What Darkness Most Fears
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is owned by Nickelodeon and used without permission for the strict entertainment of fans. This story was heavily influenced by the video games "Alone in the Dark" and "Seventh Guest" but the overall plot is mine.
Stories don't teach children that monsters are real. Children have always known monsters are real. Stories teach children that monsters can be killed.-Chesterton
Chapter One
Four hours.
That was how much time he had left, by his reckoning. Though, it was hard to really keep track of time. He wasn't exactly going to trust the clocks that he saw throughout the house. Different times, all of them and the windows were too clouded over to judge by the moon. As for his shell cell, it had long since stopped working, probably the moment he stepped inside this house from hell, if he was going to be truthful. Hadn't bothered to check and he could have kicked himself for it. Woulda helped his internal clock.
Eh, yeah right, he mused. His internal clock had been off for days. Being sick did that.
Adrenaline may have been as prevalent in his blood as hemoglobin right now but that didn't make a virus disappear. Adrenaline only lasted so long and this thing…whatever it was…was clever. He had not encountered any threats on the way up here so his body switched off the adrenaline flow. The crash down was never fun and being sick made it ten times worse. This particularly stubborn virus has been ravaging his entire body for over two days. If Donnie were here right now, he would have been getting an earful for even getting out bed, let alone leaving home and venturing into a demon house. Leo would have been on his case about his senses already being blurred enough with illness and the fact that he had taken Zzzquil not even an hour ago and Raph would have made some kind of quip about him fighting as a drugged zombie.
Every single one of them would have been completely accurate.
Leaning against the wall, Michelangelo let out a low groan, wincing and trying to refocus. When he opened his eyes, his entire vision felt blurry and despite how he knew it wasn't, it sure as shell felt like the room was moving on its own. He had no time to be sick but the damn virus was not cooperating. Despite the need for him to be alert, to be sharp and to be quick on his feet, someone had neglected to tell his body that. Pushing against the wall to stand again felt like lead coated all his limbs and he had to close his eyes again once he was on his feet to give him brain time to comprehend he was not on an overpowered Tilt-A-Whirl.
This was NOT what he wanted to be doing right now but he had lost the ability to choose as soon as he had seen the remains of Donatello's bo on the ground, one of Leo's sharpening stones that he was never without and the signs of a struggle, then the footprints…
His brothers had been late coming back and when they hadn't answered their Shell Cells, Mikey could not lay there, not knowing, any more. Finding the Battle Shell had been pretty easy. They'd gone to get him medicine after all and the nearest pharmacy that had poor security was about ten minutes away. Had felt like ten hours but nevertheless…he'd spied the thing outside this super-creepy house.
If they'd listened to the horror rules…he mused to himself. His brothers always laughed at him when he talked about movie rules but c'mon, you'd think they would have thought even a little bit about it when encountering a mansion that practically screamed "I'm haunted, I'm haunted!" C'mon bros, no entering abandoned creepy houses, no matter what…
Who was he kidding? Raph probably took off chasing some Purple Dragon gang member and whatever spirit was in this house decided to do the ol' swap-and-switch and Donnie and Leo followed to play damage control. Though, it was truly a mystery to him how this thing had managed to thwart all three of his elder brothers. Donnie was way too smart for simple tricks, Raph could bend steel just by looking at it and Leo put Bruce Lee to shame. So, what had this thing thrown at them that had resulted in them utterly vanishing?
They weren't dead, he knew that. But…
Clutching tightly at the small piece of Donnie's bo he had tucked into his belt, whimpering lightly, Mikey took a heavy breath, forcing down the nausea. "Okay, okay…focus, Mikey. Focus. Let's recap…" He really didn't know why he was bothering to talk to himself. Well, okay, maybe he did know. He could barely focus on where he was, let alone where he was trying to go. He knew he was on the second floor and up until this point, he had not felt anything that could constitute as "weird." Old creepy Victorian mansion with weird old furniture and way too much space but nothing that screamed monster or evil or demon.
