A/N: Greetings! This will be my first ever fanfiction that is based inside the genre of horror and suspense. I saw The Boy for the first time last year, and I fell in love. Sadly, I have kept the first three chapters I wrote under lock and key for the last year as I did not have time to update and keep up with the story so I simply wrote a chapter when I had time. Unfortunately, I am only in a little better situation to write. I am currently working on a story called Body Snatcher which is under the movie Casper as well as have several other stories that are incomplete.
Please do try to be patient with me and just leave encouraging reviews to help propel me forward. My Casper fic is a very simple story and doesn't take a lot of thought or planning, this story however is a psychological horror thriller so for it to be any good the plot needs to be strong and the story must flow and have few loopholes.
I cannot promise you this will be the most well thought out story but I have wanted to post and share this for over a year. Please enjoy what I have so far and I will try to post as regularly as I can.
NOT EDITED
WARNINGS: All chapters are based in horror and most will either have scenes of a sexual nature. I will rate this at T for the first three chapters but once I post the fourth chapter I will be changing it to M. Please be aware this story will talk about sexuality, psychological issues and traumas, rape and will contain swearing, talk of suicide, sex scenes and blood and gore. If any of this bothers you or is a trigger please do not read OR read with extreme caution. I will try to narrow down each warning more thoroughly to reflect what each chapter contains as I post.
There will be some light hearted moments, some tender moments but this is not necessarily a romance so much as a story about what can happen to the human mind when it is under duress, stress and threat. Survival of the fittest.
This story will take place at the moment Greta escapes from the Heelshire mansion and is running through the woods. It will change and branch off from the original movie storyline when she tries to kill him with the screwdriver.
Read, review and of course, enjoy.
Chapter One
As I Lay me Down to Sleep
She can't breath, her heart is like a bomb in her chest that is exploding. She rushes through the woods, her lungs heaving and body feeling like it's high as a kite.
Greta doesn't look back, she doesn't dare look back for fear of what she might see behind her.
Her mind is screaming, filled with warning bells and that pungent ever driving shot of adrenaline making her move faster than she ever has in her life.
She wasn't even this scared when Cole would go into one of his many rages, she wasn't this pumped with endorphins and adrenaline when she was on her way to the hospital, her last desperate attempt to save the only truly innocent thing in her life.
Through the trees and brush she could just barely make out the gates, she is almost there, almost free. Free of Cole, Brahms and this haunted house of horrors.
Another name flashes before her mind's eye and despite her instincts pushing Greta to go, her feet began to slow and the fear begins to take a turn.
Not for the preservation of herself but for the preservation of another.
She hears a distant scream, her eyes darting to the ground at the realization.
"No." She whispers out into the cool night air. In quick succession she sees images of herself running. Running from Cole, from the loss of her child and from a life she no longer wanted, running from Brahms…
She had not wanted to run from Malcolm, and that man, the one who didn't know how to flirt, who had made her feel so welcome, who had ignited a flame of want in her body after so long being dormant… he had returned for her...protected her from Cole and shielded her from Brahms.
Always running, Greta, like a wild animal from the fires of life…
"No." She says again.
The sound of her own mother's voice….the words from just before she left… made the young woman freeze and she walked a tight circle as she ran a hand over her forehead.
This is it Greta, you've run from everything… and it only got worse. Time to face this...time to grow up.
"Malcolm." She nods with surety, and slowly she turns and heads back to the house.
PAGEBREAK
Greta is in the hall when she sees him, the hair on the back of her neck stands on end, her instincts are in true form tonight.
Cole is still laying on the floor in the pool room, blood still oozing out though it has slowed considerably, he is still dead and frozen with a face of eternal shock.
She is numb as she looks upon him, any of her emotions for the man, good bad or ugly, dying with him.
She senses movement in the darkness and her head slowly turns to peer into it. Before she actually spies him she knows Brahms is silhouetted against the window, his body tense as he stands there watching her.
She had started formulating a plan as soon as she had decided to go back, she only hoped it would work and she wasn't too late.
"I came back for you, Brahms." She starts with hesitancy, her fear causing a tremble in her voice.
