After the incident with the window things had been quiet, all of the strange activity stopping. Except for the cold that is, and the black mass that moved into place any time he got too close to the window. America sat underneath the windowsill, no longer in the spot illuminated by the sun. He found himself shivering a little, but despite feeling safer in the warmth he hadn't followed it across the room. The light had shifted, in a long lean glow which slanted to the right, stretching across to touch the opposite wall. It must have been a few hours, he thought, for the sun to have moved that much. But he didn't really know. He couldn't know. The cell phone, which was nowhere to be found, was the only way he had of telling time. His wristwatch was sitting at home on the dresser, or maybe on the kitchen table, he didn't really know. It didn't really matter that much anyway.

He vaguely wondered if he searched through his bag again whether or not the phone would eventually turn up. He had hoped it would the previous ten…twelve… (America narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to come up with the exact number, yet at the same time wondering why it really mattered) eight times he had done just that. It never did. He wondered where it might be. It must have dropped out somehow, somewhere, but where he wasn't really certain. He didn't really feel certain of anything anymore actually. The past few hours seemed filled with aches and indecision. Didn't they say to sit and wait until 'til someone found you? No, that was about being lost in the woods. Although there were plenty of trees around, heck the house was filled with them in the form of hardwood floors and doors and walls, he didn't think his surroundings quite counted as a forest.

America shifted against the wall and winced sharply. While attempting to alleviate the growing ache in his back he'd somehow managed to do nothing at all for his lower lumbar while at the same time making the pain in his hand, now resting firmly against his shoulder, flare up yet again. Trying to take care of that was the one thing he had managed do in the amount of time he had sat dazed in the front room, but doing so had very nearly made him pass out. The act of taking off his jacket alone had been enough to make the room spin. Every motion his fingers were forced to withstand was sharp and stabbing, and followed by a near constant ache. The fingers of his right hand were swollen and bruised, and in a few cases, a little misshapen, or at least he assumed they still were. He couldn't really see them anymore since they were covered by the make-shift sling he had made out of a blue and black flannel shirt. It had seemed to help somewhat at least, as far as keeping his fingers from moving too much. Of course, it also meant that any time he moved his shoulders he also moved his hand, which made shifting around, in some cases, a literal pain. Some part of him also knew that he should have been a little pissed at losing that extra source of warmth, but he somehow couldn't find it in himself to care. He also knew that that small fact should have alarmed him. It was as if all feeling was covered over with a thin shell of haze. Eventually it would crack, he knew, and whatever was underneath would bubble up and over, but for the moment he was just as satisfied to revel in numbness. It seemed saner than the alternative.

America tugged at the right sleeve of his jacket, which hung down empty at his side. He had zipped it up when he realized he was going to have to do something to keep it from slipping off of his shoulder every few minutes, but he still had to deal somewhat with the flopping piece of leather. He smiled as he thought of what he'd be doing if Matt were around, and if sudden movements weren't setting off the pain receptors in his hands so intensely. He'd probably be swinging his shoulders around by now, trying to attack his brother with the empty sleeve. His smile dropped and he drew his knees in further, pressing the bag firmly against his chest. That game wasn't very much fun though to play by yourself. He pulled the sleeve over his knees and began to pick at the cuff. The gold chain, loosely wrapped around his left wrist and hand clinked softly against the snaps. The pendants dangled against his palm, warm and comforting, as if they carried their own life and energy instead of simply taking his own heat and projecting it back. It made him feel a little less alone, the affect soothing. The warm familiarity of his jacket only added to this. America vaguely wondered whether he should blame the fading light, the bump on his head, or simply the loss of adrenaline, but he soon felt himself fighting drooping eyelids, still unmoving despite his best judgment.

America woke when he heard the click, body twitching and eyes springing open. They met with darkness, tinged slightly by the last dying glow of day. The sound only slowly registered in his mind as he blinked away the swiftly fading remains of sleep. It wasn't loud and he vaguely wondered if he had heard it al all. He would have dismissed it as the product of dreams had he not heard the creak that came directly after. His fist closed around… nothing. For the first time in a while panic rose in his gut as he realized that the necklace was gone, the loosely wound chain having fallen (he hoped) from his wrist. He grasped around at the floor, gasping quietly as his fingertips picked up dust and dirt and stray pieces of feather before finally landing on the now cold piece of metal. Slow footfalls came from the hallway, seemingly reaching in through his ears and grabbing hold of his spine, turning it to ice. He clutched the chain and traced the individual charms one by one in a non-verbal mantra; touching the curves and points of one pendant after another, tracing each one deliberately before going back again to the beginning, focusing solely on the shapes and forcing his gaze downwards.

He went through the pendants several times before realizing that the sound had stopped, as suddenly as it had started. The air around him was still, cold and calm. America cast his eye warily around the room, waiting for the inevitable strike, breathing slow and controlled, yet shaky. It was only after a few minutes had passed that he let himself begin to breathe normally again, with a hope that for now the activity had ceased. He hesitantly let go of the tight ball of fear that began to grow inside him and slid down, grimacing as the back of his head made contact with the wall. He shook off the pain though. He deserved it in a way.

