I have a habit of not finishing stories, so I decided on a one-shot to whet my appetite as I start on an actual series (which I will finish before publishing the first chapter - not falling into that trap again).
Without further ado, let's get started!
Mike
Fire was what did it for Mike. Fire and isolation.
He shot up in his bed, clasping at his sweat-soaked face with his clammy hands, before pausing to stare at the two half-grown stumps. Even now, gnarled and lumped from the infection that had set in during that night, he could feel the other half of those fingers, then the screaming pain and the release brought from the rusted, gore-slavered machete. It was an odd feeling, uncomfortable but not entirely unwelcome.
Jess slept soundly beside him. She must have rolled away in the night. In the darkness, slightly set off by the dim, specially-weakened lamp, the scars that littered her face seemed even deeper and darker than they were. Her scream echoed in his head.
Looking away, he caught sight of the mirror, and clutched his chest with his mutilated hand. Jesus fucking Christ! I thought... I thought... He took another glance. It was just him, pale and worn, mottled with tiny marks and glistening in the small light. Well, hello handsome... nah. Awful joke, man... I need a drink.
The whiskey was still in the cupboard where he left it, thank God. That damn mutt had a habit of getting to things he had no business getting to. I mean, I appreciate his assistance and all, but is it too damn much to ask that he doesn't raid the freaking pantry! The whine at the doorway made him grin.
"Hey, man," he said quietly, beckoning him forward. Taking a sip of alcohol, he poured some into the little bowl, softening the effect with Coke. It's not healthy, and Sam'll kill me if she learns, but fuck it. He's not some dog. "Isn't that right, Wolfie?" he muttered, stroking his friend's hackle as said friend lapped at the whisky-Coke like milk. Guy had a way of knowing what he meant. Too damn smart for his own good.
But with Wolfie came the Sanatorium, and with the Sanatorium came the wendigos, with the wendigos, the shiver down his back, cold as ice. The hissing of the gas in the pipes behind the wall became growling and the creaking of the fridge door became a thousand screeches all at once and he was cold. So cold. Not just against his skin, but in his bones, glazing them with ice and filling them with frost.
There was a skitter behind him. Mike spun, slipping the butcher knife from the wooden shackle, useless thing that it was, and stilled. Wolfie cocked his drowsy head and whined questioningly before he hissed at him to shut it.
It was here. One of them. One of them.
For a second an endless line of inmate cells shot in front of him, moonlight seeping through a crack above. It was the kitchen again. Mike stepped forward.
It was a black mine, with a flicker of flame and an old rifle. It was the kitchen again. Mike stepped forward.
It was a darkened cabin, the crackling of fire to the side. Mike stepped forward. She screamed. She was screaming and a glass window was smashing and she was yanked away. Mike rushed for her, leaped. No! Not this time, not this time!
He landed in the hallway. Wolfie whined, barked, and Mike turned.
A black butterfly.
Chris/Ashley
Ash's parents were out for the night, so they could do this without the half-disappointed, half-pitiful looks.
They were the only ones that believed them; Chris' parents, Matt's, Jess', Sam's... the Washingtons had come close to laying murder charges on the survivors, only halted by the lack of evidence. It hadn't stopped them making their version known on the media - how their son's friends had led their daughters out to kill them in the middle of a blizzard, before doing the same to their baby boy a year later, so emotionally delicate. Queerly, they left Mike, Jess and Emily mostly alone, casting their fury upon their son's monstrous best friend and the deceitful bitch who had taken advantage of his fragile state.
But back to the present. Or rather, back to the past. It was season three now, full marathon linked from her laptop to his PlayStation 4 to the living room TV. She had fallen asleep during season one. Good thing, too. All the chains, being tied up... Ashley had always been the least stable of the group, besides Josh. But no-one could top Josh.
Brushing off all thoughts of 'the Psycho', Chris turned to the girl nestled into him, head burrowed in his chest. Her breaths caressed his arm as he stroked her hair, tucking it back behind her ear. Easily his favourite thing about her, besides her inquisitive eyes. His chest constricted at the faded purple scar under one of them, a taunting reminder of Josh's rage-filled attack. At least she stabbed him first. Bastard. Chris was unsure if he could forgive his old friend for that.
