It was dark, and the sky was letting down a small drizzle. A small boy ran for his life, ducking under branches, leaping over fallen trees, splashing through puddles. The figure behind him continued in hot pursuit, the heavy, ragged breathing almost down the boy's neck. He whimpered to himself and ran faster.
How'd this happen? He thought to himself as he frantically scrambled over a rock. How? He was so calm...so calm...
He gave a cry as he slipped and fell, tumbling down into the shallow bed of the creek. Coughing and sputtering, he shakily drew himself up, but it was too late to do anything now; he could hear the footsteps right behind him. He groaned, fell back down into the silt-ridden mud, and slowly turned over onto his back, both hands to his face.
The towering pine trees swirled all around him. The moon was bright, reflecting the glint of silver that shone off the blade of the machete his killer was carrying. The figure raised the blade high over his head, his eyes wild, his mouth set in a twisted snarl.
"Ready to die?" he growled...
SECOND CHANCE
By Grand High Idol
Inspired by the novel "Twisted" by Sue Hollister Barr
Disclaimer: I do not own Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, nor any of its characters.
CHAPTER ONE
New England, fall of 1804.
"What are you doing back there, boy?" a portly, middle-aged man called to the back of his wagon, a trace of agitation in his voice. "I didn't raise you to be a slack-off! Now finish loading that hay so we can go to town!"
"Yes, Papa," the boy in back replied, sounding rather agitated himself. He sighed in frustration, then threw another pitchfork of hay into the back of the wagon. From behind him, his little brother, Cal, and his little sister, Hester, sat near the entrance to the barn, watching him work. The boy working—a young adolescent—turned to them, flashed them a leer, then returned to his hay-pitching.
It was harvest season again, and every year the family would head into town, away from their current rural settlement, to sell their goods and produce. Every year since the young teen had turned twelve it had been this way—pitch the hay, shuck the corn, clean the animals, harness up the horses, big whoop. There were days when he wished that he wasn't the eldest; that someone else could do all the dirty work while he watched, but no such luck. There weren't many advantages to being the firstborn in this family, it seemed.
He grunted as he pitched the last of the hay into the back, then wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to look at the porch. The boy's mother then walked out, clothed in her best formal dress, the cheerful smile of optimism on her face, as usual. She trotted over to the barn, gave Hester and Cal each a kiss on the forehead, then walked over to where the teen was currently standing.
"Chance, you're doing a wonderful job," she remarked, then gave him a quick hug—watching the pitchfork—before walking to the front of the wagon. "Take care, okay, boys?"
"Don' worry your pretty little head," the portly man replied, giving his wife a kiss on the hand. "We'll be jus' fine, won't we, Chance?"
"Mm-hmm." The boy nodded, leaning over on the pitchfork; he didn't sound very impressed.
Cal, enthusiastic, leapt up and began to head for the wagon. "Mama, I'm old enough to go to town this year, remember?" he exclaimed. "Can't I please go with Chance and Papa? Please?" He looked up at the wagon, his eyes bright. "I'll stay out of trouble, I swear!"
The portly man looked down at him, then finally replied, "Oh, all right, Cal, you can come. But jus' so long as you stay with Chance while I'm selling my goods, alright?"
"Oh, I will!" Cal replied, eyes sparkling. He leapt onto the back of the wagon, next to Chance, his golden-brown hair complimenting the hay that surrounded them. The portly man in front cracked the whip, and with a jolt, they were off.
"Goodbye, Mama!" Cal called, waving, as his little sister and mother vanished into the distance. "I promise I'll be good! I'll try and get you something special, Hester! Goodbye!"
He sighed, blew a wisp of straw away from his face, then flopped down next to Chance. Chance had always been a solemn, quiet type, even when he was young, but Cal still admired him for how hard he worked to keep the family running. He was a handsome young man, his ebony hair perfectly in place, his eyes the dull gray of storm-clouds, his skin unnaturally pallid despite the fact that he worked in the fields most of the day. Chance was a hard worker and a supportive big brother, but at the same time Cal and Hester feared him. There was just something about the teen that was unnatural to them; they just couldn't quite place a finger on it yet.
Chance was now lying atop a bed of straw, chewing on one end of a blade of grass, the brim of his old-fashioned straw hat pulled down over his eyes. Cal drew his knees up to his chest and watched him. He was always so care-free, so eager-to-please, but what did that mean, exactly? What was his motive?
He was thinking things again. He sighed, then flopped down onto his stomach and stared down at the dirt road as it passed underneath him. In another fifteen minutes, he guessed, they would be in town.