Well, aside from the initial greeting that he had encountered as he followed his siblings' tracks through the creepy, dying garden with broken down statues.
"C'mon guys! This is the opposite of a good idea!" Mikey's call into the cold night air went unanswered and he stopped in his steps, leaning against one of the few trees in the yard that still had leaves of some kind on it. It was unnerving. Obviously, this had been a garden at some point but it had been a long time since any form of life had grown here. Not even bugs or birds were around and when he had taken the first step off the driveway into the dead leaf coated ground, he could hear nothing from the street. He could see nothing from the street. He'd turned around, slowly, and a misty fog that had not been there before had completed obscured the Battle Shell from view and it had to be less than fifteen feet away.
"…yeah, that's not creepy at all…" He murmured to himself. His nerves were already on edge and this flu was just making it worse. He could have been walking into an ambush and he probably would not have known it. Everything felt heavy and his mind was seriously foggy. If he had driven here, it would have definitely been considered under the influence with how much that Nyquil had gummed up his mind. Honestly, he wanted to run. He wanted to run back home, crawl into his bed and hide. He wanted to pretend that his siblings were just 'messing with me' and would come in at any time, Leo in his stern Mother-Hen voice demanding if he had been drinking water and why he was awake. He wanted to pretend that the shadows around him were NOT moving independently and he definitely didn't want to address the fact that the light in the attic was on in that mansion, despite the house obviously having been abandoned for quite some time.
Taking another step forward, he stumbled and nearly hit the ground though he managed to catch himself on his hands. "Damn it…" His temples were throbbing, his veins pounded behind his eyes. Getting up felt like it was way too much work but he was not about to just sit on this muddy ground. The dead leaves crumbled and cracked under his hands as he pushed himself up again, diverting his sights for the large mansion in front of him. Obviously, something had drawn his brothers towards it and whatever it had been, it was enough that they'd trudged right through the mud, leaving their footprints and not bothering to cover their tracks.
Not good.
Taking another step towards the house, he paused. His ninja senses were screaming at him that he was walking into a trap, that his brothers had fallen for a similar trap. It was one of those annoying warnings though because regardless of if they had been caught this same way, he needed to find them! He was NOT leaving here without them. Especially if they were in this super-haunted-cursed-looking place. As he made his way forward again, squeezing his eyes shut (and no, brain, you are not allowed to sleep!) to force his mind to relax and steady, he yelped lightly when his toe hit something hard.
Cursing under his breath, he rubbed the offended appendage and looked at what had startled a trained-almost-master-level-ninja—
A stone.
Man, that was embarrassing. Looking closer though, it wasn't a regular stone. Too regularly shaped for that. This one was a rectangle. Frowning, he brushed some of the mud and twigs away, revealing a name "Edward Pitchood" A grave. This wasn't just a garden. It was a personal grave yard. He was walking barefoot over a graveyard.
"Gross, gross, gross!" Mikey leapt to the side, trying to get as far away from a creepy abandoned grave as possible. Unfortunately, that resulted in him stumbling into the nearby statue which caved as soon as his shell rocked into it. It clanked to the ground with a hideous cracking and shattering sound. No stone carving should have given away that easily but as he whirled around to investigate, the broken figure of a small girl seemed to scream, almost like the wind whipping through the broken plaster and marble was giving it voice. The broken pieces of stone uncovered the name of "Eleanor Pitchood."
A jerk to the right sent his unsteady gait into overdrive and he collapsed onto the ground on his right side, mud painting his thigh and side and if he had not been so frightened and disgusted and unnerved, he would have welcomed the cold mud against his hot skin. Scrambling to stand again, he was suddenly and abruptly aware of dozens of statues around him. Broken, peeling paint, cracked and missing pieces that fell to the ground in white rain. Names worn away by time and cold unfeeling eyes that stared at him:
Brian Pitchood
Matine Pitchood
Then, the gathering of three stone to the right—Janice Pregtz, James Pregtz, Jeremy Pregtz.
