Chapter VII! I'm terribly sorry that I kept everybody waiting for so long, but I'm afraid that I was unable to complete this chapter before I went on holiday for most of August. Hopefully I'll be able to anticipate my timing better and that the next chapter will be posted a little sooner.

Thanks once again for all the support!

Enjoy!

Chapter VII

The walk back to the apartment continued in silence. The atmosphere was stiff, Hanna too preoccupied with his thoughts. He still walked sluggishly, face pale, but looked somewhat better than before. He held his bandaged hand close to him, occasionally wincing when he brushed it against something.

As they walked Nathaniel started to formulate a chain of questions that he wanted to ask Hanna. Most of them were based off the information he had managed to catch while eavesdropping on his partner and Worth's conversation. Why are you acting so strangely? Is it because of this 'Slender Man'? What is 'Slender Man'? Have you been lying to me this entire time?

The last question made him glance at his partner. Hanna had lied to him on numerous occasions, so it wasn't unfamiliar to suspect as much, but that didn't mean it would stop the ball of worry and frustration from forming in the zombie's heart. Not to say that Hanna didn't trust Nathaniel – quite contrary, the taller man knew his partner trusted him very much – but Hanna wasn't always completely honest with him.

Then again, perhaps I'm just overreacting, Nathaniel deliberated. Worth could be right – maybe Hanna's just behaving the way he is because he's been working too hard.

He deemed this as most logical. A part of him still contemplated otherwise.

"Penny for your thoughts?" the zombie eventually asked, hoping to break the silence.

"Hm? Oh, not much," Hanna replied, shrugging. He sounded tired. "Just... random stuff."

"Care to elaborate on something 'random'?" Nathaniel watched Hanna's face as he asked the question, taking note of his brief flustered expression.

"Uhm," Hanna started, face quickly reverting to one of recollection. "Well, for one thing I, uh, wonder what burdock tastes like."

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. You're still such a bad liar. "I should imagine it to be quite chalk-like – in texture, mind you, not taste," he said, going along with the conversation regardless. He was then surprised at what he had said.

Hanna seemed to notice this, too, for he looked up at Nathaniel with interest. "Oh yeah? What gives you that idea?"

"I... don't know," the zombie said, and frankly he didn't. He pocketed his hands in his trenchcoat. "It just came to mind now."

"D'you think you maybe ate it back when you were alive?"

Nathaniel cocked his head to the side, then shrugged at the idea – he didn't really care if this was the case. "It could be a possibility," he said anyway, just to appease Hanna.

"Great!" the investigator exclaimed, his mood lightening considerably. Nathaniel suspected that it was because he didn't have to talk about what he was really thinking over. "Maybe when we make some tea or whatever out of it you can try some!" Hanna suggested excitedly, and then recalled who he was talking to. "Your taste buds are still kicking, right?"

Again, Nathaniel didn't know. "I'm not sure, I haven't really tried to drink or eat anything for the last decade or so."

Hanna laughed. "That sounds so weird, Byron."

Byron couldn't help but let a ghost of a smile pass his lips, which Hanna caught with a 'gnee' of delight. The zombie could almost picture his partner mentally adding another strike to the tally he kept of his and Conrad's smiles. It was amazing how such a trivial thing amused Hanna. Maybe it's not so trivial in his mind, Byron mused as they walked, the atmosphere a little easier. I suppose it's just one of those things that make's Hanna, well, Hanna.

When they eventually got into their apartment building and were walking towards the stairs, Hanna grew decidedly guarded. He hesitated before he followed his partner up the stairs, eyes flittering from one decrepit wall to each stair to the next. Byron followed his gaze and realised he was taking in the shadows, analyzing their presence as if expecting them to uncoil and lunge at him.

"Are you alright?" he asked, making the smaller man start.

"Y-yeah!" Hanna replied, a little too quickly. Byron felt him move closer to his side. "It's really dark in here, have you noticed?"

"It's always been like this," Byron reminded him, now puzzled. He stopped where he was. Hanna instantly did the same, like he was afraid to advance without the zombie. "Why the sudden unease? It never bothered you before."

The red head rubbed the back of his neck, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. "I-I guess I'm just a little spooked after the case," he offered, and as Byron started to argue that he was very rarely spooked Hanna added, "I just… didn't expect to get Mr. Salleh killed."