Small urban town, fall of 2004.
The apartment was a mess. The balcony was littered with toilet paper, the halls splashed with beer, potato chips littering the ground, soda spills all over the couch. A blond-haired boy, his hair shoulder-length and tied back in a ponytail, snuck up behind an ebony-haired teen, a bottle of dish soap in one hand.
"Think fast!" the blonde cried, and before the ebony teen could reply the dish soap had been emptied out all over him. He gave a cry of disgust, then removed his plaid overcoat and chucked it at the blonde.
"Dammit, Rusty!" he exclaimed angrily. "It's going to take hours to get this stuff off of me!"
"Lighten up, man," Rusty replied, removing the overcoat from his face and tossing it aside. "You may not be in the right mood, but hell, Terrence, you sure can throw one heck of a party!"
"Yeah, yeah." Terrence ran his hand through his hair, picking up quite a bit of dish soap in the process. "But listen, you've gotta get the guys out of the bathroom, and soon. I mean it. If Mom gets home before this she's going to bite my head off."
"What about that wimpy little brother of yours?" Rusty asked, flopping down on the couch. "Whatever happened to him? I haven't seen him here in weeks."
"Pheh, he went to this stupid freaky house to play with his dumb imaginary friend," Terrence replied, trying to get the excess dish soap off of his face using his overcoat. "Typical, huh? Can't beat on him 'till he gets home. Of course, this does give me more time to myself..."
"Haven't you tried to maul him while he's at the house?"
"Been there, done that. Bad experience." Terrence tossed the overcoat aside once more. "Okay, so we've got about an hour left before my mom gets home. We've done practically everything we can do at a house party...what's left to do besides watch TV?"
"Well, I watched this one movie where this guy gets hypnotized at a house party and he starts seeing freaky things," Rusty explained. "Why don't we try that out? Can't hurt."
"I don't believe in that psychic junk," Terrence replied skeptically. He flopped down on the couch next to Rusty. "I just think it's something used by people to gain publicity. Honestly, if you could read my thoughts, would I even need to speak to you?" He flipped his hair back. "Besides, I can't be hypnotized."
Rusty cocked an eyebrow. "Quite sure of ourselves, aren't we?"
"I'm just speaking the truth."
"Heh. Sure you are." Rusty looked toward the door, which was partially open, then looked back at Terrence. "Tell you what. Why don't we go out to the town graveyard and I'll try my stuff on you there? It'll provide a creepy air and we'll at least get to spend some time away from the other guys."
"Mike and Steve are going to find out we're missing sooner or later," Terrence replied, just as cynical as he had been before.
Rusty laughed. "Are you kidding? Steve drank so much he's practically unconscious, and Mike...heh, well, Mike isn't going anywhere." He clapped the ebony-haired teen on the back. "So, what do you say? It's worth a shot."
Terrence sighed. "Well, anything is better than watching Mike ralph. I suppose we could give it a shot." He arose from the couch. "But I still can't be hypnotized."
"We'll see about that," Rusty replied cockily, as the two left through the door.
New England town, 1804.
"Remember, boy, you're in charge of your little brother while I'm in town. If anything happens to him—anything at all—you'll be the one to blame. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Papa," the ebony-haired teen replied, arms crossed. Cal stood behind him, taking in the sights of the town, eager-eyed.
"Good." He clapped Chance on the shoulder. "You're quite the responsible one, my boy. I have the feelin' that you'll make yourself a wonderful farmer one o' these days."
"Thank you." Chance still seemed dark, agitated, underneath the brim of his straw hat. Cal found it strange that his father didn't seem to notice this.
The portly man turned around, then began to unload his crates of produce from the wagon. "Now why don't you go look around for awhile, boys? I don't think I'll need your help in this field."
"Okay!" Cal replied brightly. He turned around and began to walk off, eager to see the town for what it was. Chance looked after him, then looked back at his father.
"You watch your little brother now, you hear me?"
"Yes, Papa." Chance's voice was still as emotionless as it had been before. He took one last look at the man, then turned around and began to head in the direction of his little brother. Upon catching up to Cal, he snagged him by the wrist and drew him close.
"Ouch!" the younger boy cried. "Chance, what are you—"
"Listen to me, you little wretch," Chance hissed angrily at him, his pallid hand tightening on the young boy's wrist. "Whatever you plan on doing, I want you to get out of my way and stay out. And if you even dare tell father what I said to you—"
"Chance, I promised! We made the deal last night, remember?" Cal whined, struggling to free himself from the older boy's grasp. "Now stop it, okay? Just stop it! I'll keep to myself, I swear!"
