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Chapter 1: Midnight
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She didn't want to believe it.
She had seen the truth with her own eyes, yet she didn't want to believe it—it had to be a lie, a trick, the prelude to some twisted game. Another method of torture, designed to cut deep, to shatter their resolve; it was certainly not beneath their tormentor, to resort to such cruelty.
It wasn't true. It couldn't be true, couldn't be—
But it was.
The truth had been laid out before her, irrevocable, the solemn closing of a door-and, in the aftermath of that horrible revelation, she had never felt so broken, so utterly without hope. The weight of despair was heavy upon her shoulders, heavier than it had ever been, and she struggled against that inexorable pull—an anguish so potent that it threatened to scatter her thoughts into oblivion, drowning them in the might of her grief. She felt as if she had been cast adrift, trapped within an ocean of darkness—a solitary ember of light amongst endless shadow, alone in the abyss.
How could you?
Spencer had no answer to the thought, yet it kept cycling through her mind, followed by a surge of desolation that seemed to resonate through the very marrow of her soul; like some horrible serpent, it crept down her spine, throwing shivers along the length of her back. Her stomach was roiling with a fervor that bordered on nauseating, fatigue and despair clashing within her, but she centered herself against the swelling tide—only the sheer dint of her willpower kept her from crumbling where she stood, her final tether to sanity.
She could not afford to allow despair to overwhelm her now, nor could the others, given that the urgency of the night was far from over; no matter how it pained them, they had a chance to end their tormentor's reign of terror once and for all, and they needed to capitalize on the advantage. They were running in silence, their footsteps ringing harsh and heavy against the concrete below, forming a united front as they grew closer to the looming shadow of Radley Sanitarium—now abandoned, the building was little more than a barren husk, a skeleton of what had once been.
It cast a striking figure, a black silhouette against the eternal, midnight darkness—it seemed fitting, after all the chaos that had sprung from this wretched place, that it would also serve as the final battleground. Memories assailed her—of her own time confined behind the very walls that stood before them, trapped in an endless battle for her sanity, echoes of a past that surged to the forefront of her mind with vivid clarity—but as they drew near, the past seemed so trivial, burned away by an unforgiving present.
They had been betrayed—betrayed by the one person she would have never expected it from.
Aria.
The tears were flowing without hindrance, overcoming her, a paralyzing convulsion of grief that refused to cease-but she didn't care, having long since resigned herself to the inevitable. Aria had been unmasked by her own choice—as if to prove her ultimate superiority, revealing the truth to them when they had been trapped in the Carissimi building, forced to witness the revelation on a holographic screen—but, once they had managed to escape, her overconfidence had provided the clue to her undoing.
Mona was keen enough to recognize where the video originated—from her old chamber in Radley, a background that was all too familiar to both herself and Spencer—and, after she had engineered their freedom, they had decided to confront their tormentor on equal ground. It would be the first time such a thing had occurred, giving them the advantage they had sought for so many years; for once, there would be no escape for their tormentor, nothing to hide behind.
No one had said a word in quite some time—it had been a heavy blow for all of them, to lose a cherished friend, to realize that the gentle demeanor was only an illusion.
While she knew such a loss was keenly felt by the others, it was different for her, and it always had been; Aria had been a surrogate sister, her closest friend, someone who knew her with a familiarity that not even the others could match. She had trusted her with a childlike certainty, confiding secrets that she had never breathed to another soul, weaknesses that she had never felt comfortable divulging to anyone else-and, while she hadn't known it at the time, it had only given their tormentor a greater advantage.
She hated how much it was starting to make sense—their tormentor's ability to forever remain one step ahead of them, Aria's unsettling obsession with dolls, the subtle instances where she had felt as if something was amiss—and, given the luxury of time, the puzzle was beginning to take shape. Clues were surging from the ether, unbidden, coalescing before her very eyes; the monster had been in plain sight, and they had been too blinded to see it.
It didn't take them long to reach the sanitarium's gateway—a gothic, rusted tapestry of metal, an echo of an era long forgotten—and as they approached the shuttered building, seemingly devoid of life, Spencer felt her heartbeat quicken. She had learned to never take an appearance at face value; Aria was here, she could sense it, along with whatever perverse games she had in store for them. Every window before them was dark—barren of even the slightest trace of illumination, forcing them to enter if they wished to see what lurked within the building's interior—and for a moment, they wavered at the threshold, paralyzed by apprehension.