Byron shut his mouth and held Hanna's troubled stare. The blue irises held an arrangement of emotions – fear, struggle, fatigue, pain. Seeing all of this sparked more than worry in Byron. He was beginning to be afraid for Hanna's mental as well as physical well-being, the potential deterioration of the red head's health rising dangerously close to the surface. Maybe that's why he's acting so strangely, Byron apprehended. He didn't like that concept.

"Hanna," he started, slowly. "Are you sure you're okay?" The question wasn't quite what he wanted to ask, but knew would have to suffice.

Hanna didn't answer at first, just continued to stare up at his partner. He recognised that the question was not complete, he could see the concern in Byron's eyes. And that frightened him. He could deal with anything – the death of a client, a malicious paranormal entity, a broken arm, even hair-loss – but he couldn't deal with dragging Byron into his not-quite-believable matter at hand.

"No," the red head eventually managed to say. He found the truth beginning to pool into his mouth, hot and choking, but he couldn't bring himself to let it pass his lips. "I'm… I guess worried," he said, which was partly true. "And tired. Really, really tired." He emphasised on the 'really', hoping that the zombie would drop the conversation at that.

Well at least that's relatively truthful. "Worried? About what just happened at the case?"

"W-well, yeah. I'm kinda worried that Mrs. Salleh will let the cat out of bag," he explained, and started floundering. "Then the police will go all a-wall and come to the apartment and arrest us and start questioning – and then they'll find out about you and then you're in trouble because you're supposed to be dead but you're not – "

"Hanna."

The investigator fell silent, dropping his eyes to the floor. Byron inwardly sighed. Hanna was genuinely worried about him, that much was evident. He was touched, but couldn't let the red head's worry overrule his own strength. The zombie gently cupped Hanna's chin and lifted his face so that they were looking at each other."We'll be fine," he told his partner softly, but firmly, and let go. That is, I hope we will be. "Now – let's get you to bed."

Byron continued to ascend the stair with Hanna trailing reluctantly after him, the zombie even more anxious, and bemused, than before.

...

Byron took out a clean mug from the cupboard. He took the kettle off the stove, where he had left it for about five minutes to allow the burdock root to steep, and filled the mug close to the brim. The 'tea' was an odd brown-amber colour, and had a subtle earthy scent that was somewhat appealing.

Cracking open one of the bottles of pills that contained white and yellow capsules, he scooped one of them out and carefully put it on the kitchen counter. He did the same for one of the pink pills. Hanna had produced them earlier and had told Bryan that they were 'anti-anxiety and mild sleeping pills', unbeknownst to the fact that Byron knew that only half of that statement was true.

He assumed the pink pills were the Seroquel – used for treating symptoms of bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, the zombie recalled – and he could understand why Hanna would lie about them. Nobody wanted to admit that they were going crazy.

Although, Byron thought, I hope dearly that Hannaisn'tgoing crazy.

Mentally shaking off the thought, he walked over to Hanna, who was curled up on his bed. Byron held out the pills and mug to the red head. The latter accepted them and brought the tea to his face, wrinkling his nose at the smell. He gave Byron a sceptical look.

"I didn't poison it, if that's what you're thinking," Byron remarked dryly, settling himself into his usual spot next to Hanna's bed.

"I know you didn't," Hanna replied. "I'm not so sure about Worth, though."

"Hanna – he's your doctor. Why would he poison you?"

Hanna made a face. "This is Worth we're talking about, bro. He's a twisted guy that gets off on making people suffer. D'you know what he's done to some of his patients?"

"I don't think I'd like to know, thanks. Just take your pills and drink your tea. It's not poisoned."

Hanna pouted, looking very much like a child being faced with a formidable plate of vegetables. Reluctantly he blew the steam from the surface, popped the pills into his mouth and took a small sip. He gagged almost instantly and Byron saved him from spilling all over by reclaiming the mug. Hanna flailed his hands a bit before finally forcing himself to swallow, shuddering against the flavour.

"Sweet Jesus," he hissed.

"It can't be that bad," Byron said, raising an eyebrow.

Hanna wiped his mouth and pointed to the mug with an accusing finger. "Bro, that shit is nasty. Taste it for yourself."

