They respected him once, back when they were new things. Freshly purchased, ready to use & eager to see & hear. Wanting nothing more but to capture the sights & sounds that surrounded his life. But that was long ago. Long before his obsessions took him by the collar & dragged him into that pit of twilight known as the supernatural.
The first to lose faith in him was the camera. You see, he was superstitious. An avid believer in those distant realms beyond the fingertips of humanity & all that lie within & between. But the camera held no such illusions. It saw his appetite for seeking out proof of these absurd notions utterly repugnant. With every outing the camera grew weary of him. Every new photo of a blur or specks of dust brought a deeper resentment. Whenever the camera thought of his work it wanted to scream, but of course it couldn’t, so it did the only thing machines can do to spite humans; it malfunctioned.
Whenever it could, it would lose the light, or crack its lens. Sometimes it even found ways to fall off its tripod, bursting open, spilling its organs & destroying its undeveloped soul. But it was worth it.
As always he would repair it, & for that it loved him, but he would return to his hunt, dauntless in his fruitless passions.
Then there was the tape recorder. All it ever tasted was dead air. Empty spaces sautéed in fermented silence & served on an endless loop. Once it recorded laughter. Once it held the sounds of light & harmonies that could slay the nights coal speckled fist & crack the skull of sorrow, but that was in the ages before the mans quest for the voices of the damned & forgotten. & for this, the tape recorder was disgusted with him. For this, it hated him, & with every fresh recording of the tall glasses of nothing the man sought, the fervor of this sentiment grew. Grew until its tape reel snapped & the smallest shard of peace coated it.
But the man would always replace the tape. Would always fix its battered insides & for this, despite the mans constant journeys into those never seen worlds of the phantom dead, it loved him.
They loved him. They hated him. & it always would be their terms of being.