Oddly, it was not the horrors of that night that fuelled his resentment towards Josh, or his unapologetic madcap ramblings and the 'suggestions' that went way past the line. "You should let Ashley sleep with Mike. At least he has got some notches on his belt. He'll treat - her - right!" What hurt, really hurt, the thing Chris could never forgive was that Josh never came to him. Never spoke to him about things. Did he not trust him? Was he unworthy of hearing the great Josh Washington's problems? Was I just not there? Did he keep signalling and I never noticed? Even Sam had been completely blindsided by Josh and his schemes, and they had grown close after Hannah and Beth...
Chris glanced at the TV screen, and wished he never did. Right there, in full view, was Jaime Lannister with his wrists bound together as he was tugged down the bridge. He would be unable to move, even if he tried. Chris' left wrist tightened. Oh, gimme a fuckin' break. He smelled... rusted metal and sparks and mould and heard her whimpering - or was that him? - and high-pitched humming and saw her crying and felt the barrel against his jaw and heard the bang and-
His breaths coming out short, almost meaningless, Chris slipped away, tucking a pillow in quickly for Ash to cuddle and walked over to the balcony. Leaning on the railing outside the apartment he rubbed his wrist like a junkie itching for a fix. Great, last thing I need is a cop looking u- oh, you gotta be kiddin' me.
"Are you alright, sir?" the man with the badge called, taking care to keep quiet for the benefit of the sleeping old people. Personally, Chris was just glad Ashley never stirred in the next room.
Clearing his throat, he waved. "Just needed some fresh air, officer." The cop seemed to take that as excuse enough before his eyes glinted with a recognition Chris could see from his couple stories up. Resting a hand on his gun, the officer sneered at him and marched onwards, clearly wishing he could come up there and slap the cuffs on him. Fuck. Now everyone would know where the parents of one of 'those killers from Blackwood Mountain' lived. As if life had not gotten hard enough for the survivors, now Ashley's mom and dad were going to be egged and slandered at best, driven out of town, attacked or even killed at worst. All 'cause I got the creeps from a TV show. Well done, Climbing Class. Well done.
...
The first thing Ashley noticed was the pillow under her head in place of her boyfriend. It was still weird to say, that word. It was a title, and she hated titles. Especially nowadays. Oh, they thought up all kinds of titles for us, didn't they? The 'Killer Kids', the 'Washington Slashers' and the 'Blackwood Butchers' are my personal favourites. Wish I'd thoughta them myself. Trademark. She, in actual fact did not wish that, but fantasy was her personal playground recently. Still, back to point, why do we have to be something? Can't we just be... well, we? Us? Whatever?
Rolling onto her feet she ignored the clashing of steel on screen and padded lightly forward to Chris, who was muttering things under his breath. There were a few choice words in there that could be put in her book, for the Dr. Hill hallucinations she was planning on adding in. According to Josh's cell phone he had been unsure when he was talking to his psychiatrist or some mental manifestation, so she was as well putting it in, maybe one at the beginning of every chapter, or the end. It had taken a long time and a lot of persuasion when it came to her friends, but she finally had the requisite notes and had sorted it all out, timeline-wise; now it just a matter of pen to paper.
Holding Chris' shoulder, she interrupted his self-deprecating monologue of mutterings. "Hey," she whispered, pressing her lips to his cheek. "Keep using those words, they'll be the only ones you know." Chris scoffed a laugh, stroking her cheek.
"Just worried," he admitted. Well? Does he think he's getting off that easily? Taking the hint, he explained that he had been recognised, to Ashley's mixed fear and excitement. Oh, God, they're gonna find us! They're gonna come get us! Oh, nonono... Her shaking had gone unnoticed until Chris wrapped her in his arms, just as he had after freeing her from the Saw-like saw trap. "We're gonna need one more brave participant to help us decide - who will live, and who will die?" Chris chose her, he always chose her, always... He always... "Nooooo! Why would you do this?! Man, I thought we were friends!" Lying son of a bitch.
Ashley never understood how he could forgive Josh so easily. He manipulated them all, packed them into a waking nightmare - a living, breathing horror movie - and filmed it all. He even bragged about, the prick; they were all going to be 'internet sensations'. She was sorry, they were all so sorry about Hannah and Beth, but it was an accident, could he really not understand that? Yet after everything he did Chris still jumped at the first chance to save him. "I'm supposed to be his best friend, an-and I let him down!" It was one of the things about him that baffled her, it really was.