Five more to the left—Edward Burden, Elaine Burden, Maxine Burden, Nancy Burden.
Jerking away from the stones that seemed to close in, seemed to grow closer to him with each minute, Michelangelo ran, his feet pounded the wet and packed dirt. He could hear moans, screaming. Howls. No source though! Well, no source that he wanted to think of in any event. It was quite apparent that those stones and statues had NOT been as clear and evident less than five minutes ago. Things didn't just pop up out of the ground like that naturally. Even in his more-than-drugged state, he knew that.
Ground gave way underneath and he was really stunned that his ninja reflexes still worked, with as lethargic and slow as he was. All the same, he wasn't about to argue it and dug his fingers deep into the wet mossy ground, pulling himself out of the new ditch that had suddenly formed beneath him. It was pretty deep, maybe six feet or so. Freshly dug but how had he missed it? This wasn't like the stone. Even as sick and weakened as he was, he would have seen a giant gaping hole! Pull, up and out..
Flopping down into the mix of dead leaves, mud and collected rain, Mikey fought and lost against the nausea in his stomach, emptying what little he had in his stomach directly into the ground. It left him feeling even more light-headed, dizzy, and drained. Managing to flop onto his back, he took in a shuddering breath, cursing viruses, bacteria and all other methods through which people got sick with all his might. It took him maybe a minute, probably two before he finally sat up, made it to his hands and knees before realized that the new pit that had nearly had him breaking his neck was an empty grave.
One of three.
He felt sick, a deep cold sick that spread over all his body and centered in the gut of his heart. Maybe it was his love of horror movies, maybe it was the overall uneasy feeling this place gave him. Maybe it was his on-again-off-again ninja instincts. Maybe it was a combination of all of that! Whatever it was, he forced the sickness and tiredness out of his eyes and found the stones. A single stone at the north end of each empty pit. Small, polished and each one with a single name in the center:
Leonardo
Raphael
Donatello
Forcing himself to a stand, stumbling to his knees once, he stood back up, his eyes blazing. "Ah, shell no!" Adrenaline had finally taken its mission seriously and for a moment, those horrible flu-symptoms dissipated. He knew it was a temporary relief but he meant to make full use of it. Instinctively, he reached for his nunchucks and was delighted to realize that even in his half-drunken state of medication fog, he'd remembered to grab them. They swung a bit off balance though, given his lack of center. Still, there was some comfort in that familiar grip.
Raising his head, he screeched into the night "Okay, Wise Guy! Where are my brothers?! And don't give me any crap about them being dead! It'd take a mini-army of you…whoever you are…to take them down! Where are they?!" Mikey was well known as the turtle that did not get angry very often but as the one to dread when it did happen. His muscles were tensed and despite not having his weapons, he was well versed enough to make his hands and feet lethal weapons. Falling back into the stance he knew from childhood, he screeched out again "Answer me!"
He got an answer. Oddly enough, he had not been expecting one. Looking up, he found a shape lingering by the doorway. Man-like in shape but when it moved, it was like a mist, black and twisting. Backing up a bit, Michelangelo nearly went spiraling into the grave behind him but he kept his balance. He prayed for that blessed adrenaline to keep pumping and judging by the way he could hear his pulse in his ears, it seemed to be. The man walking towards him wasn't even walking. He was…well, you couldn't call it floating either. It was like watching fog gradually move from one place to the other.
It stopped a few feet away from him.
Definitely a male-like form…tall, but not as tall as Raphael. Slick, looked like Agent Bishop actually but pitch black. And not like the kind of black that you thought of in clothing and face but…solid black. Like he'd been torn out of a dark room's curtains and given three dimensional form. No face. Just simple, flat, emptiness.
"Your brothers are inside my home."
