This is the entry from Team Moon: The_Magical_Yoshi and izayoix

They say that the Pokemon Spiritomb is a mischief maker, that it waits outside of funeral homes and the rooms of the sickly to absorb their soul into their collection of 108. But they don't understand, and they never will until they know what it's like to be one of the 108 souls stuck inside.

I say stuck like it's a bad thing, but in reality, it means I get more time, more time to observe the world through the eyes of a Spiritomb as it takes us where it knows we want to go. Spiritomb is not the bad guy here – only a home for its 108 crying souls, one of it being its own.

I remember how I got saved. The day I died, the family I didn't want to leave. I was sick. My senses had been fading, but I remember it all vividly.

One day, I was just going about life as usual, walking home from school with my friends, laughing and joking, when suddenly, I fell.

"Amy, are you alright?" my friend asked, stopping. She offered out her hand. "Need some help up?"

I grabbed her hand and pulled, but my legs didn't move. I tried again, getting myself up a bit, only to fall back down; my legs refused to hold me up. Then I noticed the scraped on my shins – those scrapes that don't bleed but hurt the most – and I realized something: I couldn't feel them.

I couldn't feel my legs at all.

"Kylee..." I said, my breathing rapid and tears of fear welling in my eyes, "I can't feel my legs. At all."

Pulling out her phone, she quickly called up an ambulance. They loaded my on the gurney and drove me to the nearest hospital, where they started the examinations it had been well past a couple hours before I got to see anyone, but by then, I was losing feeling in my fingers. Looking back, I should have known something was wrong when I woke up feeling numb, when it felt like my whole body was asleep. I brushed it off as fatigue and would have never guessed it was due to some rapidly progressing disease.

My parents were worried and Kylee cried at the foot of my hospital bed, knowing that things would never be the same for me. There was no name for whatever I was afflicted with, apparently, and so the doctors could only wait and try to think of something.

We talked, but it was getting worse. After twenty minutes, I couldn't feel my arms, and after another ten, I couldn't talk anymore, my jaw hanging slackly. Then I could barely hear what they were saying, but it didn't matter. It wasn't like I could respond.

Finally, just after they left and told me to get some sleep, the muscles in my neck relaxed and my head fell so that it faced the window, and with my mind whirring away, I saw something.

At first, I thought I was imagining things, but when I heard the gentle tapping of something against the window—

—I knew that it was real.

I'd always been told that the Pokemon I'd seen was evil, but the eyes that stared at me through the glass held nothing but warmth.

So I found myself staring back.

;

I didn't see him again until it was too late.

When the doctors told me I had too little time left, I expected something painful. I expected pain; goodbyes, maybe, and tears.

Yet, everything was numb. Past the first few days, my life was a game of waiting for the inevitable.

And when the pain faded, I knew that it was too late. I was fading too, along with agony that had become blurred out in my mind, but I wasn't sad. I welcomed death, rather; I didn't want to suffer any longer.

"You don't hate me for this, don't you?"

That was the only time it spoke to me—and when I next woke, I was no longer human.

They say that the Pokemon Spiritomb is a mischief maker, that it waits outside of funeral homes and the rooms of the sickly to absorb their soul into their collection of 108.

But Spiritomb is not the mastermind. It is merely home; it is a crying soul, just like all of us have once been, but there is no one to save it from his loneliness.

Spiritomb was the victim all along.