Still, they were here, alive, all of them (all of them that deserved to be alive, anyway) and that nightmare was never coming back. Nuzzling the crook between his neck and shoulder she followed his gaze.
A white butterfly.
Matt/Emily
Em's scar had opened up again.
Matt's fingers trembled a little as they steadied the needle; the bite absolutely refused to heal. Bandages were bled through; stitches were easily torn open; medicine only made it stronger - it felt like nothing he did, or the doctors did (those that didn't think they were doing it on purpose, anyway) would do anything to help. Just like always, he thought ruefully. Em hissed as he began to restitch the eternal wound.
"Asshole," she hissed, eyes burning. Before, he would have thought she was talking about him, but when it came to the bite she never missed a chance to talk about Mike. "He almost shot me," Emily muttered to herself. "Fucking... almost shot me..."
Matt sighed. "I know, Em," he said tiredly. Really, did she have to hold it against them all? From the way Mike put it, he really thought she was going to turn, like a zombie. Still, maybe he and Ash should've put more thought into it; it gets passed through cannibalism, with some weird mystic stuff about immortal souls. Ugh, what am I even doing? This stuff ain't really my strong suit. Suppose I should be thankful she didn't try to get them both arrested. "Hey, uh, Jess called earlier."
Emily snapped out of her thoughts. "Yeah?" she asked warily. It was still awkward between them; they really had been unable to stand each other. They had been getting better, a few quiet talks here and there, but what could they say? 'Sorry I fucked the guy you were dating while you were dating him?' 'Sorry I started shit over you hugging him on a couch when we were supposed to be getting past it?' Yeah, that sounds pathetic. "What'd she say?"
"She wants to meet up again," Matt told her, putting on a cheerful tone that made her thankful. He had been neutral ground for them both, serving as a sort of messenger at first then as peacekeeper when they started getting into it. "Cafe. Same time as last week, tomorrow."
"... cool."
Matt replaced the bandage and sat up next to her, in that 'designer' letter jacket. "So should I tell her yeah?" Emily nodded and he took out his phone to text her back. While he did Emily gazed out the window, escaping the black and the damp and the feeling of being hung upside down and the shoots of fire. On the windowsill sat a small insect.
A yellow butterfly.
Sam
She was screeching again.
Sam was curled up in the couch in her dark apartment, glancing quickly around. She'sbackshe'sbackshe'sbackshe-
'RRRREEEEEAAAAARRRGGGGHHHH!'
She froze. Juststaystilljuststaystilljuststaystilljuststaystilljuststaystill. If she stayed still Hannah couldn't see her. If she couldn't see her, she couldn't get her. It didn't matter how fast she was - if she saw her, she would kill her. There was no chance. There was no escape. Eyes, glazed with silver and white, flickered before her.
Juststaystilljuststaystilljuststaystilljuststaystill.
She slowly exhaled and inhaled, barely moving. "She's quite... beautiful, isn't she? A beautiful bathing bird. Do you think she has any idea what lies ahead? Were these the last happy moments of this creature's life?" The scratching rasp of Josh's persona mingled with his sister's growls. It was all her fault; if she had just been faster, a few seconds, even...
Juststaystilljuststaystilljuststaystill.
The crackle of torn skin and broken teeth clacked beside her ear. She felt... so cold. The abandoned hotel flashed in her mind, an endless line of rotten wood and splintered moonlight. And that feeling - that feeling of the Psycho behind her, his needle clutched in his glove. Two doors and two walls were between them and yet no distance at all. The itching feeling niggled at her spine even now.
Juststaystilljuststaystill.
She was alone. Always, always alone. In the mines, looking for Mike as something watched her from the shadows. The explosion from the Sanatorium, accompanied by timeless screaming of dozens of souls. The forest, running to warn the others, sneakers packed stiff with snow and the leaves and branches cracking and snapping behind her, beside her, all around her as something stalked her through the trees. Smacking the door, hammering and shouting for all she had left - the hand on her shoulder. In her apartment, she could feel a pressure over her shirt as something dashed around her, a soft voice from the shadows.
"Come on, Sam! Come on out and play!"
