Synopsis: The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?
Genre: Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror
Ending: All survive
Rating: T/M – Just in case, you know...
A/N: This chapter literally could have gone on forever... I cut it short before I got carried away!
Chapter Seven
Because knights come in blonde hair
Ester. Ester, I try and break through the fear locking my skull, trying to think rationally. Just Breathe. You're going to be okay.
But I'm not, am I?
I can feel the harrowing presence of the man lurking beside me, the body heat radiating off him, making my skin itch and curdle. He's clad completely in black; like he's designed himself to perfectly fit into the shadows. Like he's made out of shadows. A balaclava is pull over his head, only a pair of icicle eyes staring through it. I imagine him smiling manically behind the fabric, teeth tearing through lips, eyes twisting towards me. I want to bolt for it. I want to break out of the seat he's forced me into, snap the ropes tying my wrists. And I want to break the chair in half and use it as a weapon against him. Splinters can hurt a hell of a lot.
But I can't. The two pairs of eyes staring back at me through the projection keep me there. Weylyn and Miriam. They're filled with fear too. Whether for me or just for themselves, I don't know. But it's there. Lingering underneath their skin, ready to burst through.
People do crazy things when they're scared.
My head darts around, mapping out my location. The cold, concrete tiles are glinted with cool, blue moonlight and the glare from the projection, the sharpness of the light sinking into carpets and wooden walls. I remember where Brayden is, coordinates ready in my mind, if he hasn't already woken up - though I doubt he'd move. He'd be too comfortable. If I escape, I'll run to him. As much as he's just a lump of mass, I'm not leaving him. He's more than a lump of mass to somebody. He's more than a lump of mass to me. I couldn't live with myself if I left him here.
Then the projection cuts out. Like somebody stabs it with a knife, killing it. The light dims.
Almost instantly, the man beside me rips off his balaclava and I almost yelp.
"Okay," he mutters, untying me from the chair. The rope has left raw red lines against the pale skin of my wrists. I hiss, the pain throbbing, and I tentatively run my fingers over the wounds. He could have given me a little wiggle room.
"Sorry," he says swiftly, sounding genuine, as he notices them. "I had to make it look convincing."
I almost send a glare up at him. Apologies don't really heal wounds, do they?
Then I catch a glimpse of tufts of dark blonde hair, a pale skinned, elongated face. "We need to go," he says, sounding urgent. And he hooks his hand into my elbow, tugging me out of the chair. It doesn't take much effort on his part, given that my muscles are almost completely frozen, my eyes just staring at him. He just tied me up. He just stole me from the room upstairs, threw me in a chair and chained me to it with rope. And now he's untying me? Letting me go? Why?
I don't know what to think.
"I'm helping you," he assures me, like he can read my mind. Then he lifts his eyes to meet mine. And the blue in them has warmed. Like the bubbling, warm waters of a hot tub.
And they look so much like Ismay's. Like he's stolen hers right out of her skull.
"Who are you?" My tight voice asks. But I snatch some strength with my hands and grip it in my fists, keeping my eyes focused and on him. I need to look unmovable. Like I'm fighting against a wild animal.
"Chandler," he casually throws out, continuing to usher me away. He's too distracted on escaping. "Pleased to meet you."
So this is the mysterious Chandler. At least now he has a face. Instead of a sticky note.
"I thought you weren't supposed to be here," I say casually, though my throat is small. Wheezy. I'd never let on.
Chandler's face breaks out in a grin. "Power of misdirection," he sweeps the words off his shoulders. The way he looks, how tall he is, the worn creases on his forehead tell me he must be around about twenty-five. The experience in his eyes tell a different story. "Do you really think a maniac would leave a sticky note?" He has the same creases around his mouth as Ismay's when he smiles. The same glint in his eye.
Are they related?
Can I trust him?
But before I even have a chance to sort out either of those questions in my head, Chandler ushers me around, his hand on my forearm. And I almost scream, my feet stumbling back and almost tripping.
There. Stood at the bottom of the steps, are the mannequins of Weylyn and Miriam. Stood stalk still, light glinting off their black, plastic skin. Yet they moved. Like they had a mind of their own.
"What? How?" I splutter out, wanting to fight against Chandler's arm, to run away. I can deal with normal mannequins. But when they move? Not so much.
"Oh, don't worry about those," Chandler says, noticing the direction of my attention. He tugs me past them, obviously getting quite irritated at how much I'm stalling. Sorry, Chandler, if it's hard for me to trust someone who just tied me up. And says not to worry about the moving mannequins! "They just move in sync with the people in the other house. Something to do with trackers inside their neck bands."
Our footsteps are hollow against carpets and tiles. The room smells so empty. Clean, like it's just been cleaned. There isn't even any bacteria to fill up the hollow spaces. I purposefully grab Chandler's fist around my arm, noticing the glint of a wedding ring, and shove his hand off. He stares at me, accusingly. Worried. I just give him a look that says "I'm not a dog."
"How do you know so much?" I start, trying to calm my voice down. No confrontations, Ester.
"It's a long story," Chandler says. I wait for him to elaborate. But he doesn't. Instead, he just keeps on moving, shifting into shadows, following walls. I don't know why he needs to. This house is as empty as Brayden's brain.
Except for, you know, us. And him. And a few, half a dozen, robot mannequins!
I'm sure if Brayden were awake, he'd be slurring out the words, "So cool." With a string of endless o's. He doesn't have good taste.
"Did you see Issie?" Chandler passes the sentence towards me, not even looking in my direction. Instead, he's pacing corridors, pressing against walls, yanking on door handles. Unsuccessfully, I might add – you'd think he'd have more of a plan for this.
"Issie?"
"My sister," he turns around to face me. And I suddenly see the panic in his eyes. The worry. The love. "Ismay?"
Siblings. It all makes sense. "Yes," my voice breaks for him. He must be terrified. "She's in the other house-"
"Then we need to go there," he snaps, spinning back around again, set back on his mission. He's muttering over and over to himself, black gloved hands running through thick, blonde hair. "I shouldn't have let her go. I should have told her not to go. I should have-"
His words echo inside the empty space between us, bouncing against the walls and into my ears. It's so eerie. So big. The whole building. Like a plastic model, a replica. A dolls house. And the maniac is just playing with us.
In this huge, big, empty space.
"What do I know about this place?" I ask, my feet stalling. Chandler's follow. His back stiffens but he doesn't turn around. I can barely see his figure in the dim light of the moon, skimming across his black covered shoulders, smeared across one side of his pale face.
Then he breathes. His shoulders heave. He swallows down a breath. "This isn't the first time this has happened," he finally manages to confess, gulping.
"I figured," I say bluntly, knowing that, whatever this theatrical was, it was implying that this happened with our grandparents. But my voice is soft. It reaches out to him like a hand. He's just terrified for his sister. He's come to save her, as every knight in shining armour should.
"No," he interrupts me, his face turning just enough so he can see me. And I can see his profile. The worry engraved, scratched as features on his face. "I mean after then. With my dad. Our parents."
Then he finally turns to look at me, his body facing mine. And it suddenly hits me. Every single word he says. "This has been done before. We're not the first."
A/N: Dun dun duuuuuuuuuuuuun!
Anyone else excited to Chandler? -raises hand- oh... only me? Okay...
