Chapter Text
Just seven days ago he signed a contract. The contract. The one that promised to bring everything to its end. Seven days ago, Mr. Emily sat a table away from the carcass of his godchild. His face was hollow of any emotion as he watched him study their contract word by word. For once in his life, he’d known exactly what he’d signed up for. Six days and six nights he’d run the pizzaria. Keep things in order, and deal with legal paperwork while they worked tirelessly to lure the others into a trap.
Each morning he’d walk into the building, knowing damn well he’d burn it to the ground come Saturday night. The expectation was clear in ink. Words just subtle enough to dodge suspicion from anyone separate from their scheme. The consequences were laid out for him to read, plain and simple. Mr. Emily promised this would work. Swearing on his life that this was the last week they’d have to fight through. With those words, he signed; scribbling down his real name for the first time in decades.
With all the reassurances in the world, he thought he’d known what to expect. Maybe it was that. He’d gotten too co*cky with his expectations. Everything seemed to go as planned during the ending. Father spat insults like expected. Any venom in his words drained out when you remembered the f*cker built a set of fursuits that’d kill you if you tried to wash them.
It’s pathetic, but he’d known that when he’d dragged that decrepit rabbit in from the alley.
Every outcome they could think of was planned for. From escape attempts to the danger the animatronics posed to the children. They set their failsafes and prepared for the aftermath of it all. He’d even started practicing his introduction to the devil, though still in the works. All he could come up with boiled down to some iteration of “Oops, my bad,” or “Sorry I’m such a dumbass.I take after my father,” neither sentiment would go over well with anyone. Keeping his mouth shut would be best for everyone involved.
For all he planned and all he braced for, the universe decided to surprise him with-
…Nothing.
It’s not like he expected a warm welcome to the pearly gates but this was underwhelming to say the least. Hell was the expectation but this didn’t quite feel right .
Darkness shrouded his view, a blindness different than what he’s used to. Instead of the absence of everything or the cloudy blur of a smudged lens, this was thin barrier. Like something blanketed over his eyes allowing only the smallest of light through.
It seemed the devil didn’t feel too creative today.
Who could really blame him? A senile hunk of conglomerated evil was delivered straight to his doorstep extra crispy. He probably didn’t have the energy to whip something up for him too.
Still, sensory deprivation was something you expect from a prison or the mob, not the underworld. Needless to say when you’re expecting pitchforks, hellfire, and little bit of psychological torture, getting nothing was anticlimactic. If you asked him, he’d say it’s incredibly lazy. But hey, maybe after a few decades he'd be singing a different tune. Begging anyone who’d listen to release him from this purgatory. One day he might even beg to be sent back to his corpse.
Until that day came, he’d judge this all he wanted. It feels like he’s nothing but an afterthought to the devil.
That thought should hurt more than it does. Right?
Really, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He got the default form of torture; a pounding in his ears the only artistic touch anyone bothered to add.
Thump..
Thump..
Thump..
Thump..
A repetitive noise, like chinese water torture without the droplets erodeing flesh and bone. Just sound, slowly chipping away at what remained of his sanity.
Thud..
Thud..
Thud..
Thud..
It’s rhythmic, a foreign yet familiar sensation that made his brain recoil.
If he still has a body, it’s completely paralyzed, blind, but numb to the squeezing, sharp pain he’d grown accustomed to. Was pain an obstacle to the punishment? Against all odds pain is still a sensation that could give him variety. There’s so many different types of pain you could inflict on yourself, it doesn’t even need to be physical!
Stress can make a person pass out if there’s enough of it. Headaches, nausea, fatigue, chest pains, you name it stress and anxiety can cause it! Crying too hard can make you throw up. The vomiting was harmless on it’s own, but if happened too often, your teeth would rot and the weight loss would make you look like a f*cked up scarecrow.
Maybe that’s what the devil intended? For him to destroy himself without even moving. He’d read a study, he can’t remember where it was from but he remembered how stupid it sounded. If people were left in a room alone with their thoughts they’d choose to electrocute themselves just to avoid boredom. It still sounded stupid but now he vaguely.
That was probably the premise behind those “motivating” shocks… He’d always wondered what they felt like on their own. Hopefully not too bad, but remembering how the animatronics seized against electricity told him more than he wanted to know. Lizzie got shocked like that for years. It wastorture. Torture drawn out long enough to make her bitter and eager to kill just like father-
…
No. She’s wasn’t.