"I'd rather not –"

"Seriously – have some! Maybe you'll remember trying it when you were alive. God knows why, though…"

Not wanting to disappoint Hanna, Byron gave in. He half expected not to taste anything at all. Is it even possible for taste buds to still function after ten years of rot? he wondered, swirling the tea about. I suppose if I can still smell then I should be able to taste. He took a sip – small enough just to taste and not swallow.

A slow heat crackled in his mouth. An arrangement of flavours were slothfully recognised on his tongue – earth, stale air, cold blood, bitter chalky tea – they were subtle, but he could taste them well enough. Hanna took the mug from his hands and watched him, eagerly.

Byron's mouth pulled into a slight frown at the rather disagreeable mixture of tastes – probably from the decade of earth and rot – and he furrowed his brows at the unexpected, but slight, recognition of the flavours. He couldn't place where he remembered them from, or which one he remembered the most. The burdock, however, was somewhat familiar.

"Well?" Hanna pressed, ogling the thoughtful-looking zombie.

"Well, we can now establish that my taste buds are 'still kicking' – essentially, it tastes absolutely terrible."

"I told you! But d'you remember anything? Anything at all?"

"Nothing, really. The burdock is a little familiar, if that helps."

"Good familiar or bad familiar?"

"What do you think?"

Hanna laughed. "Bad familiar, then."

Byron leaned back into the wall, picking up the book that sat close to him. It was a Stephen King novel, leant to him by Conrad. His mouth was still tingling from the heat, but the tastes had noticeably disappeared, as if it was an effort for them to be present. Interesting.

With a nod at the mug he said to Hanna, "You still have to drink that."

The red head's smile fell into a look of dismay. "But –"

"No buts, Hanna."

"It tastes bad –"

"So finish it as quickly as possible – don't chug, you'll choke."

After another minute of whining and debating, Hanna finally did as told and managed to down the tea. It had grown lukewarm, which made the taste worse. He verbalised this quite loudly. Byron took the mug to the sink, gave it a quick rinse and then returned. Hanna had sunken into his moth-eaten sheets, still grimacing. His bandaged hand was outstretched on his pillow, a faint stain of red starting to show through the layers. I should probably change that in the morning, Byron thought, making a reminder.

"Today was such a fail, Crowley," Hanna muttered, rubbing his haggard face. His entire body was groaning with relief at being able to finally lay still.

Crowley started to say something positive. He realised, however, that there was very little to be positive about. Instead he just gave Hanna a sympathetic look and turned to the first page of his book.

Hanna leaned over to pick up the wallet sitting next to the mattress. It was the one that Mrs. Salleh had thrust into his hands when she forced them to leave her house. Hanna had already gone through it, relieved that it seemed to be just a spare that was filled with a few ten notes and some coins. It would have been disastrous if it contained her credit card or driver's license – granted, it was easy to get rid of such things, as Hanna had learnt through experience, but it didn't get rid of the guilt that came with the possession.

He quickly counted out the notes and coins – about eighty-seven dollars – and then sighed. "I really do hope Mrs. Salleh doesn't say anything."

"If she's smart she would run," Crowley said, turning the page. "It wouldn't take long for the police to figure out it was her. She seems the type to be able to take off and conveniently disappear."

Hanna considered this, and worried about the blood that had spilled onto the ground from his hand when they had run down the street.

"Don't think about what happened, Hanna," Crowley told him, as if reading his thoughts. He glanced at his partner. "What happened has happened, we can't change it. Just try to sleep, you need it."

"Yeah… you're right."

Taking off his glasses and placing them to the side, he untangled the sheets from his legs and buried his face into his pillow. The cool surface was a hospitable one against his hot skin. "G'nite, Jack," he said quietly, eyelids already flittering closed.

"Goodnight, Hanna," Jack said. He reached up and turned off the light.

...

Hanna's right arm was burning.

It was the kind of burn you felt when dry ice stuck to your skin. It made every pore pucker and tingle, the veins rising to the surface in attempt to melt off the adhesive, and then throbbing at the effort.

With a stifled moan Hanna reached out to touch his arm, only to find that it was not at his side. Confused, he let the sleep escape from beneath his eyelids and found himself staring at the floor of his apartment.

More importantly, he was staring at a rather familiar-looking pair of amputated arms that were also on the floor. They were holding onto an overturned stool. In their tense grasp, the fingers were rotting and peeling off the bone in blackening clumps. Hanna recognized those arms. They were Damien's arms – devoid, however, of Damien himself.