It wasn't real. No, it wasn't. Couldn't be. Hannah has begged the same of her that summer, but now she mocked the memory from the dark recesses of her best friend's broken mind. Or from the shadows of the place she should feel safest.
Juststaystilljuststaystill.
Everyone, standing stiller than statues, in the moonlit cabin. Above them, in the rafters, on the chandelier, three wendigos scratched, slashed, and screeched at each other. The largest, Hannah, was the easiest victor, smacking her fellows away and crushing their heads into the wooden floor. Sam was buying time for the others to get out; she shouted at Hannah, hid behind a pillar.
"Don't move. Don't fucking move a muscle."
Slow steps of a hunter at its prey. The heaving breathing (her's or Hannah's?) as a low grumble crawled through the air. She froze, didn't even breathe. In her apartment Sam closed her eyes; her heart thumped painfully against her ribs. The engorged skull slithered around the side, sniffing, snuffling, searching for its meal, for its vengeance. Sam breathed slightly, not enough to notice. Hannah snarled softly, gloatingly, and for a moment the tortured, lonely girl could feel the shadow of a breath's caress across her cheek. She smelled it: months-old dead flesh, the filthy stench of death and the dead and she could almost feel the teeth on her cheek.
Juststaystill.
Hannah screamed. In her ear.
Loudly.
Sam wanted to jump away, to run and run and cry and clutch the first living person she found and never let go. And yet she would never make it half a foot. The screaming rang and rang and rang painfully. Her heart raced; her vision grew spotted and hazy at the edges, and her lungs burned. The warm wetness of sticky blood ran down her cheek and Sam gasped, gulping at air, hacking and spewing and it was red, it was all red.
Just. Stay. Still.
Sam opened her eyes.
A flash of too-sharp teeth, mottled grey flesh stretched too tight over too-large bones, and pitiless pale eyes, and Sam collapsed to the floor, jerking and coughing blood and spasming uncontrollably. She was just so hungry... As all sanity fled her, she spotted one small insect on the wall.
A red butterfly.
Jess
She jerked awake, feeling her legs stretch out as her eyes flickered open. She had dreamt of the claws around her ankles. Not a dream, a memory. Licking her lips, Jess got to her feet; she did not need anything but the cold at her back to tell her he was gone. A breath of cold brushed through the air. She put on her slippers and left for the kitchen, where he would surely be, if the lack of whistling in the bathroom was any indication.
Jess remembered little of that night. From the moment they entered the cabin it was all such a blur: there was a warm feeling in her heart, then a smash, a brittle cold as she yelled into the night, a sigh, another smash and claws on her and she was screaming. She screamed and screamed until she was lying on metal and Mike came rushing for her.
After that, nothing until she swung a... something at Matt. There were spots where she remembered him holding her tightly, hissing at her to be quiet as a snarl echoed around the mine, then him shoving, shouting to run and pulling and screeching from behind them and the sunlight on her face.
The officers said Ashley thought she heard her calling out for help, but that was impossible. She had been with Mike, then unconscious, then with Matt. Or was she? It terrified her, the thought that she could have been out of her mind, then one of those... things could have gotten her. But it might have not been her; Ashley had told her that the monsters knew how to 'perfectly mimic their prey', so one could have used her voice to try and kill Ashley. Jess had no idea which scared her more.
She turned into the hallway, only to see a splatter of blood on the walls. Gasping, she stopped. What the hell... Cautiously walking forward, she glanced into the kitchen, and her breath froze at the sight.
Mike lay, slumped, against the worktop, butcher's knife next to him, on the floor, coated red. The contents of his stomach were spilled over his hands. Chunks of his neck were missing, blood stilled and pooled around him. His glossy eyes stared right at her.
Everything shut down. Jess couldn't speak, breathe or even think. He was just lying there, empty, and she could not help but notice how staged it all looked, like a section of Disneyworld. The Eaten Man. The thought took hold.
And Jess laughed.
She laughed and laughed, holding her chest as she took note of the taste of blood on her tongue. She laughed as she heard the growls, the snarls, the angry roars. She laughed as Wolfie barrelled her to the ground, and cackled as he buried his claws in her stomach, his fangs in her throat. She hooted as he clawed at her face. Lastly, she gargled as he ripped out her throat.
As the last vestiges of life fled her, she spotted a butterfly on the roof.
A brown butterfly.