She’s not-
She copied father, did what he told her to do, and mimicked the violence he showed her. She wasn’t like him.
It’s not… he- doesn’t want to think about it. As far as he’s concerned Lizzie’s still the same little girl who’d pout and sulk when she didn’t get dessert. Still the same kid who’d hide her face in her hands so he couldn’t hear her giggle when he’d say something stupid.
Something in his chest squeezed. Like someone inflated a balloon in there stopping just before it was about to burst. It stung, pushing against his ribs, straining uncomfortably like they’d snap back out of place.
If he thought for less than a second he might’ve mistaken this for another stage of decomposition.Bursting from built up pressure, it couldn’t happen; not to him. Last time he checked, he was completely hollow, only a few broken stitches away from an open chest cavity. Even if his chest was bursting that wouldn’t explain the tingling, dizzy sensation. Did he still have his voice box? Maybe it sparked out or-
-!
It burst, his body seizing violently! Air flooded into his mouth in one swift movement. Instead of seeping through the cracks of his body he felt his chest swell. Something locked against his ribcage as he thrashed, a string of wet, gurgled gasps spilling out his throat until he slammed his mouth shut again.
Just as he tried to calm himself something hot oozed onto his tongue. Like a handful of coins had been tossed into his mouth. A taste he’s far too familiar with one he’s all too desperate to forget.
Did he bite someone? Surely they would’ve shrieked if he had. People tended to make some kind of noise when they’re hurt badly enough to draw blood. Unless he killed them? He didn’t hear a thud, he didn’t feel anything, just a sharp sensation that’d already dulled to a throb. Was he- is he the one who’s bleeding?
Seconds passed by, agonizingly quiet. Only the wheezing coughs echoing from his throat and gentle spinning of sounded like fan blades. You could maim someone with fan blades.But he would’ve felt and heard the splatter if he’d accidentally pushed someone into one. This was a slow stream of blood; it felt raw, yet numb, a tiny spark spreading throughout when he pressed his tongue against the freshly split flesh. They’re warm, the blood clotting the injury and inside of his cheek. Remnants of maggots that’d burrowed through soft tissue weren’t there any more. The flesh was smooth, warm and wet. The teeth in his mouth were dull, free of cavities and chips. You couldn’t kill someone with teeth like these, not instantly at least.
A tooth wiggled against his tongues prodding. Shifting side to side. Tugging at the gums as it twisted. It’s a flat tooth on the top row. Vaguely, that tooth felt important. Father never bothered to lie to him about the tooth fairy or Santa clause. He said “ it’s a waste of time,” and “You’re too old for that Michael,” he’d been six, and those words only applied to him.
One firm press was all it took to pop that tooth out his mouth. A single press was all it took for the blood to start flowing. Into his mouth and down his throat, it was a slow drip that left him choking and spitting. Instinctively, a hand shot down to his stomach, only to be blocked by a layer of skin and fat, warm to the touch. This heat was dull compared to what he’d felt less than an hour ago. Incredibly detailed in a foreign way that forced his body stiff.
Something’s touching him, something thin and separate from his body. It wraps around his body soft against his skin but not completely smooth. It’s…a shirt, he knows this; clothing isn’t a shocking new concept to him. But this wasn’t one of his shirts. This one had stars stippled across it, held in place by tight, machine made stitchwork. It’s the type of design you’d find on the pajamas of kids barely out of kindergarten.
. . .
An embarrassing amount of time passes before he remembers eyelids are a thing that exists. Even longer to realize he could open them and examine the shirt himself. They’re heavy as led weights, his own movements groggy and slow. When he finally prys them open, it’s a battle to keep them that way.
Pale yellow light dances across his face as his eyes adjust through bursts of rapid blinking.
He’s in a room. It’s dimly lit, but bigger, and more decorated than his office. Though, a nagging piece of him might prefer it over this. This wasn’t one of the rooms that haunted his nightmares.
Still, he’s sitting on that thick, quilted blanket, wearing a pair of pajamas he never wanted to see again. There’s stuffed animals on the bed. They’re his stuffed animals, the ones his mother gave him when he was little. Nestled beside them Freddy, Chica, and Bonnie, 3/4’s of the original cast accounted for.