Hanna swallowed, and felt the terror slowly bubbling in the pit of his stomach.This, he thought, is a little too memorable.

Slowly he turned his head to look up, and his stomach lurched when he saw his arm hanging in the air above him. His heartbeat started to flood into his mind, fast and deafening, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and the bruises on his arm became apparent. They marked his skin from the top of his wrist to the bottom of his elbow, falling in loops of purple-red burst blood vessels and punctured skin.

He hesitated, then tried to tug his arm down. His breath hitched in mid-cry when pressure crushed down on his limb, tight and unrelenting. Something was holding him, something long and thin and glutinous – Hanna couldn't see it, but he could feel it. And the vague ache in his chest told him that that something was most certainly there, and it had no intention of leaving.

He swallowed again, a hard task when your throat has swollen with fear. He closed his eyes, forced himself to breathe, to calm down. Surrounding him was silence. The all-too-familiar silence where even the shadows were too afraid to whisper. He tried to ignore this silence. He tried to fill it with thought, with light, but the only thought he managed was –

Don't look above you.

Hanna's eyes shot open. There was nothing. And then there was the Slender Man.

Paralysis – sharp and instant – set into his bones. The ache in his chest turned to a heart-wrenching pain. His lungs filled with panicked magic and a cry forced itself up his throat, only to have it lodge in the folds of tissue. His mind screamed for him to run, but the only movement his body was able to produce was a brief twitching of fingers.

He was stuck.

Hanna's eyes were transfixed on the non-existent ones above him. He gaped up into that empty face – the one that was so alien, so petrifying, and yet so curiously comforting.

The Slender Man was standing next to him, thick black tendrils surrounded his suited figure and Hanna's arm. But they weren't moving, and neither was the Slender Man. The tendrils hung in the air, mid-sway, the 'man' himself standing erect with his face glued to the red head's. He was waiting.

Studying, calculating, withholding his inquisitiveness – the Slender Man watched. The red head could only stare, heart pounding hard against his ribs, pain in his chest desperate.

Once again, Hanna found himself in position to make the first move. Although as towhatthat first move was, he didn't know. The Slender Man, Hanna realised, wanted to play a game much like chess. In this game, though, Hanna had very little chance of winning.

Hanna didn't want to lose. But on the other hand – he sort of did want to lose.

The cause for such torn perspectives was a kind of hesitant curiosity, gradually materialising from the back of his mind. Hanna had felt this curiosity before, child-like in its state, calming and thought-enveloping in its properties. It was a wonderful feeling, but a dangerous one. This curious part of him wanted to let the Slender Man approach him, it wanted that feeling of safety that the Slender Man gave him, and it most certainly wanted to lose.

No, no you don't, the other part of Hanna urged. This thought was muffled, almost far away, unsuccessful in keeping its hold on sanity. You don't want to lose to something that isn't real! that part of him insisted. He isn't real! He isn't real!

But at that very moment the Slender Man was very much real, and Hanna really didn't mind losing.

He smiled. The fear softened, welcoming the release of the pain in his chest. He watched as the Slender Man shivered back into motion, tentacles seemingly swaying in a slow waltz.

The Slender Man took a few steps back, footfalls stirring no dust, and Hanna felt himself being gently pulled up by the tentacles around his suspended his arm. The Slender Man cocked his head slightly to the side, as if intrigued by Hanna's lack of weight, but straightened when Hanna was set down onto his feet.

Hanna and the Slender Man were only a few feet apart now. The red head's head lolled backwards so that he could continue to smile up at the ethereal being. Vaguely, Hanna wondered if the Slender Man was smiling back in his own expressionless way.

They continued to stare at each other for moments that seemed to float by. Hanna's thoughts sunk further and further into the fog in his mind, struggling to make themselves heard. A comfortable numbness started to spread from his feet to his head, heartbeat rendered to a slow lilting drum. This was nice, this felt good, this felt… safe.

The Slender Man raised a hand, the air around the pale digits drying out with cold. Tentacles rose with the hand, curling and dispersing like smoke under water. The Slender Man moved his hand from side to side fluidly, moving the tentacles around him as if by invisible strings. Hanna watched, awe-struck and mesmerised, unable to feel the tugging of tentacles on his right arm. Hungry, aggressive tugging. They pulled him and Hanna took a deadened step forwards – closer to the Slender Man.