Slowly he moves forward, emerging from the shadows like the phantom he is.
She tries again, needing him to remain calm so she can try to gain control. The screwdriver in her back pocket a comforting reminder that she is not without aid.
"I told you I wouldn't leave you, and I didn't did I." She states quickly, his loud breathing seeping out from behind his mask like a gas leak from a pipe.
His height is formidable, it isn't until this very moment she truly comes to comprehend how much danger she has been in. She was alone in this house with a fully grown, mentally unbalanced man, who has some great need of her.
He wants her, in more ways than one and she confirms this as he grows closer, stepping right in to her personal space, leaning down to smell her hair and give the faintest of moans.
"I didn't did I?" She repeats as more anxiety floods her voice and this slip seems to excite him more.
She feels his mask brush the top of her head, sees him lean closer and hears how his breath increases.
She sees his hands start to come up, notices how they shake and his fingers bend violently as if to grab her and panic forces her to react.
"Brahms!" She yells sternly and to her great relief he jumps a little and jerks back, looking at her sidelong with curiosity and mild confusion.
"It's time for bed now." he looks down at her and tilts his head to the side, his eyes focusing on her with dubious belief.
She grows more confident and says sharply, "Brahms, I said it's time for bed."
She thinks she sees defiance in his eyes but can't show her fear, she cannot be submissive, she MUST remain dominate. "Let's go." She orders as she moves away from him and down the hall, "You know the rules."
Almost reluctantly, he starts to walk, a tentative slow pace as he moves past her and down the hall.
He enters into the bedroom slowly, coming to stand just near enough to the bottom corner of his bed to allow her entrance. Though his back remains to her his head peers over his shoulder, waiting for her to follow him.
Greta flicks on the light quickly when she sees how dark the room has become. Her eyes nervously darting to the broken weapon in his hand.
"Put that down now, Brahms." her voice remains soft and he complies almost instantly.
The tip of the harpoon makes a loud thunk as he releases it but she moves past it as he brings his hands behind his back and waits patiently.
"Ready for bed?" She asks, still feeding a false calm into every word she speaks.
He nodes and maneuvers around her, seemingly eager to be tucked in. "Under the covers." She adds, knowing its a paper thin restraint but that every little bit helps.
She tucks him in, it takes all her willpower not to look at those dead eyes softly staring up at her.
"Now, be a good boy and go straight to sleep, okay?"
He stares a moment longer, those eyes appearing relaxed and calm but her insides crawl at the dullness of them. Perhaps that is more creepy to her than the mask, the fact his eyes hold little to no emotion save for bouts of rage and anger.
From behind the mask a single word emerges, strangled and weak as he tries to maintain the child-like voice he has so often hid behind while simultaneously laying down.
"Kiss."
"No kiss tonight, Brahms. It's your punishment, I'm sorry."
She offers up a small smile, his eyes seem to focus more at her denial of his wants, a certain dissatisfaction at the prospect of her not finishing the list.
"Okay." she says in hopes of ending the night with finality. Greta stands, hoping to god that he will accept his punishment and not throw a tantrum.
As she moves away from the bed though, her hopes are dashed for he shifts behind her and suddenly a vice like grip takes hold of her wrist and she looks back to him, trying to push more fear down even as it surges up from her gut.
"Kiss." He says again, his voice even weaker, more pathetic. He pulls her back gently as he once again lays down and she knows how unsure she must appear as she stares at the doll mask planted firmly on his face.
She can't tell if he is sincere or playing with her, can't tell if this is the young boy who wants a mothers love or the grown man who covets her body.
If Greta could only know how much of this was clever manipulation versus mental trauma and psychosis she may have been able to counter his demands.
But she doesn't know how smart he truly is, doesn't know how self aware and conscious he
is of his actions.
So, as long as he has hold of her, she cannot continue on, she must comply but she mustn't show her fear.
Making the decision to do it quickly, knowing that if this is the boy it will be done and over with in seconds, she allows him to pull her closer.