A night light shaped like a crescent moon lit the room. Toy trucks and cars left scattered across the floor. Tiny plastic soldiers engaged in mortal combat at his bedside. A bookshelf stood tall in the corner of the room, just like it had when he was little. Thin, colorful books filled the lower shelves, plastic bins taking up the space on the top shelves.
When he was little, anything too loud or messy was tossed into those bins. Right where he couldn’t reach them, but just close enough that he could see the ladder of a firetruck peeking out the top. Those noisy toys were tossed to the trash the moment he’d grown brave enough to climb.
What would it take from him to crawl up there? To dump everything on that shelf to the ground, set off every toy and shriek into every kazoo until his face went blue. How much noise would that bookshelf make if he pushed it to the ground? Would slamming his closet doors be louder than a tambourine or drum set?
Noisy things like him sent father into a rage even before he’d started doing it purposefully. Spamming audio clips, “Hi” “Hello,” “Hi,” until the buttons broke, and father tried to tear the door down. Every mild to major annoyance was vengeance for the years they’d spent silencing their own steps and memorizing the steps of other people.
But this was William’s domain, his caste. The house Michael grew up in, and a place father controlled to the smallest of details. Locks on every pantry and cabinet, cameras to track their every movement, to punish them each time they spoke out of line.
Death brought him back to this hellhole. For all he knew, those bins could be filled with severed limbs, and his closet full of teeth.
This body’s too small too be his, too indescribably alive, it’s unnerving. His arms are tan, speckled as if he’d spent his entire life out in the sun. Even the palest skin of his shoulders was brighter, healthier than the sickly pallor skin he’d worn throughout his late teens. Unblemished like it’d been before his skateboarding obsession started and his soccer team grew out of elementary school.Regardless, this room is his bedroom. Just an…older version of it. From the curtains to the covers everything was arranged the same way it’d been when he was a little kid. Toy’s he passed off to Evan long ago sat plainly on the carpet beside piles of clothes and blankets.
It felt so lived in! Messy, like a child actually spent their time in this room. Nightmare’s brought him back to his childhood home often, but the room was never messy. Usually, toys were tucked away or left in the same spot of quiet bedroom. Stuffed animals would stare at him, like they knew he’s the reason they’d never be played with ever again.
In those nightmares, he’s trapped. Only allowed to listen for breathing outside the doors or stare down an endless empty hallway. When his brain felt particularly creative, it let him be maimed to death by a variety of f*cked up animatronics.
The concept should be similar here, even if he’s in a different room, but checking couldn’t hurt. He’s gotta know what he’s working with. Not knowing f*cked him over more times than he could count on two hands. Worst case scenario, he gets disemboweled again.
His limbs refused to go where he wanted them to. Every deliberate movement he tried to make took double the effort! When he tried to move his legs, they barely twitched. But when he dared to lift his arms they swung wildly, knocking his knuckles against the night stand. Feet dangling off the bed side he lets gravity do its thing. It drags him downward, his back hitting the carpeted floor with a heavy ‘Thud!’ Knocking the air he’d worked so hard for straight out of him.
For just a bit, he’d stay down here, catch his breath for a minute or two.
Chest heaving he glances under the bed. A crayon presses uncomfortably into his left shoulder. The rest of the box tucked away beside a stack of paper. It’s the type of paper father bought in bulk, the cheap stuff that he didn’t care too much about when it went missing. Before, father hadn’t cared much at all when things disappeared from his office. Anything truly important was locked away or far from their reach. While whatever you could sneak out with was fair game. Lizzie got away with snatching sketchbooks, pencils and an entire box of pens. Father hadn't batted an eye back then. In fact, he bought her a set of glitter pens after he caught her.
He and Evan had to stick to the smaller things. Mostly just pencils, occasionally they’d snatch some paper. But a stack like this was a bold move, even for him.
There’d been a time when stealing this much wasn’t a death sentence but that didn’t stop his hands from trembling. Everything changed a long time ago, when Mr.Emily found his daughter’s body motionless and cold in that alley. William became a paranoid monster after that.
If even the smallest of thumbtacks went missing he’d have a conniption fit. Storming out his office, a haunted expression on his face while he lined the three of them against the wall and shrieked for hours. Half the time he’d already decided on a culprit, the screaming was just his psychopathic way of gauging if they’d shared their “findings,” with each other.