Their tormentor was no longer some faceless villain—she was once a friend, someone they couldn't help but care for, someone who knew them as well as they knew themselves—and as much as they hated it, those old feelings were rising to haunt them in their darkest hour. Their resolve, honed in the flames of a mutual despair, began to falter—poisoned by doubt, old weaknesses, old affections. Even after all that she had done, the sadistic relish she had taken in their torment, it was not an easy task to confront her; no betrayal, no matter how grevious, could erase their affection in a single night.
Tonight, it was a liability, a crippling weakness—one that would have to be overcome, for their own sake.
Never one to remain idle for long, Hanna was the first to act, reaching for the doorway-and it opened easily, giving way beneath the pressure of her hand. They did have one advantage—the strength of numbers, their group standing at a total of five, including Mona and Alison—and while it was a small comfort, she would take anything she could get.
Spencer had hardly taken her first step into the atrium when lights flared into existence, a sudden change of illumination that threw their senses into disarray-and she was forced to fling a hand over her eyes, struggling to adjust to the sea of light that surrounded them. It felt as if her eyes had been plunged into hot oil, burning and stinging, a pain that seemed to radiate down her skull-and Spencer hunched over, having no choice but to wait for her eyes to recover. Ahead of her, the others were enduring a similar process—some stumbling backwards, some crying out, all shielding their eyes—and she was the first to recover, lifting her head in an attempt to scan the atrium floor.
Laughter curled around them, sharp and horrible, a jarring echo that sent shivers prickling down her skin-and as Spencer pivoted to face its source, she faltered, her stomach lurching with a frisson of terror. "Ezra." The name felt like acid upon her tongue, weighed down with murderous rage, with the heat of betrayal—she had never liked him, but she thought he had at least a modicum of decency. It stung more than she expected, to think he was capable of such cruelty, that another monster had lurked in plain sight; yet, after tonight, she knew better than to rely on such naïve assumptions.
Ezra stood at the edge of the atrium, a grotesque smile on his lips, his eyes colder than the air in the chamber-and as the others recovered, they spun to face him, surprise and fury mirrored so clearly in each expression. "Why, Ezra?" It was Emily that broke the lull of silence, voice thick with contempt, anger casting a long shadow across her features; it had been a long time since she had seen the girl so enraged. "How could you do this to us?"
"Oh, I'm not alone." Smirking, Ezra gestured to the other edge of the chamber—another figure was emerging from the shadows behind them, a woman clothed in scarlet fabrics.
She was taller than all but Ezra, her hair splayed in an unsettling mirror of Alison's golden tresses, trenchcoat colored with a vivid shade that reminded her of blood-and, as she stepped into the light, a set of unfamiliar features came into view. The woman bore a strange resemblance to Alison—piercing, dark eyes, a commanding presence, agile limbs—but as much as she struggled for insight, the figure's face did not match any that dwelled in her memories.
Redcoat.
Spencer fought the shiver that threatened to curl down her spine, a terrible anxiety pooling in her stomach; trapped between the two figures, the odds of escape weren't looking good. She didn't recognize the woman, but Mona seemed to—a strangled noise echoed from the girl's throat, as if caught between a gasp and a sob—and when Spencer dared to risk a glance back at the petite woman, she had stumbled back a step, her face white as the grave. It was as if she had seen a ghost—and, judging by the ashen terror in her eyes, the conclusion wasn't far off.
"Bethany..." Mona breathed the name, eyes wide, and everything suddenly made sense.
"What's the matter, Mona? You seem surprised." Bethany advanced, drawing attention to the shovel she held in one hand; Mona's shovel, the shovel that was once used to bludgeon her. "Then again, it must be strange to see the woman you murdered."
"That's impossible. Y-you're dead." Hanna interjected, pulling those dark eyes in her direction-and, as their eyes met, she almost trembled beneath the weight of her gaze. There was a terrible fire in Bethany's eyes—a turbulent whirlwind of insanity, one that mirrored Mona in her darkest days, so bright it was almost painful to behold—and Hanna flinched, struck by the odd similarity.
"Well, you of all people should know better..." Bethany's eyes flickered towards Mona—blazing with a grim promise of retribution, a hatred so thick it seemed to choke the air—before settling back upon her, contemptuous. "No one stays dead in this town."
As the duo closed in, circling the group like sharks before a feast, Spencer felt Emily grasp at her shoulder-and she was pulled sideways, enough to hear the whisper that passed between them. "Go, Spencer. We'll handle them." Spencer risked a glance back at the other woman—she and Alison were turning to face Ezra, while Mona and Hanna were moving towards Bethany—and she nodded, even as a horrible chill began to gather along her spine.