"Good." Chance let go of his wrist, shoving him slightly as he did so. The young boy lost his balance and landed hard in the dust, coughing and choking on the clouds that arose from the impact. Chance leered at him, pulled the brim of his straw hat lower, then turned around and walked off.
Forcing back tears of rage, Cal slowly staggered to his feet and dusted off his clothing. Sure, they'd made a deal last night—but Chance had seemed much less agitated than he had now. Was the entire scenario really necessary?
He sighed. Maybe Chance was in one of his "bad" moods. He had been working hard in the sun all day; maybe the heat had just gotten to him more than it usually had.
Forgetting about his older brother for a trifle of a moment, he looked around in awe at the sights of the town. Never had he seen so many houses, so many different buildings, in one place...! He didn't know where to start looking. Perhaps he should stop by the General Store and get a gift for Hester? Or maybe stop by the old mill and talk with the owner of the place?
So many decisions...
He stopped when he heard the clacking of hooves on the pavement—hooves that had been shoed, cleaned, and apparently polished. He stared in awe at the magnificent horse that passed by him, its painted white-and-brown coat gleaming, and its mane an aura of magnificent colors. Its brown eyes seemed to look at him as it clopped past.
Ever since he was five, Cal had always wanted a horse of his own—or at least be around one. Sadly, the only horse he had ever come into close contact with was Verity, their old cart-and-plow horse, and even so, she was rusty with age. He had even overheard plans by his father about putting her down eventually.
He looked toward the direction of the horse excitedly. Maybe there was a stable in the area—he could actually look at some of the most prized horses in the county!
Forgetting all about Chance, he ran off after the horse, full of enthusiasm.
Suburban graveyard, 2004.
"Careful where you step," Rusty said in a phony ghost voice. "You may wake the deeeeeeaaaad!"
Terrence elbowed Rusty in the shoulder. "Not funny," he replied. Drawing his arms around himself, he looked around the graveyard. Rows upon rows of tombstones and monuments lined the vast area, their silhouettes haunting, almost evil, in the dull moonlight. "Geez, Rusty, did we even have to come here? I can't believe I let you talk me into this."
"What's the matter?" Rusty said, smirking. "Afraid of a few corpses?"
"No, it's just that..." Terrence sighed. "Look, Rusty, my dad was buried here along with God-knows-who-else. We're so far back in the graveyard I'm beginning to see tombstones dating as far back as the Civil War."
"That's good," Rusty replied, nodding. He stepped over a small tombstone; Terrence almost ended up stumbling over it. "I hear that the further back you go, the better the spell works. Once we reach the direct center we can start, okay?"
"And just how the hell do you know where the direct center is?" Terrence demanded, shaking from the cold. "As far as I can tell we're stuck in the middle of nowhere. Let's just sit down and get this whole stupid thing over with, okay?"
Rusty looked at him with a skeptical air, but instead shrugged and replied with a simple "Fine." The two boys took their seats atop adjacent tombstones, Rusty facing Terrence. The blonde took a deep breath, then held his hands out in front of him.
"Okay, Terrence, listen to me, and listen to me closely," he began. "Close your eyes. Shut out everything around you."
"This is stupid..." Terrence muttered, but he did so anyway. Rusty continued:
"Now just sit there a moment. Take in the noises of your surroundings. Let every muscle in your body relax. Every...single...muscle."
Terrence sighed in response. Rusty smiled, ran his tongue over his teeth, then once again resumed: "You're in complete blackness now. Everything and everyone around you is gone. The only thing you see is the dark. The only thing you hear is my voice." He paused. "But wait...you see a light up ahead. It's dull, but you see it. You find that it's actually an eye examination screen.
"It bears the letters S-L-E-E-P. You read over them carefully, pouring them through your mind. You are now ready to begin your trip into your subconscious."
Terrence made an unintelligible noise. Rusty drew in a deep breath, held his fingers out in front of the ebony-haired teen, then commanded, "Now sleep."
He snapped his fingers. The boy's head dropped down onto his chest, his shoulders sagged, and his body fell limp.
"Now then," Rusty said softly, "What do you see...?"
New England town, 1804.
The stable was much larger than Cal had imagined, and the air was thick with the strong scent of hay and droppings. Stalls lined either side of the walls; he stopped when he saw the multicolor horse being led in—by a girl, nonetheless. She appeared about his age, her brown hair falling down to the middle of her back, her light-blue dress smudged with dirt. He licked his lips dryly, then began to move toward her.