A scowl worms it’s way across his face, the expression shakey on his lips as if emotion itself was foreign to him.
What was William’s plan if they actually knew something?
Triple filicide?
More gaslighting?
It worked before, hadn’t it? He made them all think nothing was wrong for all this time. And when something did go wrong it was always their fault. This body trembled with the rage broiling beneath his tongue. the mother f*cker had the audacity to claim moral high ground when he’s the one who slaughtered kids by the dozen!
The fact William played up his role as the father of a delinquent, murderer to gain sympathy pissed him off past rational thought. Every comment that spewed from that man’s mouth was an egotistical slurry of deceitful bullsh*t!
Rage flurried throughout him like a blizzard of soot and ash. Heat spreading across his face at a rapid pace. Creeping from the tips of his ears, crawling across his cheek bones as it reached down to strangle him.
Despite that, his fingers were frigid, curling up into closed fists that shook like the bones were going to burst from his hands. Fingers sharpened to a point would claw away his face, staining the carpet below him a skin curtailing red. He’d make a mess that’d take years to recover from. Burn this place straight into the ground until all that remained was his charred carcass!
Posters would be torn from the walls. His covers shred into pile of bloodied confetti. The bookshelf he’d throw to the ground and use its contents as tinder!
Slow ragged breaths crackled from his chest. The manual effort of pacing each and every breath was strangely soothing. Grounding in a way he forgot was possible.
Breath in-
…1
…2
…3
…4
…5
Breath out-
…1
…2
…3
…4
…5
Repeat. Again and again until the urge to slam his fists through the wall dissipated. If he wrecked the room there’d be nowhere to hide, nothing to protect him, and no way to to defend himself.
Jaw clenched, he pulls himself on trembling legs. Like a newborn calf he wobbled, clinging to his bed frame like his whole existence depended on it. If he lets go, he goes tumbling back to the floor. While if he stays here like a child latched to a pool wall, there’ll be no progress.
Breathing deeply, he moves forward to take that first shaky step.
And by god is it exhilarating!
The carpet is soft against his feet, tickling his skin as he pivots towards the door.
This room is a minefield of tripping hazards. Picture books spread across the room by the dozen! Thrown about with the giddiness of a kid who’d just started reading in full sentences. Scribbles covered the bookshelf he’s using to steady himself. An explosion of color that trailed off onto the wall like the aftermath of a party popper.
As he dug his feet into the carpet, he padded his fingers across the wood like a man freshly blind. Wax stuck to his fingertips as he scratched away at a crudely drawn forest. Starstruck, he can’t help but grin like an idiot.
Different things have their own distinct textures. Who would've guessed?!
Heat rushed back to his face, the thumping in his chest picking up. Something obvious in retrospect was completely lost to him. Rediscovered only when he regained the senses he’d taken for granted. Senses that were smothered and dulled to near uselessness by an unwavering agony.
As a corpse he eyeballed sh*t like this. Having his brain assign a texture based on judgment and vague memories. The floors of his apartment were greasy because he didn't have the time or energy to clean them. Cat fur is soft and sleek because that’s what he remembered. And those plastic bats he’d bought are soft because kids wailed on each other with them all the time.
At work he’d be a bit more thorough
It took about half an hour to survey a room, depending on how furnished it is. Every crate, chest, and drawer was automatically marked suspicious. Hollowed objects were found by gently knocking against them. Anything that couldn’t be locked, covered or weighed down needed to be checked throughout his shift.
Touch wasn’t really a sense he relied on in the past. But if he could run his hands across something without hacking off a limb, he would. The damage it did to his hands was how he knew a surface was rugged.
But this was completely different than that. Smooth or rough all he had to do was brush his fingers across it. He didn’t even need to look at it. The smallest of grooves in the wood were incredibly detailed in way that made everything before that seem vague and soulless.
With every staggeringly heavy step the carpet threads prickled his feet. A sensation so overwhelming, words could never do it justice. Almost painful but not quite. A buzzing beneath his fingertips, nipping at bone like starving maggots.
Though each step took him closer and closer, the walk to the door felt like a herculean task. Something he’d done far too many times in a different room and something he’s not keen on doing regularly throughout the night.
These limbs bent with little effort. One might think that’d make things easier for him. That functional joints and ligaments would have him jumping for joy?