As Greta leans down his hands shift to slide up her arms and take her shoulders. His hold is strong but gentle and she tries to focus on how hard she would need to push in order to get away.
An attempt to press her kiss to the bloody cheek of the mask fails as he turns his head and she is mashed up against cold porcelain lips.
Hoping he is done, she turns her head away but he pursues and finds her lips again, this time easing up to meet her fully as a lustful moan creeps out from behind his mask.
Her hand grabs the screwdriver as he tries to pull her closer and before she can take a second to think she plunges it in, the man behind the mask gasping in shock.
However, his shock wanes fast and he screams out indignantly, his hand thrusting her away. She yells as her feet leave the ground, his strength giving her a new shock when she realizes its near inhuman.
She is up quickly, planning to beeline for the door when a hand finds her throat and tosses her back against the wall.
A grunt bursts out at the jarring slam, air gushing from her lungs as fingers tighten painfully.
She tries to beg, she doesn't want to have to hurt him more. She doesn't WANT to be a murderer. God she doesn't want to die.
As Greta gazes out to see those shining eyes there lies a world of emotions; anger, fear, pain and hurt, betrayal, torment… blood lust, all flashing like bright orbs in the dark of his eye.
Somewhere, deep down, well into the darkest parts of her mind she feels pity for this creature. Neither man nor child, unwanted yet loved by his parents, obviously reaching his grimy hands for something...anything...whether to ease his insanity and blood lust or because he is truly lonely she knows she will never find out.
She wonders if this is how Emily Cribbs died, strangled first, than her face bashed in and she hopes that little girl didn't suffer as long as she is.
Her will to survive outways her pity and she reaches a hand to grasp onto the screwdriver still embedded in his side.
Brahms sees it coming though, must realize how desperate she is to not die and he presses her up the wall higher, a lone hand holding her in place as his other hand takes hold of her wrist and yanks it away, the tool coming with it.
He steals it from her bloodied grasp and quickly slams it through the wall next to her head, just inches away from her left ear.
Now free of the tool his other hand twists fingers into her hair and he grips it tight as he brings her down from her suspended hang, the mask coming to rest just inches from her face.
"You are mine to love and care for, Greta. Mummy and daddy said so."
Her vision is near black now, the pressure behind her eyes dulling as she accepts that he is going to kill her, to choke her into darkness, remove the oxygen to extinguish her flame.
"Brahms-" she manages out, the barest wheeze of his name, "Be good for them, who ever comes next. Be...a...good….boy...for….me." Just before her vision goes dark she sees those vengeful eyes narrow and realization seems to hit him.
His hold doesn't tighten anymore, in fact, it loosens. But it doesn't matter, for as she tumbles down into the realm of nightmares and dark she takes comfort in the fact that once she is dead she won't have to run anymore, and that, to her, sounds like a dream come true.
PAGEBREAK
It is a blaring light that greets her, the pounding in her head is ungodly and she knows instantly that she is restrained.
Her back twinges and aches as she tries to sit up, her head hanging at an odd angle and causing a sharp pain in her neck.
"Oh...ow…" she manages out and when she finally fights off her stiff muscles she raises her head to see where she is.
The kitchen of Heelshire mansion stares back at her and she gives out a devastating sob as she realizes that Brahms didn't kill her.
She coughs a little as her throat is swollen from his gripping hands, and tears start to flow down her face.
"Gr-Greta?" Comes a strained call and she jumps in her seat, looks over her shoulder to see Malcolm, bound to a chair, but exceedingly alive.
"Ohmygod, Malcolm….are you alright? Did he hurt you? I heard you screaming-"
"No, I'm okay….I'm fine… just...what are you doing here? I told you to run!"
"I came back for you, I c-couldn't….I couldn't...go. Not without you." She said truthfully, "I wasn't….wasn't thinking...I should have gone for help….but I thought...by the time I got to them….you'd be...he would have….and he would be gone...I thought I could…"
"It's okay Greta, it's okay, calm down...the good news is we have two heads to think a way out." and though it seems hopeless she finds comfort in his words.
She nods quickly in agreement and starts looking around the kitchen, hoping for anything to be close by or within her reach.