'Falling asleep? Really? Who falls asleep after something like this?' he asked himself.

America bent his head forward and reached around with his hand towards the base of his skull. The chain jangled beside his ear as he shifted the hair, stiff and caked with dried blood, to the side and examined the area underneath, breathing in with a soft hiss.

'Who falls asleep after being attacked by a ghost?' he thought again, noting the sizeable goose egg that had formed. 'Someone with a head injury, who's only running on a couple hours of sleep, that's who.'

America brought his hand back down to rest on a knee. And coffee. Not Dunkin's though. Despite their claim, he did not run on Dunkin's. At least not Dunkin's coffee. Their donuts however… He smiled and closed his eyes, picturing the warm, freshly baked treats, the glaze slowly dripping off, the sign on in the window signaling fresh, hot- wait, no that was Krispy Kreme. Didn't matter. They were both wonderfully sweet and yummy, each in their own-

His stomach interrupted the delicious train of thought with a grumble. America opened his eyes again, pulling himself reluctantly out of the image of a warm bakery. He let his head loll forward, bangs pushed into his face and Texas sliding down his nose as his forehead met with his knees. He turned his gaze to the left, over towards the cooler and pouted. Why did he have to bring a cooler? Why couldn't he have brought a thermos? With hot soup, or better yet, chili. The thought of digging through the contents made his hand ache with the imagined cold. America slid it down from his knee to rest between his chest and his bag. Or maybe it just made him notice how cold his hand already was. The only things that weren't so cold were the items from his bag. Well, at least not ice cold. They had been sitting out for a while. America frowned as he looked over at the small pile he had sat on the floor. The chocolate was probably out though, since he had let that melt earlier as he sat with the bag on his lap. Re-cooled melted chocolate always sucked. Plus, with how cold the room was it would probably have been hard as a rock. The only other item though was an apple he had picked up from the hotel's continental breakfast. America shrugged, wincing a little with the movement of his shoulder and, thus, his injured hand.

He picked it up and rubbed it on his legs, then paused as he was bringing it up to his mouth. He turned the side that had been on the ground around to face him and got ready to spit, stopping when he noticed the brown spot marring that side of the apple's rosy peel. He hadn't noticed it when he pulled it out of the bag. But then again, he had been a little distracted at the time. America started to shrug again, thought better of it, and lifted the unblemished side of the apple to his mouth.

The sound made him stop.

It was faint, indistinguishable, and coming from the hallway. He froze, apple still inches away from his open mouth. All of his senses sharpened to a point, and his breathing resonated loudly, alongside his heartbeat, in his own ears. The apple was sat gently back on the ground and America pushed himself against the wall, staring at the open doorway across from him. He wondering whether this time something would happen or whether the noise would, once again, simply stop. The answer was neither.

Each second felt like an eternity to America, with each small infinity connecting to another and stretching out indefinitely. The sound neither moved closer nor moved back, filling the room with an unbreaking tension.

He didn't know what caused him to move after feeling paralyzed for so long, but he did, standing shakily and absentmindedly letting the bag tumble onto the floor. Perhaps it was curiosity, or a restlessness that accompanied the sound's unceasing nature, or maybe even the stupidity that so many people accused him of, but whatever it was he felt himself propelled forward. Even as he walked across the room his mind was screaming at him to stop, to run in the other direction, but it seemed as though America was incapable of following orders, even if they came from himself. Besides, where else was there to go? America stopped and glanced back. Back to sitting under the window? America gritted his teeth as he walked forward. He was tired of sitting, out in the open and exposed; tired of waiting for whatever it was to come at him again. Better to face whatever it was head-on (at least until he actually did face it, he quietly acknowledged, then he'd probably run screaming).

He found himself standing in the doorway, trembling hand against the frame, blocking out what little bit of light still came through the window. Although he couldn't see a thing the sound was much clearer. It softly floated down from the second floor. America's feet moved forward, the sounds beckoning him further. Curiosity or restlessness might have been a motivating factor originally, but something new had taken control. All he could think about as he made his way up the stairs was the fact that the sounds that had terrified him so much just a minute prior were quiet sobs and sniffles.

Author's Note:

Okay, first of all I want to thank everyone for your reviews and comments. It really helps out a lot knowing I'm kind of getting this right. But don't worry if you don't review a chapter or something. It's awesome just having gotten a few.

Now, to this chapter. It didn't quite turn out the way I had planned. I didn't actually even get to the part I was hoping to cover in this chapter, and it's kind of slow (as you probably already know, since the author's note is at the end of the post -_-') so consider it a transitional section. Also, I think I may have temporarily broken America's brain or something… he's acting a little… off

I think he's getting back to normal finally, and it's a bit of a relief... I worry about him acting OOC and plus, he's really hard to write when he's like this.