No. This felt like an ice level in a video game; and he’s playing it with the controls reversed! By the time he reaches the door he's as steady as he can be, considering the circ*mstance. Instinctively, he pressed an ear to the wood, all his body weight leaning in as a feeble barricade.
…Nothing
Not a growl or snarl. Only his nasally breathing and the hum of a fan.
Breathing deeply, he turns the knob, pulling the door open a crack at a time. There’s no one there to greet him, no one there to snarl or threaten. It’s just a hallway, lit dimly by the light that crawled out his bedroom.
He prods those dark wooden floors with a scrunched expression on his face. It doesn’t give. Hands still clinging to the doorframe, he takes a cautious step forward. Nothing crumbles, he doesn’t fall through.
Nothing happens. Even when he lets go of the door frame, he’s fine. Still, he has to keep his guard up. Trickery was one of the Devil’s core character traits.
Stumbling down the hallway, every step lands with a heavy
‘Thud!’
‘Thud!’
‘Thud!’
As if mimicking the heartbeat of a giant. Lizzie’s door is only a few steps away, he’d pass it if he walked to the kitchen. Suddenly his throats dry as dirt, his palms clammy and shaking. She wasn’t evil enough to be sent to hell with him. The sh*t she did was under father’s instruction; Lizzie’s just a little girl.
The hallway is quiet; there’s not a peep from her room. She’d be confused if she were here with him. Upset and disorientated too. There’d be noise if she’s in there. Awful as it may be he doesn’t have the heart to check further than that.
His throat is dry, so are his lips. That probably means he’s thirsty? Part of him screams at the idea. Memories of scraping mold out of his body after it rained danced across his mind. All the harsh chemical treatments in the world couldn’t stop the assault of spreading mold. By the end, his body was more of a moving mushroom garden. Staying in the pizzaria all day probably hadn’t helped.
What’d happen if he drank something now?
The shared bathroom should be at the end of the hall. But as far as he can remember that room was filthy. It’s got a sink but at what cost?
Father had his own bathroom connected to his room. One that should be decently clean. Briefly, he considers it, pre constructing a scenario in his head if only for a second. If anyone was in hell with him it’d be William; and that man would not f*cking hesitate to spawn kill him.
The floor creaks under him as he treads to the bathroom, his hand hovering over the doorknob when he hears it, his entire body stiffening at the familiar sound.
Crying…
Loud and snotty, the type he’d once labeled an unforgivable crime. Those sounds, sobs and wails haunted his nightmares for decades. Yet, he hadn’t heard them this clearly in years.
Evan couldn’t really be here with him, there's no way. He deserved so much more than whatever this- this surrealistic hell hole had in store!
Slowly, he turns to face Evan’s door. By just a crack, it’s left open, yellow light spilling through the gap. He peeks through…
Evan’s in there, hidden under the covers. His form was small, he always was in these nightmares. Whenever slept that form would shrink, the body on that hospital bed younger and younger every time he closed his eyes.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw that face, broken and bloodied. Did he even remember what Evan looked like when he’d been alive? The thought churns something in his gut
The form shifts, squirming beneath star spattered covers to peak out. Eyes turning towards him filled to the brim with tears and terror.
Nope!
On reflex he slams the door shut. Pulling away from the door like it burned. That’s not a mental breakdown he’s ready to deal with. There wouldn’t be a heartwarming reunion for them. They wouldn’t hug it out and cry like what happened was some silly argument that got out of hand!
Fast as these little legs could take him, he rushed across the house. Both bathrooms are ruled out. A functional kitchen’s all he can hope for now.
Dreams weren’t supposed to be this detailed. And Hell’s not supposed to be this mundane! Something had to be off here, weird in a way no psychologist could explain. He just hasn’t found it yet.
The halway wasn’t endless; an amatuer play by the devil, but that just meant there’s some other freaky bullsh*t afoot. Something bigger, not as simple as what he’s seen so far.
Everything looks… Old, yet new at the same time. The dining room sat, just like it’d been before Father rearranged the entire house. Mom’s piano sat in the corner of the living room, a tarp draped loosely over it.
The kitchen is…Well it’s a kitchen.
It’s definitely a room his mother took initiative in decorating. Homey in a strange sort of way. Little odds and ends scattered across counter tops. Fluffy looking towels hung half out of a cabinet. A “lock” looped around the handles, one of those baby proofing gadgets that kept kids from guzzling bleach straight from the bottle or popping a mouthful of dishwasher tabs.