Her hands are tied behind her back to the chair, her feet secured to the legs and her waist has a few pulls of rope around it as well.
"I'm secure, even if there was something nearby I couldn't get to it." And Malcolm seems to agree with her assessment.
She glances to him and asks feebly, "What happened while I was out?"
Looking to the door and trying to make sure they aren't being overheard Malcolm talks slow, as if each word is a pain to utter, "After you ran out... Brahms took his anger out on me. I thought he would kill me but something stopped him. I think he must have heard you come back.
He left me in the passage and I blacked out. When I...when I woke up I was being tied to this chair. Ten minutes later he brought you in, tied you there and left. Haven't seen him since...it's been two hours maybe...sun will be up soon."
Greta nods at this and swallows, "H-how long until you are missed?" She asks, for she knows at this point they could both be dead before that happens.
Malcolm thinks a moment and then sighs, "A week."
"A w-week..a week? I thought you owned the store...surely they would notice if the owner-"
"Who just took his yearly holiday because there was a pretty girl up the road and he was stupidly hoping to spend time with her is missing? Yeah, I… was a little presumptuous-"
A smile slowly pulls to her face and she shakes her head, "No...you weren't."
He looks at her in surprise and then he too gives a small smile in return.
Greta sobbers quickly though, as any idea of romance or a happy future must be put on hold until they are free.
Her chest tingles with anxiety and she speaks even though she realizes it isn't going to help them in anyway, "I thought….he was going to kill me. I had him for a second...stabbed him with a screwdriver….but...he just...it didn't even phase him. Just pissed him off."
Malcolm nodded though he looked shocked at the news, "He choked me out in the bedroom...I thought for sure when I blacked out...that was it...I could finally stop running...but...I guess not."
Malcolm gives her a look that screams both pity and understanding and he goes to speak when suddenly a soft call comes from the doorway, "Greta?" They both look over to see Brahms standing there, his bare feet reflecting off the polished kitchen floor.
Eyes peer out at her, the call of his innocent child like voice making her stomach crawl. He is still wearing the same outfit, still filthy from his run through the house, from killing Cole. She sees his white shirt is blood soaked on the lower half and her fear of retribution runs deep.
Neither captive says a word and they watch as he slowly starts to approach. His eyes remaining on her, his entire being seeming to revolve around nothing but the woman in the chair.
"Greta." Brahms says again, this time coming to stand before her and looking down. A small trail of blood follows him and she realizes the wound she inflicted hasn't been tended to.
She sees his mask has been cracked down the center, a hairline fracture and she can't help but frown at the metaphor of it all.
"Your mask...Brahms, it's cracked." She whispers and he cocks his head to the side, a hand coming to gently touch his most sacred possession.
He doesn't say anything in response and from behind his back he pulls out an object. Her heart stops at the sight of it, the doll she had cared for these past couple months lovingly repaired and staring at her.
"Take. It. Greta." And the child like voice of young Brahms washes over her, "Take. Him. So we can play."
Greta's mind tries to digest this, tries to sift through the thin layer of haze that still remains and she finds herself getting sick.
Her stomach lurches and she turns her head to the side as a pool of sick forms on the floor. She gasps for air and tries to cough up the rest, her nose burning and eyes watering.
"God...Fuck." She gasps.
A hand grips her firmly on the jaw and yanks her head around, "Mummy says no swearing."
Greta stares up into those suddenly narrow eyes and takes a gulp of air, "Mommy's not here, Brahms. You're going to have to start using your big boy voice."
The man looks away, a bigger cock of his head to show more confusion as he thinks on her words.
"Don't you remember? In the passage, you told me to come back...that if I left you'd kill Malcolm...that wasn't the voice of a little boy...that was the voice of a big boy. Big boys make their own rules, you don't have to do this Brahms...you can let us go."
"Take. Him. Greta." He says by way of silencing her and he sets the doll on her lap.
"I don't want to play, Brahms." He ignores her as he walks to the sink and takes up a rag. He rings it out and makes his way back to her.