Okay, seriously creepy voice. Heavy sounding and deep, rumbling. It was the tempo of it though. It seemed to quake and quiver, going from monotone to depressed to manic and everything in between all wrapped in one simple sentence. Not quite robotic but devoid of any emotional connection. Mikey knew he'd never forget that voice as long as he lived and he just knew it would be haunting his dreams for quite some time. He was actually grateful this thing didn't have a face because if the voice was like this, he didn't need to see the psychopathic eyes.
In fact, he was pretty sure that despite pushing as much sarcasm into his throat as he could, that he was probably trembling when he spoke.
"If you wish to free them, I am willing to play that game with you." With wisp of hand and mist, a black representation of a hand extended towards him. "It is rare I get to play games anymore."
Narrowing his eyes, Mikey wet his lips and tried to steel his voice though he was certain it quivered. "Let me guess, I only have so much time before the deal is null and void, right, creepy dude?"
"Sunrise," the entity responded. "Or I keep you as well."
"Duh," Michelangelo remarked "I've seen this movie…." He backed away from the creature and inquired "So they're inside your mansion somewhere, right?"His attempts to shrug off the ultimatum probably were not fooling anyone but he was trying. Wasn't that the first rules of any battle? The second the enemy knew you were afraid, you'd lost? He was fairly certain that he had heard that somewhere. He hoped it wasn't a requirement though because anyone with a half a set of smarts could have seen the fear on his face. "You promise they're alive in your mansion?"
No answer but those large oak doors opened and the figure was gone. All he could see was the fine rugs and wood paneled walls within the open doors. Nothing else. No signs of battle, no signs of struggle, no threats. There was nothing that indicated something waiting for him, nothing that indicated a trap. Just…simple monotonous every day existence. It looked like no one had set foot in the place for years if he was to be perfectly frank. For the first time, he found himself wishing for some signs of a struggle, some signs of just ….something.
There was nothing.
Heavy breath in, the turtle rubbed one of Leo's sharpening stones, asking unconsciously for some aid before Michelangelo followed the small pathway, up the not-creaking-like-death-stairs and into the entryway.
The doors slammed shut behind him.
"Damn it…" Mikey groaned and took a step forward. The ground creaked and swayed under his weight and from age (though maybe it was just his entire body tilting ridiculously) and he looked down the empty hallway. Bare walls, no pictures and peeling paint. Blank square places of discolored wall where pictures or portraits had no doubt once hung and had been weathered by time. No windows, save the one broken on in the twisting stairwell leading up the attic. He knew that the stupid light he had seen from the yard had been an enticement. He knew horror stories and while he had never wanted to play a part in one, he obviously was. The…whatever it was…that had taken his brothers was playing a game. Games meant clues. A light, a single light, in a house otherwise shrouded in darkness practically screamed 'look at me, look at me!'
So, was it so bad that he was not looking forward to going up those narrow stairs? Why were attic stairs and basement stairs so creepy? It started in the corner of the storage room currently lingering in front of him and was partially blocked by empty cans of paint. Broken shards of glass decorated the way up, but not as much as you would have expected. Something hadn't been trying to break in, something had been trying to break OUT. The wood and paint by the small window were torn in small, tiny little slivers. Like…fingernails.
Yeah, this was not helping his courage or his confidence.
When he took his first step upward, there was a huge gust of wind and the door that had led him from the second story into the storage room slammed shut. What little light had been in the hallway was shut out and he was blind in the dark. Taking a breath to still his racing heart, the turtle stretched out reluctant fingers and found the wall. It seemed to pulse under his fingertips, as if the house itself was screaming. Another step up allowed some of the faint light from outside to slip in through the small broken window and all he could see from it was dead rats on the stairwell. All of them plump and fat though. Twisted into horrible contortions. They had not died easily. Not poison though. If he didn't know animals as well as he did, he probably wouldn't have noticed. But he was the resident Doctor Doolittle. That look, even on animal faces, meant one thing—utter and complete terror.
Scared to death.