It’s a shame those locks don’t work against adults.
There’s a brighter timeline where they do. One where he locks father in a room to starve.
Standing on the tips of his toes, he’s painfully aware that this is not that timeline. His hands barely graze the faucet as he stretches, awkwardly hopping on two feet. The cool tile floors slammed against the pads of his feet each time he landed.
A footstool sat in plain view just a foot or so from the sink.
‘It taunted him.’
Sure, he could use it. God knows it’d make things easier but… that plastic was going to be grimey, sticky and gross. It didn’t matter how recently it was cleaned, those wide cartoonish eyes painted on front meant it was made for kids. There’d be jam or syrup plastered in every groove and crack of that thing.
He doesn’t need it. The sink wasn’t that high up anyways
With a clenched jaw he grips the edge of the counter, swinging a leg up onto it with a heavy grunt. The other foot scrambled for a foot hold. Cabinet doors rattled, the hinges groaning as he boosted himself up.
Once up there all it took was one twist of knob and water was gushing from the tap. Freezing cold, it dribbles off his palm into the empty sink. The sensation dredges up a prickly feeling he’d never been too fond of. It’s a whisper. One that trailed up his spine coiling around the hope that buzzed in his chest like a swarm of wasps.
And like a cobra- it squeezed.
Singing songs of mold and bugs burrowing into his fingertips. Growing louder, more high pitched and frantic, as his cupped hands slowly filled. Only when he dumps the water from his hands does his head quiet down just a little. It’s hissing in his skull urging- no, demanding he click the stove on and shove his hands in until they’d dried to the bone.
Naturally, he responds to these thoughts by skipping the cup and drinking straight from the tap. Like some kind of neanderthal.
Those songs turn into screams as cold water spills down his throat. Guzzling down swallow after swallow a dopey grin spreading across his face. He’s leaning into the stream now letting it trickle down his chin and soaking his hair heavy as he struggles to keep up with it.
He’s not even thirsty anymore, but the sensation keeps him going. It makes him feel more like a person than he has in years. Though maybe, just maybe he should’ve stopped? Headed the blatant warnings and quit when water crept back up his throat.
Maybe then he wouldn’t have been so surprised when his stomach lurched up his throat. Bile floods his mouth foul and acidic tasting, it sends him scrambling off the counter. Seconds before his body hits the tile his arms fly to his head the only thing protecting him from smacking his skull open.
Hrk-
The gate has opened. Vomit spills past his lips splattering onto the tile. It’s scalding as it crawls up his throat. His stomach churned like it’s filled with wires. Squirming, crawling, popping stitches to escape his rotting carcass. And for a second the tiles become pavement, a pile of eyes strewn across it. Blinking and writhing, a mass of wires drags itself away.
But it's only for a second. That’s all it takes to blink the sight away. The tile is back and his heart is pounding against his rib cage. Beating so hard he could feel the vibrations in his fingertips. A bitter taste stuck to his tongue. It’s disgusting, enough to have him retching through his empty stomach.
Once he can breath without hurling, he stares down at the puddle. On the scale of awful smells this one wasn’t the worst, it wasn’t even top ten. It’s the kind of smell you’d get when parents sent their kids to play seconds after scarfing down a large greasy pizza. He can’t even remember the last time he’d eaten anything let alone a pizza. At least this time he won’t have to clean it up.
A wild grin spread across his face. This was William Afton’s house. He’d just thrown up all over fathers precious tile floors! If only he could’ve held it longer. He’dve dragged himself to the bastard’s room and spewed under the bed.
But he hadn’t and now he’s left to mourn the idea of Father scrubbing the floors with that disgusted look on face. A look that screamed “Please f*cking kill me,” and the universe would oblige, striking him dead right there. He’d get the stupidest obituary known to man. A death description so boring nobody would care to speak of it. But now it’s just a distant fantasy quickly replaced by another.
Father could slip and break his hip! Or his neck. The thought sends him into a fit of wheezing crackles. A death like that was fitting. Father deserved to go out in flames because that’s what they say is most painful. But that last blaze of glory didn’t fit his crimes. No, William deserved nothing more than to sh*t himself to death in a very public setting.
When the laughter finally dies in his chest, he forces himself to stand. The floorboards creaking beneath him he staggers back to his old bedroom. Doubt bit across his brain like mosquitos.
