In his life, any experiences with what modern superstition dubbed the paranormal had been nonexistent. Sure, there were still old wive's tales about devious fairfolk and monsters lurking outside society's walls. He was never unsettled by their stories; they, on the other hand, were terrified of the wicked phenomenons unknown to humanity quite yet. Bewitching, monstrous evils orchestrated by the Devil himself. But the only monsters Beck could remember encountering were the very men responsible for his death.

    If only death was an end for him as much as it were for luckier people. Once his last breath was gasped out and the slow-burning domino effect of organ failure finally reached his weakly tapping heart, once he thought it was over, a gateway was opened to the afterlife he previously scoffed at. Beck couldn't recall much of the in-between state after that, be it the fault of a memory tampered to forget or simply a mind unable to comprehend anything other than existence. Yet somehow he clawed his way back, not registering much beyond the ground a distance below his being and the insistent demand for revenge. It took years to find out what the world labeled him as: spirit, specter, wraith, phantom -- a ghost. More specific categories had evolved since then, branding him as a poltergeist. Ghosts known for short attention spans when it can to haunting territories and even shorter tempers, breaking glass and flinging objects and throwing violent tantrums. Some times only acting out of mischief, some times seeking to harm those who take residence in a house at the worst of times. Most certainly what one would define as unexplainable or supernatural.

    Beck had crossed the paths of many investigators, all obnoxious and all naive. The entity liked to humor them sometimes, finding it funny how they would fall into hysterics at a single word replayed on their little devices, at unseen presences raking inflamed scratches over their skin and tripping them in dark corridors, or even at just a single disembodied stomp on chilled floorboards. But even their various antics grew boring after a while, and boredom was partially the reason he strayed from invading houses to sulking out in the forest. Left in self-isolation, it wasn't long until he had accumulated assumedly unwilling company, and with that Tanglewood was formed. Rarely the poltergeist missed his haunting days, a glaze of nostalgia dulling his stare until something else distracted him. He had been recalling old encounters and holding back bitter giggles as he skulked through the marsh foliage, nose ever twitching for trespassing scents. It didn't take long for him to catch wind of Paranormal's arrival, fiery eyes narrowing as he limped closer and closer to the border.

    If Vigenere wasn't tackling the canine to the mud like a mad man by the time Beck arrived, then it must have been a new addition to their tight-knit ranks. The mangy feline stepped from the shadowed ferns and shrubs, head tilting this way and that as he observed the labrador with a scrutinizing glare. "Ain'tcha gotta nickname or somethin'? Para-whatever is kinda long," was the first wheeze he spat out, flopping back on matted haunches with an unimpressed scowl staining his freckled features. No way he could manage out his full name every time he had to address the other -- half of his snout had been burnt off and mutilated, leaving him with a obvious missing cheek, cut him some slack! It had taken long enough to relearn how to properly say his own name after... that. Reaching up to sorely rub at said disfigured cheek's pallid scar tissue at the memory, Beck shook his head in denial and mumbled something similar to an introduction. His apparition gave a hearty ripple as his mind wandered from the present to relive past moments, disrupting his otherwise believable projection of life for a nonexistent heartbeat. Oblivious to his own distorting image, the poltergeist outstretched a muddy paw at an attempted handshake before recoiling, hoarsely muttering, "Where'd ya come from, Para?"