"That's encouraging." He whimpered lightly under his breath, leaning against the wall. He subconsciously looked behind him. His brothers were never far away when they were on a mission and for a moment, just a moment; he forgot that he was on this one alone. God, it felt so silent. He never noticed before how loud the simple calling of insults, ideas and commands were. How soothing the sound of his siblings' baited breath was, the faintness of their heartbeats, the smell of their scent. He had grown so used to them and now that he didn't have those, didn't have the unspoken presence of his siblings by his side…the silence was deafening.
Step up again, one at a time until the half broken door hanging off its hinges swung inward and he entered the attic. Naturally, the door made a horrific scrapping noise and tore across the old, broken flooring with no resistance. Wood that was not strong enough simply flaked off in pieces. He was surprised the whole thing didn't just crumble into dust. Even Donatello, who was well known for being a miracle worker with anything broken or old, would have called it a loss and used it for scraps. He was almost glad for it because if it decided to do that creepy slamming shut thing, at least he could break through this door, even on his limited energy.
Shifting his eyes into the main area, Mikey took in the atmosphere. After all, there was supposed to be a clue of some kind of here. Lights always meant SOMETHING in these stories and if he was going to make it out alive and find his brothers, he needed to be thinking. Much as his siblings and even his father to some degree, teased him about that, he was smart. Just not in the same ways. Maybe his unorthodox interests would come in handy for once? Shaking his head, he instantly regretted it and winced, holding his forehead. Okay, okay, Mikey, he coached himself. What do you have to work with?
Open, wide with old furniture and tables and boxes scattered everywhere. At least in the front. Near the back, where the walls tightened into a wide hallway, he saw a single light, blue-ish in tint, sitting on a table. It was the only light in this whole place and the faint light from a few other windows was darkened. Storms were gathered outside, despite it being almost crystal clear when he had headed over here. That was always an ominous sign. There was a reason all the movies and books used storms. Cliché yes but it blocked out the light stars and the moon provided.
Was not helping his nerves right now.
Deep breath, Mikey. He coached himself. Stepping forward slowly, he tried to constantly look around but if he moved too much to one side or the other, he was likely to lose his balance and fall over. This was a clue hunting mission though he was not stupid enough to think it would be without danger. He kept his nunchucks clutched tightly in each hand, tighter than he normally would, letting them sway only ever so slightly. He could see a small curling staircase beyond this little hallway, apparently a second exit from the attic. Illuminated by the same blue light that seemed much too bright for the source provided.
Mikey stopped when he reached the apex of the hallway, where the wide open attic was left behind him. Now, he was faced with a simple hallway, long and narrow with a simple wooden table, mimicking the corridor in length upon which a single candle flickered in a non-existent wind. One each side of the hallway, were portraits.
Large, fancy portraits, looking to be the items missing from the second story. How many he didn't know. Lots. Dozens. Dozens upon dozens. Rows of them. Men, women and even some children. They looked like professionally done paintings, with very precise brush strokes and exact shadows. That wasn't exactly odd, aside from the sheer number of them, but what was really getting to him was the content. Close-ups of faces but that definitely wasn't what was making his blood stall in his veins. It was the expressions.
A woman with her eyes huge, face white and lips pale blue, clutching at something at her throat that she couldn't get off. Underneath, written in red in the golden frame was 'Matine Pitchood.'
A man with a broken look to his entire physique, huddled into a tight ball, tears running down his face in rapid rivers. The name 'Edward Burden.'
A little girl openly crying, blood dripping from a huge gash in her head. 'Nancy Burden.' Maybe seven years old.
A teenaged boy, his eyes emptying with his head turned at a horrible angle. 'Jeremy Pregtz.'
An older couple, maybe their eighties, pierced together with something, blood coming from all orifices. 'Eleanor and Brian Pitchood.'
Sick to his stomach, Michelangelo's pace quickened:
'Janice Pregtz.' 'Elaine Burden.' 'Horus Mitchell.' 'Samantha Overan' 'Lauren Jessken' 'Mercedes Law' 'Pollyanna Frances' 'Kimberly Law' 'Neina Mitchell.'
