Chapter 1: Atonement

'Granny, Granny, please no!'

Eleven-year-old Jonathan Crane's worn leather shoes skidded against gravel as he weakly struggled against his grandmother's iron grip. He bit down hard on his lip, desperately holding back tears and wails of fear at what, he knew, was inevitable. Ignoring his pleas, she marched towards her precious, crumbling chapel, dragging along her grandson with a hand as cold as her heart.

For a moment, she stopped, standing at the rotten doors in admiration of the warped majesty she saw in the hideous place, and breathing in the musty, damp smell in the air. Her spidery fingers then crawled onto a rusty bar and pushed it to the left, unlocking the door. The smell rushed towards the two figures, saturated in gusts of wind, and flakes of black paint and splinters of wood fell in a shower to the ground, clinging to the fabric of her tights.

At her side, Jonathan had began to shake violently, feeling very much like a soldier facing execution by firing squad for tarnished coat buttons. 'I'll be good, I'll be good, I promise,' he whispered, hanging his head, 'Granny, I'll-'

Mrs. Keeny, unmoved, proceeded to yank the boy forwards and hurl him into the darkness.

Before Jonathan had a chance to regain his balance, she had slammed the door shut behind him, trapping him, defenceless, inside the building. He turned and leaned the entirety of his weight against the door as though he could push right through it, in vain, barely-conscious hope that maybe this time, this time she would-

'Ama-a-a-zing Gra-a-ce…' the melody floated through the cracks in the door and into Jonathan's ears, piercing his body and chilling his bones. His knees gave way, and he slipped to the floor, whimpering. 'Please, Granny, please no, not again,' he cried, 'please…'

His hands clawed at the door, aching for his grandmother's mercy, or pity, or anything-

Look at you.

What?

Jonathan momentarily stopped his begging. Just the singing. He strained his ears, but heard nothing more. But he was sure-

And then, he heard a fluttering, the fluttering of a thousand wings, and it didn't matter anymore. Nothing did.

Inexplicably, they knew exactly where Jonathan was, and from the horrible, horrible noise, he could almost see them, getting closer and closer and CLOSER-

Soscaredsoscaredsoscaredsosc aredsoscared-

Trivial things like pride and dignity were rendered meaningless, like everything else, and he pounded on the door, and screeched for his grandmother to please, please help him, and her song was almost mocking him-

They descended.

Swooping down, down, down towards him, cawing and snapping their razor-sharp beaks, with a glint of malice in their beady eyes.

Sharp nips and pinches on what seemed to be every inch of his body, and a thick hurricane of hatred encircling him, and he could only cower, curled into a ball, sobbing like a much younger child plagued by nightmares. Completely helpless.

Get up.

Jonathan stood, horrified, at the window. Rats' blood. Rats' blood. His grandmother had been pouring rat's blood into his suit.

He'd known, sort of, but didn't really want to believe that she was that insane, that she had purposely set the crows on him. What was left of his innocence wanted to believe that she had, at least, had some good about her, and, deep down, meant the best. And yet, here it was, confirmation that she had just been torturing him.

Of course she was.

There it was, that voice again. It sounded like his own, but deeper, older.

Look at you, Jonathan. You're terrified, and completely at her mercy.

I'm-

Yes, you are, of course you are. She has you eating out of her hand, and all because you're terrified of her.

-Who are you?

Remember this, Jonathan.