Was William even here? Surely he would’ve come rushing out by now. Eager to stab until organs liquified and the floor was painted red. This felt too suspenseful. If this truly was a personalized hell there wasn’t enough payoff. It’s surreal but bland. Disorientating but calm. Sure, whatever was lurking in Evan’s room gave the place spice but he could just…Not open that door again.
After all, it hadn’t seemed keen on meeting him. Maybe that was the ‘hell’ of this place. He’s alone because everyone left. And those who couldn’t leave were either scared of him or wanted to kill him.
It may be stubborn or even stupid to cling to the idea of hell but what else was he supposed to think? Dying magically rewinded time?
Ha!
sh*t like that didn’t happen in real life. He wouldn’t be here by himself if it did. There’d be a mob outside ready to skewer them. But no one’s here. Not Father or Lizzie. Just him and a sobbing mass that vaguely resembled Evan.
As far as he’s concerned. Time travel was a weird rumor kids spread about the ball pit in the diner. A story to explain the awful smell that didn’t boil down to ‘it hasn’t been cleaned since 1987’ according to the kids, that ball pit was everywhere in the timestream at once and was therefore infinitely dirty.
…
Kids were weird. But imagination kept them from playing in that cesspit of ancient piss so he didn’t discourage it. In all likelihood there’d been a corpse festering at the bottom of the pit. But cleaning up human viscera wasn’t in his job description anymore so that’s not his problem.
Quiet as he can, he tiptoes over to the window. It’s dark out. Not quite pitch black but dark enough that he struggled to identify the vague outlines he’s seeing out there. It begged the question, “What would happen if he left?” If he left, the worst thing that could happen was him being sent back. But if he stayed here… The only good outcome for him would be a swift death.
It’s a lose-lose situation, but he’d already made his choice the second he placed his hands on the windowsill.
Out of all the windows in the house his was the easiest to sneak out from. It wasn’t special, it’s just a sh*tty window. It’s mesh screen was missing, the latches never worked properly and if you pushed up from the outside it’d fly right open. He hated that window when he was little, but when locking them in their rooms became the routine punishment it was his savior.
He’d crawl right out after shouting at the closed door for five minutes or so. Arranging his pillows and blankets so from the door it looked like he’s sulking in bed. Most days he didn’t go anywhere after sneaking out. He’d pick at the grass outside or laze in the shaded arms of a tree. Father tended not to look up.
On days when he knew William worked all day he’d skulk off to Jeremy’s house and laze around with a friend. His mother hadn’t cared all that much when Michael showed up unannounced. His older brother, when he was there, was red eyed, cackling at the smallest of things, guzzling barbecue sauce from the bottle. Thinking about it now, the dude was higher than a kite but neither of them knew or cared enough about that to snitch. Plus, if he told anyone, father would find out about his little outings.
Ultimately it was Evan shattering a window that got him caught. It was this event that sparked the idea in William’s head that the whole house needed to be surveilled at all times. Everything collapsed for him from there.
At the time he’d blamed Evan but now he knew better. The psychopathic asshole with too much time and money on his hands was to blame!
With a nasty scowl on his face he pushes up…
It doesn’t budge…
It doesn’t f*cking budge!
Gritting his teeth he pushed harder.
This can't be all there is… He couldn’t be stuck here. Not in this hell hole of a house of all places!
He won’t be stuck in here, not again, not ever!
-Snap!
The window flies open with a loud ‘Bang!’ as it smacks against the top of the frame. Without a second of hesitation he grips the frame throwing his legs over to dangle haphazardly off the edge. Shifting further and further off the frame his feet pad cautiously at the shrubbery lining the houses.
Just as his bare feet were about to touch the ground something yanked him back by the hair! Slamming his skull against the siding he pitched forward a scream tearing itself from his throat bloody and raw. Thorns snagged his sleeves slicing into his skin as he kicked and thrashed.Throwing himself off the ground with closed fists he braces himself for a fight but…There’s no one there to meet his gaze. No one to match his energy with a wolfish snarl or an ear piercing shriek. But through the window lying on the carpet was a face that regularly cameoed in his nightmares. Staring up at him with hollowed eyes and a sh*t eating grin.
It’s a mask; just a mask.
He’d bared his teeth like a wild animal because a mask caught on the window.
