that Night Vale citizen's gazes tend to slide over them as if they weren't there. Which was quite odd, Cecil said, because he hadn't received any notice that these two were deemed illegal to acknowledge. Also, it's rude to not give visitors a friendly welcome, the radio host scolded, before he urged people to do the traditional Night Vale welcome of pointing and shouting Interloper!

Harry snorted, shaking his head. He remembered when he was new here and people did the same to him. Despite it being rude for the rest of the world, Harry eventually realized that they really did mean it as a friendly welcome. He paid attention again.

They were both quite old, both teachers, and were here looking for a specific someone. And apparently, one of the Interlopers had fabulous fashion sense.

Oh masters below, where did he even get that color?! What ritual did he chant to procure those patterns?! Cecil gushed. Maybe dear Carlos knows. They do, after all, come from outside of Night Vale.

Harry blinked and realized he had been standing around in the middle of the hallway just listening to the radio. The radio just had that effect sometimes. The boy shook his head and continued walking, mentally making plans on activities he felt like doing today.

Maybe he can practice shooting that rifle he got on his birthday.

---------------------

He waited patiently. It is what all he had been doing for a few years now. But a few years is nothing for one such as he, so he sat waited with a calm anticipation. One that widened his jaws with viscous hunger as the goal creeped ever closer.

It was so close.

He let out another trickle of his chakra, so very small and weak that the seal didn't bother to clamp down on it. But what the fool Hokage thought would be no threat to his son and would just be absorbed by the still developing body, was actually enough for a centuries old demon like him to push his intent.

With the natural malevolence of his chakra, and his own intent to corrupt, he urged the darkness in people a bit more closer to the surface.

His cage shook, and he laughed with glee. The effect of his years' work was so beautiful. He can feel the hate and fear surrounding his vessel, he can feel them lash out and weaken his poor little mortal prison with each blow.

Another hit, and he can feel the life force slowly draining from around him. He hoped that it will become too late for help to arrive, unlike the last time they organized a hunt for the boy.

The sewer flickered.

The kyuubi roared.

That PJ/HP one was based on a story idea I had.

I'm thinking of posting the WtNV/Creepypasta in a separate book, just for a month or so before taking it down. I'm curious on the reactions of creepypasta fans that doesn't know Night Vale, and I don't know how else I can get that kind of specific feedback. *pout* I'll even put in a truthful but misleading summary for maximum confusion potential... Or maybe I should wait for April because April Fools... Hmmmm...