A/N: This is a short story I'm working on for the Halloween season! I probably won't finish it by Halloween, but I figured if I was to write this kind of story now would be the time to do it. There will be NO SLASH in this story, but there will be a significant amount of violence and scary themes. Hopefully there won't be anything too disturbing, but you have been warned.
Any feedback you wish to give would be greatly appreciated, especially criticism. I really need it! This is written in my natural writing style, but I feel like it might be too lofty or over the top. Should I tone it down?
Thank you for reading and I hope you all enjoy!
Chapter One
Who keep the monsters at bay?
Three years ago, if you'd asked him that, America would have answered without hesitation. Heroes were the brave individuals who kept back the monsters and defended the innocent no matter the personal cost. He still believes that, and always will. It is a doctrine set so firmly in his heart and mind that it is a part of who he is as not only America the nation, but as Alfred F. Jones, the person.
"I'm the hero," he will always say, and then he will strive with all of his might and being to make his claim stand true.
However, the answer he would give now to your question has grown considerably more complicated than what it would have been three years ago. Now he would say that the heroes who fight back the monsters are also... something more. After all, it's a little bit hard to maintain your faith in the cookie-cutter hero- the one with the dashing grin and the sarcastic wit- when your own grin is grotesque and menacing, and your wit fails you as the rot sets into your head.
But I have erred; I must remember the first rule of storytelling. Begin at the beginning, always!
So let's rewind.
As you have no doubt gathered, a lot of events carrying great significance have occurred over the past three years before our story begins. It all began with a curse. No, nothing so cliché as England seeking to punish America and botching a spell- although that has happened before, with humorous results. This curse is a magic of a much graver, more powerful, and far more permanent kind. It was set with malicious intent by a caster who was no novice nor fool, and that ill purpose it has fulfilled exactly as desired. No, the caster was not Russia- although Russia will play a role of importance in this tale.
We are familiar with the differences between the reality of life and the theatrics of a movie. Those very differences, in all their tantalizing fantasy, are the greatest appeal of fiction. But never had those differences seemed as stark as when America's curse began. Indifferent to its grand role in the scheme of the plot, the night did not act like it would have if it were in a movie. You would think the night that changed everything would have the decency to at least foreshadow the calamity with a bit of rain or thunder, or at the very least with a hint of ominous gloom. That embellishment was not to be, for instead the evening disguised itself as pleasant as any other. Clear, quiet, happy.
America was lounging around at home, staying up well past what he should, and playing video games on his couch. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing at all.
Until the lights flickered.
America paused in his gaming, and glanced warily around the room. He was familiar with enough scary stories to recognize the telltale signs. England would call him paranoid and silly, but after a recent night of watching horror films with Japan, America still flinched every time the lights did something unexpected. Now was no different, and it took a minute for the fearful nation to convince himself it was nothing. He mentally berated himself. Honestly, why had he thought it was a good idea to watch those films so close to Halloween?
The lights flickered again- once, twice- and then abruptly, they went out.
America bit back a scream. He quivered in the dark for a long, agonizing moment as he awaited something horrific. When nothing happened, he took a few deep breaths and calmed himself. No one would ever let him live it down if they somehow learned that he suffered a panic attack from a simple blackout. With that thought in mind, America told himself to buck up, be the hero, and for God's sakes get a flashlight, because standing alone in the dark is creepy even if nothing's there. Thankfully, his excessive paranoia had worked in his favor for once. In foresight of just such an occasion, he had kept several flashlights with fresh batteries stored all around the house for quick and easy access.
He stumbled through the dark until he reached the far wall of his living room, where he located his bookshelf and counted up four shelves from the bottom. There, he groped around until his hands fell on the ready flashlight he'd known was stashed there. Sighing with relief, America switched it on. The flashlight's steady beam of light illuminated his surroundings well enough to see. A little nerve-wracked, America decided it was time to hit the sack. Hopefully the power would be back on in the morning.
America carefully ventured out into the hallway and up the stairs that led to his bedroom. He left the door standing open and walked in. Setting the flashlight on his dresser so that it would light the room, America tugged his shirt off and tossed it carelessly onto his bed. Just as he was about to undress further, his bedroom door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the whole house.
America whirled around. Nothing was there. Before he had a chance to process the absurdity of his door shutting on its own, America's flashlight went out. The world around him was plunged into an inky blackness, but that made no difference.
America could see it all the same.
How was it possible for a fiend, so terrible in appearance that surely it must have crawled from the pits of Hell itself, to be garbed only in shadows murkier than the night and yet maintain an ethereal glow? It was approaching… reaching… coming! America stiffened in terror, his stomach clenching in icy dread. It was coming for him, he knew. Although every fiber of America's being longed for nothing more than to shout, to cry, to scream, and to vanish forever from that place, his feet were as stone and his throat was dead, unable to utter a sound.