What the f*ck was wrong with him?
There’s something so innocuous about that mask. Something so normal that it set off all his alarm bells. Itty bitty details that didn’t quite match the memories he had of it. Its grin was smaller, more cartoonish than he remembered. It was brighter too. Obnoxiously red, several shades lighter than the faded hue of old blood. It looked like…It looked like something a parent would buy for their child.
Chewing on the skin of his lip, Michael reaches back into the room. It’s a bad idea, he knows it is. The more innocent something appeared on the outside the more likely it was to maim you. But he can’t help but reach out for it. Even if just to throw it away he needed to get his hands on it.
When his fingers finally grasp onto that brightly colored plastic it’s like all the breath was sucked out of him. If he were to compare the feeling he felt as he pulled the mask out the window, he’d say it’s like grabbing the prize you want from a claw machine after hours of trying. Except instead of a prize it’s a bitter reminder of the past. One that fills him with dread the moment it’s brought facelevel. It’s hardly the mask he’d remembered. He’d like to think his memory held itself together through the years but staring down at that happy face surged an uneasy feeling only he could understand.
Those teeth weren’t sharp or sad*stic. It’s eyes pitched upward to match it’s goofy grin. Looking at it now he finally remembered why Evan being scared of this mask had been so funny to him. He hadn’t thought to look deeper into that “irrational” fear; he was freshly fourteen and practically a narcissist. Even if he asked about it would he have believed the answer he was given? Back then “ I saw our sister get murdered by an animatronic and now dad’s drugging me with hallucinogenic gas so I won’t tell anyone,” was an insane concept, one that’d get you laughed at at best and institutionalized at worst.
Still, he can’t bring himself to chuck the mask out. In the dark he studied every inch of that mask, from the plastic parts to the elastic that secured it to the wearer's head. His name was spelled out in bold shaky letters on the back of the band. Vaguely, he remembered showing the mask to Henry. He’d been so proud that he’d written out his name and Mr. Emily hadn’t the heart to correct him. He only smiled, nodding the way you did when a child did something harmlessly stupid but social etiquette ruled you couldn’t call them a dumbass.
He’d keep the mask with him for now. But if an opportunity to stash it out of sight occurred he’d take it in a heartbeat.
Standing on wobbly feet, he turns away from the house. There’s a swingset in the backyard; one he distinctly recalled being broken. Father refused to fix it; he said it was a waste of time. Imagine his shock when not even two days later the man brought home a pink glittery swing set that was too small for Michael or his friends to use. It’s stupid, but he blamed lizzie for that at the time.
There’s toys scattered across the yard. Shovels and buckets sat in the dirt instead of the sandbox where they belonged. They’re full of rocks and twigs with leaves crushed between them. The sandbox was left wide open; father always complained when they left it open overnight. The box would flood and he’d have to put in effort to drain it for them.
Even from a distance he could spot something jutting out the sand. Padding cautiously over to it, self preservation urged him to leave it be. It told him not to dig deeper because that’s how you get killed. But he’d never been one to listen to those instincts. Digging was how you found secrets. And finding secrets kept you informed on what the hell was going on. That’s why you touch every wall tile and play test fruity maze for hours at a time.
He doesn’t lose a finger when he grabs them so that’s a win. They don't smell either. Sand couldn’t completely cover the scent of decomposition so he can safely say if this is a body part it hasn't been here long. But they’re not body parts, they're shoes. A pair of child sized shoes.
On the bottom of each shoe was a label “Left,” or “Right,” the writing was faded, worn down alongside the rest of the shoes.He’d been particular about the shoes he’d wear as a little kid. Tying was hard so they had to be velcro. They couldn’t squeeze his feet too much because that’s uncomfortable. But if they slipped off or moved around too much he wouldn’t wear them either. But when he found a pair of shoes he liked, he’d wear them until they’re nothing but scraps.
These were one of those shoes. The type he’d hide so father wouldn’t throw them away before he was done with them. Sand still clung to them even as he knocked them together. Shoes were crucial especially when your feet were decaying beneath you. If he wanted to keep his feet intact for now he’d need to wear them. Just being in the range of this hell hole made his gut want to lunge up his throat.
Where was he going to go? He’d figure that out later. No one here had any need for him and if they did? Well, they could drag him back kicking and screaming.
With that final thought he picks a direction and starts walking.