This was not what she had hoped for—confronting Aria alone, without the support of the others—but it was what had to be done.
Banishing any further doubts, Spencer launched into a sprint, aiming for the corridor ahead-and while Ezra tried to cut her off, veering in her way with a mocking smile, Alison and Emily were there to intercept him. They attacked with a desperate, primal ferocity, leaping at the man like children attempting to scale a mighty tree-and the trio were soon trading vicious blows, moving at a pace that she found impossible to follow. Behind them, Hanna had crashed into Bethany at a tackle, Mona following close behind-and their battle raged up and down the chamber, which was now starting to resemble a war zone.
Spencer quickened her footsteps, unhindered, entering the labyrinthine maze of corridors-and she continued to run forward, even as her friends fought and bled behind her.
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They were outmatched.
Hanna knew it a few moments after the battle had begun—when Bethany's fist had crashed into her jaw, carrying enough power to send her staggering backwards, black spots flaring before her eyes—and she snapped back to consciousness just in time to see the girl whirl on Mona, shovel whipping through the air with a killer's precision. Mona ducked, barely managing to circle out of range, though her reflexes were slower than usual—even from this distance, Hanna knew her friend's heart wasn't in the fight.
Perhaps, had Mona been at her absolute best, they would have a significant chance at victory—but her resolve was unbalanced, thrown into disarray by her own emotional turmoil, and it left her open to mistakes. It was not just Bethany she was fighting—it was a ghost of the past, one of the many sins that she had sought to atone for—and, no matter how skilled at repression she was, it was bound to affect her state of mind.
Mona was not attacking—either due to her internal struggle or the inability to mount an offensive, she relied on defense, dodging and weaving around any blow the girl sent her way—and she was being driven backwards towards the opposite wall, herded by a calculated offense. Hanna flinched when a blow struck true, snapping Mona's head to one side, a gash blooming across the girl's cheek-and when Bethany wheeled back for another blow, bringing the shovel down in a high arc, Hanna was already powering back into the fray.
Still unsteady from the previous blow, Mona teetered backwards, unable to react in time as the weapon came careening towards her skull in a sudden arc—but mere seconds before it would have struck true, Hanna was there, driving her heel into Bethany's abdomen. The girl staggered a few paces, forced to abandon the effort, lest she overextend her swing-and Hanna caught the brief look of gratitude in Mona's eyes, a warmth that seemed to pass unspoken between them. Even in the heat of battle, the gravity of her act did not go unappreciated; she had likely saved the other girl's life, and both of them knew it.
Not allowing their foe a moment's respite, they attacked together, working in a tandem offensive-but, while they seemed to gain the upper hand for a moment, it didn't last very long.
Even against their combined strength, Bethany was holding her own—her weapon slashing fast and wild as she matched their every blow, those dark eyes burning with a manic intensity—and, as the seconds bled into minutes, Hanna was beginning to tire. Fatigue was settling in, crawling up her limbs like some bitter poison, but she powered through it; this was a battle for life and death, and she would be damned if she gave up.
As Bethany's shovel came arcing towards them, she lunged forward, a renewed burst of vigor allowing her to slip inside the woman's guard-and, before she could retreat, Hanna ripped the shovel from her hands. Unfortunately, disarming their opponent had a cost—Bethany's heel crashed into her abdomen with punishing force, driving the wind from her lungs in a painful gasp—and Hanna was sent reeling away from the fight once again, leaving Mona to face their enemy alone.
Lacking a weapon, Bethany redoubled her assault, driving Mona backwards across the chamber-and, after managing to catch her breath, Hanna risked a glance at her surroundings. Spencer was long gone, having vanished deeper into the sanitarium, while Emily and Alison were still struggling against Ezra—Emily was staggering to her feet, blood trickling from her mouth, while Alison and Ezra were trading furious blows. A cry of pain, jarring through the air in a frightful echo, drew her attention back to her own battle—and when she glanced back, she saw Bethany looming over Mona's sprawled form.
Not today, bitch.
Allowing fury to strengthen her resolve, she drew upon the thought for strength-and, after tightening her grasp on the shovel, Hanna raced forward.
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Alison ducked under a heavy blow, pivoting to slam her elbow into Ezra's ribcage, but he was already twisting out of her reach—and her arm sailed past its intended target, just grazing the fabric of his clothing. Overextended, Alison leapt backwards, narrowly avoiding a sweeping kick-and, as her chest heaved with a surge of exhaustion, she risked a glance at Emily.