"Do you fear?" it asked, nearing him still. It did not speak with a voice, but rather with thoughts that struck America's mind like a sharpened blade piercing the flesh. Gasping, America reeled in place but miraculously kept to his feet.
"Why do you tremble? What do you dread?"
The ghastly figure stopped before him and looked down, surveying him from its place behind the glass of the bedroom mirror hanging on the wall. The shadows around it solidified into bloody, torn clothes that revealed the creature's rotting, hanging flesh. In some places along its ribcage, the bone showed through. Its face was hidden from view by a long, black veil that drifted around it, blown by a wind that wasn't there. The stench of death and decay weighed heavily in the room.
"Monster!" America exclaimed hoarsely.
"You fear a monster? What monster?" The creature lifted bony fingers like claws and ripped the veil off, casting it aside. America stared into the same blue eyes he saw every morning in the mirror, only now they held a cunning malevolence that chilled his very soul. Leaning forward so that its nose almost touched the glass, America's warped and undead reflection let its face slowly twist into a sadistic smile.
"The only monster here is… you."
No sooner had it spoken those words aloud, in America's own voice, when it came through the glass in a sudden lunge. America let loose a blood curdling scream and flung up his hands to shield himself, but the creature overpowered him with ease. Tackling him to the ground, it pulled a long, jagged dagger from its cloak and raised it high.
"Go to sleep," America's reflection whispered.
The dagger came down, and America knew no more.
…..…..
When his eyelids fluttered open again, the first thing he felt was a deep and unnerving cold. He was lying alone on his bedroom floor in a pool of his own spilt blood. The house was as motionless and quiet as a cemetery. Dawn was on the verge of arrival, still yet a sliver of pale light on the horizon. The sky outside had lightened enough to strip the dark of its thickness, and after his eyes adjusted America was able to see. Lethargy and numbness had settled into his bones, and his thoughts were a jumbled haze of confusion and overwhelming fear. America gripped the side of his bed and slowly pulled himself upright, trembling under a wave of exhaustion and stress. With far more effort than it should have taken, he staggered to his feet.
Something wasn't right.
America's hands flew to his chest, and he clutched at the gaping wound there. Blood oozed sluggishly from the hole, staining his fingers red. At that moment he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that something had gone terribly, horribly wrong. The regeneration process had been skewed, somehow. The wound that had killed him was supposed to be healed. Fatal injuries always vanished on a nation, and yet this one remained in defiance of that established law.
America did not consider the disturbing fact he was utterly without pain, nor did he stop to wonder how it was possible for his pierced heart to beat. He had no time to do so, for as he turned his head he looked directly into the mirror and saw his decaying, monstrous twin stare back.
Panic seized him, all judgement fled his mind, and he acted on one blind instinct.
Get out.
Get out.
Get out!
He fled. All fatigue dispersed in the wake of a wild surge of adrenaline, and he moved faster than he'd ever moved before. He dared not glance at the mirror as he passed. The shut bedroom door did not falter him. A single kick, backed with all the might and power of a nation, sent it crashing to the ground. Down the stairs, through the hall, and out the front door he went. Out onto the street he stumbled, aimless save for the driving urge to get far away from that accursed place.
He heard a high-pitched scream. America turned, and met the aghast face of a young human woman. She screamed again; it seemed to America her widened eyes were fixed on a point behind him. Her purse slipped through nerveless fingers and fell to the ground, but the woman paid it no heed as she scrambled backwards and ran like the very hounds of Hell were snapping at her heels. America whirled again with a jolt of trepidation, fearing that his otherworldly antagonist stood behind him.
Nothing was there.
A sinking, dreadful feeling filled his gut, and America looked down at himself in rising dread. The realization came like a thunderclap. In an instant, the young nation understood what he had become. Decomposing skin and muscle clung loosely to partially exposed bone. Inside the bloody hole of his chest, America's heart did not beat. He'd never regenerated- he'd awoken as the walking dead. It was not the fiend's reflection that he had seen.
It was his own.
He really was the monster.
His shoulders shook with rising hysteria, and tears began to roll down his frozen cheeks. America fell to his knees and heaved. His stomach emptied its contents all over the pavement. Not a moment later, the night of horrors finally ended. As the rising sun crested the sky, the strengthening light of dawn fell on America. A wondrous transformation occurred as the new day undid what had been done. Living flesh grew over his bones, the deathly pallor left him, and his heart began to beat.