The girl didn't know that he was following her until she turned around to face him, which provoked Cal to jump. She giggled; the horse tossed its head and snorted.
"Sorry to startle you," she told him, in a voice that sounded as soft as a meadowlark's. "What exactly are you doing in here? Have you come for your horse?"
"No, no, Verity will be just fine," Cal replied (forgetting for a moment that Verity was actually with his father), grinning weakly. "Um...my name is Calloway. Calloway Kraige. My family calls me Cal for short." He heaved a deep sigh through his teeth. "Um...I like your horse."
"Thank you." She smiled. "She's a champion—a blue-ribbon winner for three years running, now. Known around the county as Julia Harding's Colors Flying."
"Are you...?"
The girl nodded. "Julia. Julia Harding. I raised Colors from a filly when I was...I think eight. She's wonderful, that she is. Not only can she run like the wind, but I also think..." She smiled, then brought her mouth close to his ear. "I also think that she can sense spirits."
"Really?" Cal's eyes widened.
"Yes. I sometimes take her to the private graveyard near our farm and lead her around there, and I think she can see them. And hear them. It's amazing."
"Wow." Cal heaved another deep breath. "I wish I could partake in something like that."
"Well, perhaps if you asked your father, I could take you back for the evening and we could probably go—"
"Cal!"
The two turned in time to see Chance standing in the doorway, arms akimbo, his features cold as ice. His steel-gray eyes burned into Cal's, almost in fury, and he continued, traces of quiet insanity in his tone, "Cal, father has gone to the General Store, and he wants you and I to accompany him. So get away from that insipid girl and her inane excuse for a nag and let us—"
His voice was drowned out by a loud whinny from Colors Flying. Julia and Cal both turned to look at her, their eyes wide, as she reared up on her hind legs, pawed the air, then, eyes wild, charged for the entrance to the stable—the exact spot where Chance was standing. Chance flinched, then slowly backed away to the side of the doorway.
"What in Hell's name—"
Colors raised her front hooves again, then brought them down on the raven-haired boy mercilessly. He heard a loud CRUNCH sound as the left side of his ribcage shattered, and his side caved in; he gave a loud shriek of pain mixed with rage...
"Terrence! Terrence, stop it!"
The boy continued to scream, hands at his side, as he lay on the ground, writhing and twisting in utmost agony. He had seen the horrible creature ram down on him; heard the crunching sounds of his ribs breaking, and all had gone black afterward. He had fallen off of the gravestone and landed hard on the ground, still kicking and screaming, eyes shut. Rusty, looking around in a panic, brought his hands to the teen's shoulders and shook him roughly.
"Terrence! It's okay! Snap out of it!"
(Chance! Chance, I'm so sorry! Are you okay? She didn't mean it!
I don't understand...she's never acted out this way on anyone before...)
Terrence heaved a deep sigh, then slowly opened his eyes—in time to see Rusty standing over him, a worried look set upon his features. The raven-haired boy groaned, then rubbed at his head, slowly sitting up.
"Oh God," he murmured. "Wha—what happened back there...?"
"You were silent for a moment, then you suddenly started screaming and fell over," Rusty explained to him. He helped the boy to his feet. "You okay? You landed pretty hard on that one tombstone over there."
"I—I'm fine," Terrence breathed, leaning against Rusty. "It was just a hallucination from the hypnosis, I—I guess." He sighed. "What a trip!"
"What happened? What did you see?"
"I—I don't remember, exactly," he replied. "I just remember something charging at me, then attempting to trample me. It seemed so real...God, my side hurts."
(Someone get a doctor! Please, for God's sake, get a doctor!)
Rusty shook his head. "I'm not surprised, frankly. Like I said, you landed on your side pretty hard." He began to walk back toward the front gates of the graveyard, dragging a half-dazed Terrence on his shoulders. "I think we'd better get you home, man. You look pretty pale."
(Is he dead? Please, don't let him be dead! My father will never forgive me!
He's not dead, he's still breathing—)
"I'm gonna be sick..." He shut his eyes tightly as the nausea swept over him, and fought back the urge to retch on the spot.
"You'll be okay, trust me," Rusty told him. "You were right, man, I never should have talked you into this. I honestly had no idea that this would happen." He blew a whiff of blond hair off of his forehead. "Hopefully you'll be better in the morning."
"I dunno..." Terrence moaned, then fell limp against Rusty's shoulder. The blonde sighed, then heaved the teen up onto his back and carried him back to the graveyard's front gates.
