Richard Braintree stared at the chair.
It wasn't that he had expected his apartment to look normal. No, walking around in this twisted nightmare world had taken such ideas straight out of his mind. He could still hear some of the things chattering outside; he still could feel the cold grip of the monsters that had ambushed him when he first started to walk around.
He didn't think this was a regular nightmare.
Everything was too real, and at the same time, too unreal. He recognized the buildings he had passed through, as distorted as they were, but they didn't make sense. It was a nightmare, but it wasn't a nightmare his mind would have thought up. Not only that, but he had met that neighbor of his—Henry—here, and he had also been far too real for this to be a nightmare. Whatever it was, it was really happening.
And for what insane reason was there an electric chair in his apartment?
"Richard Braintree…"
He jumped at the voice, turning around and raising his revolver expectantly. The man in the doorway stepped forward, long coat swishing as it brushed the wall.
"The 19th sacrament…"
"Who the hell are you?" Richard demanded, taking a step back in spite of himself. There was something about that man's face that bothered him, besides the fact that he was smiling.
"Chaos…" Apparently talking to himself, the man continued to walk forward.
"Take another step and I'll shoot!"
The only indication the man gave that he had even heard was a chuckle. Richard fired the revolver without remorse, aiming for his heart. The man was knocked back only slightly, but he immediately began walking again as though it were nothing.
Richard suddenly realized what it was about him that tugged at his memory so. Somewhere in that face were traces of that little pest, the boy who had spent so much time being a nuisance in the halls of the apartment building. He had seen him here, after all, even though it made no sense for him to still be a child. Worse yet, he thought he knew the face from a newspaper article; two brats had been murdered by a man named Walter Sullivan, who had then supposedly committed suicide in jail.
Apparently not.
"Get the hell away from me!" he shouted, emptying his revolver with about as much success as he had had with the first shot.
Sullivan continued to advance, looking very serene for a man being shot at. "You used to yell at me when I was a little boy. You yelled at everyone."
Richard backed up, deciding pretty quickly that an apology wouldn't help the situation. Besides which, something about that smile indicated that he would know it was motivated by fear and not remorse.
"You frightened me. Are you frightened now?"
His legs hit something, halting his progress, and he glanced behind him. Oh, of course. The damn electric chair. A spike of panic shot through him and dried out his mouth.
"None of that matters, now. Soon, the 21 Sacraments will be completed, and I will be with my mother, forever. Safe."
Richard darted to the side and made a break for the door. He had to get out of here—he didn't know where, but anywhere, anywhere would do; the man was going to kill him, and he seemed far more dangerous than the monsters.
Sullivan cut off his escape route with alarming speed and grabbed his arm, forcing his gun free from his fingers. This close, he had an unnervingly good view of his eyes—there was no anger there, no hatred, nothing but a sad sort of calm.
Richard wasn't used to feeling this sort of fear. It crashed in upon him, wave after wave, as he struggled to break free. With his free hand, he grabbed the edge of a countertop.
"Please!" he begged, trying not to look at the chair. "I don't want to die! I'll do anything, anything!"
"All you can do now is help me complete the 21 Sacraments."
To his horror, his grip on the countertop began to loosen, as Sullivan implacably dragged him along. He was torn away, pulled the remaining distance no matter how he tried to dig in his heels, and pushed into the chair.
Richard stood up again, aware that he was making a strange cry, somewhere between pleading and sobbing. This couldn't be happening, it couldn't be happening, oh God, this couldn't possibly be happening!
Sullivan pushed him down again, forcing one of his wrists into the manacle on that side.
"No!" he shouted again, feeling nearly detached from his body due to the horror flooding him. "No!"
His other wrist was mercilessly shoved down and manacled, and he continued to twist, futilely struggling against his bonds. Any minute now, that madman would—no, he couldn't, he just couldn't, things like this didn't happen!
Sullivan leaned towards him suddenly, pulling out a knife and pressing it against his forehead. Richard flinched away from the blade, but there was nowhere to turn to. Blood trickled down his face as something was carved into his skin. Finally, that part, at least, was over.
He screamed as electricity crackled and agony arced through his body. Through spotted vision, he watched as Sullivan looked at him a final time, and then turned and left. He had never stopped smiling.
Richard had a fleeting hope that maybe, just maybe, it would be over quickly.
The pain intensified.