From the Journal of Robin Tesla
Electricity remains the only force I have found that both offends and fascinates the supernatural. A spark against a ghoul’s flesh sends it into spasm, neither pain nor pleasure, but something older, a memory of the Sun that once scoured their kind. ...
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Electricity remains the only force I have found that both offends and fascinates the supernatural. A spark against a ghoul’s flesh sends it into spasm, neither pain nor pleasure, but something older, a memory of the Sun that once scoured their kind. Upyr recoil as though struck by a priest’s relic, though no holy blessing hums within the coil. Curiously, ghosts behave in the opposite fashion: they drink the charge, their forms sharpening, eyes brightening with a hunger they cannot name. Werewolves are unpredictable—some snarl and lunge through the shock, their blood singing, while others collapse into a shivering, whimpering heap.
The most troubling discovery came tonight with the wraith I tethered in the copper cage. I passed a steady current through the bars, and it began to speak. Not words, but shapes in the air—images of burning cities, red oceans, and a sky torn open to something… watching. When I cut the current, the visions ceased, and the wraith wailed like a newborn abandoned. I am left to wonder: is electricity not a bane or a boon to these creatures, but a language? If so, who taught it to them—and are they trying to teach it to me?
Tomorrow, I will increase the voltage. I must know what the next message says.