He hated Colors Flying after that. The damned animal had pawed him nearly to death for no apparent reason whatsoever, and he was furious. Sure, the doctor had told him that he was going to live—he just had to spend a few months laying low until his ribs healed—but where was that getting him? He was sure that the nag had punched a great-sized hole in one of his lungs, the pain was so unbearable. Not all the painkillers in the world would fix a thing like that.
He had a plan, however. During his state of half-consciousness he had heard all about Julia's farm location; it actually wasn't too far a walk from theirs. His ribs still blazed like the dickens and it hurt to move, but revenge would make it better for him. He knew it would.
It was the thing, to him, that was right, and good.
The last dose of morphine that had been given to him had worn him down a bit, but still he kept a close eye—and ear—for movements or sounds of anyone in the house. Once the final candle in the hallway had been blown out, and the creaking ceased, he knew that it was time. Inhaling deeply, he slowly arose and, ignoring the burning pain in his ribs, slowly stepped out of bed. He was still in his nightclothes, but that need not matter; no one was to know about this anyway.
It took him at least an hour to limp out of the house—the floorboards were old with age and creaked at the lightest step, not to mention he was walking with one side of his body practically caved in. He had to open every door with caution. Once he was on the porch, silently shutting the door after him, he looked out to the fields, eyes blazing with utmost insanity.
The sky was cloudless; it was a harvest moon. The fields of corn beyond the barn swayed with the light breeze of fall, and the scarecrow perched in the center seemed to him, in his state, like a hanged man. Doom was in the air tonight. He could feel it, smell it, almost taste it.
Grinning madly, Chance began to lurch toward the dirt road that led to town—along with some selected farms, Julia's included. Staggering like a drunkard along the road, he continued down the path for quite some time—the moon was in the middle of the sky once he had reached his destination.
Oh, this Julia Harding was rich, all right; her house was like a stately manor compared to their own. Beyond the manor lay a barn; he supposed that was where her family kept the livestock—Colors Flying included. His expression still maniacal, he began to lurch toward the barn.
He stopped at the side of the house, however, when he noticed something glimmering in the dull moonlight. Puzzled, he knelt down and wrapped his fingers around the cold, wooden handle, lifting it up to the sky. His reflection leered back at him in the silver; he grinned madly.
A hatchet. This was too perfect.
The damned horse had caved in his side, but tonight would be the last she would ever see of him. Hatchet slung over one shoulder, he once again headed in the direction of the barn, his steps lighter, more careful. Sure, the pain was nearly unbearable, but he knew that it would be worth it.
An eye for an eye, a life for a life. That had been his motto.
He stopped at the door; it was wide-open, surprisingly, but surrounded by wooden fencing. Gently hopping over it, he headed into the barn.
It smelled of old hay. He heard the grunting of swine; the soft snoring noises of the cows, and in the back—surrounded by ribbons—the horse herself. Colors Flying. She was asleep at the moment, her head down, her breathing shallow. Chance stepped toward her.
At hearing his footfall, she jerked her head up. The boy in the doorway was no one she knew well, but somehow she sensed evil in his presence. Her ears flattened, she gave a low neighing sound and backed against the wall. Chance was not intimidated.
"Stupid nag," he whispered, coming closer and closer to her, the hatchet at ready. "Stupid, stupid nag."
Colors Flying gave a high whinnying sound and pawed at the air, but Chance took no heed of this. He was now directly in front of her stall, hatchet poised, the eyes of insanity burning into her brown ones.
"You know what you did," he breathed, raising the hatchet. "Now you must pay. You must pay."
Colors tossed her head, backing to one side, then the next. Chance approached her, seized her by the mane with one hand, then with the other brought the hatchet down with sheer force into the center of her head.
Years of working in the fields had given him strength, even in his pained state. The silver blade of the hatchet sunk deeply into her skull, the gray mixing with the dull red of blood. She gave a high-pitched screech, tossing her head, trying to get the horrid object OUT—
The pressure was proven to be too great. Giving one last weak cry, her head burst apart in a spray of blood and carnage, splattering the walls in a mural of pink, white, and red. A cow bawled from the other side of the barn; several pigs squealed as the horse's body fell to the ground, limp as a sack of grain.
Chance, his face smeared with blood, looked down at her, sneering.
Colors-fucking-Flying, indeed.
Wiping the excess from his face, he began to head out of the barn, smiling madly as he went on his way, and imagining the expression on Julia's face when she awoke to find her precious animal dead in the morning.