Name after name….
Murdered and dying face, one after the other. Constantly. Ten, twenty, thirty…
All locked in a permanent state of panic.
Until he reached the end of the sick gallery, panting, taking a moment to lean on the table. It was trying to unnerve him. That much was apparent. That was obvious as shell. Was doing a damn good job of it! Deep breaths, focus. Feel the ground under your feet, the atmosphere on your skin, the breath in your lungs. Focus on that and ground yourself. It was a basic meditation technique but then he had never been good at it. When he tried to close his eyes and focus on what his senses were taking in, the only thing he could feel was the cold sweat, the throbbing pain of his head and the utter misery in his entire body that manifested itself with faint shakes and quivers of the muscles.
Finally standing upright again, his eyes were drawn to the flat wall right by a simple closed wooden door. Golden frames, same as the others but not polished. Backgrounds and pieces of pigments decorating the canvas that had not yet been refined. Names that had not yet been carved into the base. Eyes wide, a sick feeling starting in his gut, he rushed over, planting his hands onto the dusty coated wall, as he took in the colors—green, little bits of brown, red, purple and blue. Oval like shapes and red and blacks and blues all over the green.
"Oh, God….bros…"
They shifted. The painting moved. It moved!
No eyes, just simple blurs of color. Shifted, lifted and if there had been faces, he would have been staring at them.
"Mikey…"
God, Leo's voice. He wasn't supposed to sound so defeated, so lost, so broken. That wasn't his strong big brother! Leonardo could handle anything you threw his way, absolutely anything! That wasn't what he heard now. He heard pain, pain-ridden words and that scared him to death. If there was one of his brothers that made it an effort to never, ever reveal his real level of discomfort, it was Leonardo. Even though there were no eyes, no warmth from that portrait, the deep sadness and regret in the way he said his name…that was enough. Mikey felt tears prickle in his own eyes. He laid a hand on the portrait, as if that would bring him closer to his siblings. As if that would tell him where they were.
"L-Leo…Raph…Do-donnie, you're okay. I'm coming, bros, I promise. I promise." He didn't make promises lightly; none of them did. Growing up with Master Splinter, he had made it very apparent that promises were a vow on your honor and if you made one, you better be prepared to follow through with it! Mikey meant it though; he meant it more than he had meant anything else before in his life. His brothers, he had to get to them. He had to get to them now! Now, right now, he had to!
"Mikey…" Raph that time, sounding every bit as strained and weakened as Leonardo had. "Stupid…knucklehead…"
Only Raphael had the ability to take the word 'stupid' and make it affectionate. It was though. It was a specific vocal tone that you only learned how to read if you had been living with him your entire life. He rarely heard that tone though...that pleading tone, that tone that screamed for him to run away and leave them. The tone that Michelangelo could not obey and would not obey.
"Behind…you…" Donnie's words were strained, constricted but full of authority as only Donnie could make something. If he'd had eyes, they would have been boring a hole through his chest. So much desperation in that plea, that warning…
Whirling around so fast sent a shockwave of pain through his entire body, starting with his temples and jolting through every single nerve. For a moment, he thought for certain that he was going to pass out. He fought it, screamed at his watery eyes that there was no time to be sick, no time to be out of focus. Threat, there was a threat. Ninja reflexes, I really need you to work right now! Work, work, muscles, c'mon tense, get ready, I know you can, c'mon, please! All this pleading and begging took place in less than a tenth of a second and it really had no consequence.
White faced, black haired, with a neck that was bent at an angle was not physically possible, that horrible death rattle that sprung from her throat. Flesh that peeled off in sheets, eyes that were sunken back into the skull and were little more than pure black sockets that sucked the life out of you. But that rattle, that screech, that wail and howl was more frightening than anything he could give a name to. He caught a glimpse of her, of her nails broken and rotting as she sprung and they both hit the floor.