The girl was still struggling to rise, bleeding from her lip, a bruise forming just below her right eye-and the sight of it maddened her, driving her anger to greater heights. Ezra had incapacitated her early in the fight—catching her with a hard roundhouse, more than enough to knock her flat—and it was only by luck that she had avoided the same fate.
A sudden, burning pain jerked her attention back to the fight—Ezra's knuckles rocketing into her jaw, snapping her head to one side in a painful arc—and Alison staggered at the power behind that single blow, driven back several paces. Her ears rang with the distinct crack of flesh meeting flesh, blood gushing across her tongue; she could all but taste the awful, coppery liquid, a metallic echo roiling up her nostrils.
"Come on, Ali." Ezra taunted, his arms spread wide, a gesture dripping with pompous flair-and his unsettling grin made her stomach tighten, lurching with a strange mixture of anger and disgust. "Is that the best you can do?"
"Not even close." Pride drove her forward once again, raining down a barrage of punches on the monster before her, but he was undaunted—before she knew it, she was staggering back once more, teeth rattling beneath another blow. She struggled to find purchase on the slick, tiled flooring, scrambling for balance, managing to catch herself—only to be struck with a hard right to the jaw, sending her reeling backwards yet again. This time, she could not hold her balance, body twisting awkwardly as she fell-and Ezra's low, gloating chuckle made her skin crawl.
"You've always been quite the spitfire, haven't you? So young, so...ripe." He was standing over her before she could even think of struggling to her feet—a terrible glee on his face, almost leering—but as he reached towards her, Emily's voice rang out, thickening the air with cold fury.
"Get away from her, you bastard." No sooner than the words had been spoken, Emily attacked—launching forward in a blur of movement, crashing into Ezra with enough force to bring both of them tumbling to the floor—and she clawed at him with a bestial ferocity, lost in the whirlwind of battle.
That's my girl. Alison managed to stand, keeping her eyes on the fight, which was still on the ground-and, wiping the blood from her lip, she moved back into the fray.
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Shadows clung to her—thick and oppressive, clawing at her skin as she raced up the stairwell—but Spencer had never cowered before the darkness, and she wasn't about to start now.
She climbed through the murky light, taking the steps two at a time in her haste, eyes straining against such scarce illumination-but that obstacle was the least of her worries, dwarfed by the anxiety that seemed to swirl beneath her skin. That horrible chill—a chill that seemed to reach the marrow of her very bones, filling her with an unsettling sense of cold deep within—was only growing sharper with every step, as if sensing Aria's presence ahead. It was spreading now, creeping from the base of her spine into her stomach, but Spencer steeled herself against it—she knew what had to be done.
The echoes of battle, though faint, still raged somewhere below; a grim reminder of the sacrifice that allowed her to reach this point, of the chaos that had swallowed up her companions. They were paying dearly for every second she wasted—in blood, in sweat, perhaps in their very lives—and she did not want the price to be exacted in vain, redoubling her pace as she neared the entrance to the second floor.
Aria's lair was just beyond it, she knew, though she couldn't explain why; it was some tangible instinct, deep in her stomach, thrumming with as much power as the blood in her veins. The hairs upon her flesh were starting to rise, tingling with the distinct tremor that she had so often felt in the presence of danger—somehow, she just knew, a conviction that refused to waver. Something made her pause just before the threshold—perhaps fear, doubt, or some terrible blend of the two—and, much as she yearned for assistance, help would not be forthcoming.
This was a battle she would have to fight alone.
Spencer stepped through the doorway, her thoughts turning leaden, cold with a stoic intensity—warmth was a distraction, a weakness that she could not afford. She needed to steel her nerves, her features darkening with a mask of iron, her most inscrutable façade-and rage swept upon her like cold, icy fingers, numbing her senses. She needed to be detached—to focus on the sharp clarity of her anger, rather than the storm of fear and doubt that raged within her, threatening to pull her off-balance—but, for this confrontation, it was easier thought than done.
As she stepped into the second floor, she almost halted at the unnatural sight that greeted her—a long, twisting hallway of mirrors, something that had not been present in the building's layout before—and it stretched towards the other end of the corridor, coming to a stop just before an unfamiliar chamber. The walls flickered with refracted light, curling between the array of long mirrors that coated each surface, but a shadow stood out in stark contrast to the light—a figure shrouded in darkness, standing at the other end of the hall.
Even from a distance, the figure was unmistakable—it was the woman she had once loved like a sister, the demon that had plagued their nightmares for so many years—and a horrible shiver curled down her spine, skin prickling with dreadful heat.
"Spencer." Aria's voice, sickly sweet, seemed to beckon her forward. "What a lovely surprise."
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