Closer, closer the tentacles pulled him. Cold began to swathe Hanna's skin, smothering the protesting muscles with abstract control. The Slender Man's hand moved swifter, more erratic, flowing flesh turning to spidery electricity. Some of the tentacles reached out for Hanna's untouched left arm, ravenously seeking his weak fingers and tugging, tugging,tugging him forwards –

The apartment door creaked open and light flooded into the apartment, startling Hanna out of his trance. He shot a look at the door and recognised the silhouette of Benedict standing there, except he was holding grocery bags and wasn't moving. Hanna snapped his head back over his shoulder to where the zombie's arms had been clutching the chair, rotting on the spot – but they weren't there. The red head looked back up, and neither was the Slender Man.

...

"Hanna, what are you doing?"

Hanna opened his eyes, the vague lurch of terror churning in his stomach. He was sitting up, with his right arm raised in the air, and he was facing Benedict – who was standing in the doorway, holding bags of groceries. He stared at his partner, aware that his eyes were wide and his jaws were clenched. Sweat was dripping down his face. It was cold.

Light pooled into the apartment from outside the door, barely reaching the end of the mattress. It illuminated Benedict's features, showed that he was real, he was standing there with his arms still very much intact.

Lowering his arm, Hanna unclenched his jaws and let out a relieved but terrified breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. He sunk his head into his hands, and felt his body shake as the adrenaline left his system.

"Hanna?"

The red head didn't look up at his partner's worried tone. He could only think about the dream, could only struggle with the puzzle pieces formulating before him, attempting to understand just what the fuck was going on. It was just like the dream before, and the dream before that, he realised grimly, the cold fog defrosting from his mind. This whole time it's been a continuation of a... a game. A game where things just keep getting worse and worse! Maybe it's a mind-game, maybe it's a game of survival... I don't know which.

Hanna swallowed. His throat was very dry. Whatever game it is – I'm not looking forwards to the end.

"Hanna!"

Breath shovelled itself back into the red head's lungs, and his thoughts snapped shut. Oxygen drew him back into reality, to where his partner was sitting before him and shaking his shoulders, to where there was no such thing as the Slender Man.

"Hanna, I'm not going to call your name again," Benedict was saying, voice low and concerned. "Now, what's wrong?"

"Moth," was the first thing that came out of Hanna's mouth.

Benedict stared at him blankly. "I'm sorry?"

Hanna ggritted his teeth, forcing saliva down his burning throat. "Th-there was a moth."

"And…?"

"And I tried t-to catch it," he stuttered. His eyes reluctantly met his partner's, heart thumping loudly. "It... freaked me out."

Benedict didn't react for a moment. He studied the red head's face, eyebrows raised in speculation. "So what you're saying," he started, "is that a mothcaused you to look as if you've seen a ghost – or better yet, that one has passed through you. Am I correct?"

Hanna pursed his lips. "It was big," he added, in a small voice.

The zombie said nothing. He continued to stare at his partner, amber eyes regarding blue ones. It was obvious that Hanna was hiding something, this they both knew, and it didn't help Benedict's growing concern for him. Why won't you tell me the truth? he mentally asked Hanna, hands holding onto his shoulders tightly. As if hearing the question, Benedict caught the answer as it flashed through Hanna's eyes.

Because I'm afraid.

Benedict blinked, taken aback, though he didn't show it. "Ah," he eventually murmured, and Hanna broke eye-contact.

Hesitantly releasing his hold on the smaller man's shoulders, Benedict got to his feet and turned away. The fist around his heart was now white-knuckled. He craned his neck slightly to the side, not quite looking at Hanna. "Get some sleep, Hanna," he told him, making sure to keep his voice steady - even though he knew it would have trembled. "We'll sort the… moth issue out in the morning."

"Th-thanks, Leonardo," Hanna replied, softly. Leonardo just grunted and walked to where he'd put down the grocery bags.

He lifted them up onto the kitchen counter, and looked back at Hanna. The red head had sunk into his sheets, hands curled under his chin. He let his eyes flicker down to Hanna's right arm.

A 'moth', he thought, can't do that to your arm.

Benedict pursed his lips and went back to unpacking the groceries.

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