Greta is surprised when he kneels down and gently takes her jaw again, using the rag to clean her face, wipe her lips and remove the sweat from her brow.
He then throws the rag over her pile of sick on the floor and stands, moving away quickly and folding his hands behind his back.
"Greta." He says simply, no other instructions or offerings of what he might want.
She stares at him a moment longer before she speaks, "What? What do you want? I'm tied up Brahms...I can't do-"
"Will you play, Greta?" She stares at him a moment and then glances over to Malcolm who has remained silent this whole time.
Brahms seems to catch their eye contact and he lets out a blast of a noise as he gives a violent jerk towards her, Greta's head instantly snaps forward.
He stumbles to her and falls on the floor, sliding to rest at her feet as his hands come to her knees and slide up her thighs.
Another shot of adrenaline to her system makes her gasp and attempt to shift away in panic and instinctively she looks again to Malcolm.
"No!" Brahms suddenly yells, his true voice finally breaking through.
"You look at me!" he spits bitterly and a hand shoots up to take hold of her face, "You. Look. At. Me." He pants out, urgency and worry lacing his voice which flutters between a higher pitched whine and a low gravely demand.
Greta forces calm into her voice again, knows that one of the few things she can be sure of is that the more worked up she gets the more excited he becomes.
"Al-alright, Brahms. I'm looking at you. Tell me what you want." And she tries to keep the trembling in her voice from taking over, tries to keep the tears at bay as she realizes she is at his mercy for now.
The hand that remained on her thigh slides up a little further as he adjusts to sit more fully on his knees. The hand that had grabbed her face relaxes a little and soon enough a thumb strokes her cheek.
He seems to cry a little, a sort of half sob as his voice continues to jerk up and down, the confusion of what he is and what he wants from her becoming more clear every second.
"Wasn't I good? Wasn't I a good boy? Greta, pleeease...I did what you asked. I made the bad man go away...made it so you could stay...he was going to hurt you...I hurt him instead...you asked me to...you asked me-" and his words died on his lips as he starts to shake and sob truly.
She watches him in shock, realization hitting her that Brahms is right. For better or worse she had asked him for help. While she had not wanted Cole to be killed she had unknowingly signed his death warrant the moment she had asked the doll to save her.
In her mind it would be divine intervention, a earth bound spirit helping to save her soul, and she had been ready to return that favor with her undying loyalty to him. Had seriously considered asking to stay on when the Heelshires had returned from their trip.
Greta had assumed Brahms a spirit trapped in the doll's body, not a man trapped in his own mind.
Had she known...if she had known who and what he was….she wouldn't have asked for his help, hell, she would not have taken the job.
No one would have stayed, and that sliver of pity she had buried so far down for this murderous creature came closer to the surface and she spoke softly, "You're right Brahms…"
The man before her stilled and the mask peered up, eyes shining wet through the holes as he looked at her, "You're right...you saved me...I asked for your help and you gave it to me willingly...thank you. You are such a good little boy."
Brahms breathing becomes excited, his eyes twinkling now as he leans closer and says eagerly, "Kiss?"
Greta feels her lips roll together as she stares at him in worry but at seeing him so set on a reward for his efforts she doesn't dare dash his hopes as the resulting tantrum could be very bad for both her and Malcolm.
She takes a deep breath and nods once, begging her heart to stay calm as she hears Brahms lick his lips behind the mask.
He presses on her thighs, moving them apart so his hips can slide between and his grasp on her face remains gentle but he holds her in place as that mask converges on her mouth.
"Kiss." His whispers near happily and she hopes with everything in her being that he doesn't get carried away. One hand rubs up her thigh the rest of the way to come and rest on her hip where he grips it tightly, the other hand sliding away from her face and into her hair.
His mask draws closer and she hears the way he is panting, sees the crazed excited look in his eyes as he eagerly seeks his reward.
"No! Get off her you bloody psychopath!" And both Greta and Brahms jerk their heads to look at Malcolm and a rabid growl escapes from his throat as he jerks up, runs over to his secondary captive and gives a swift smack to his face.
"No! Brahms, wait-" Greta calls but the towering seething man child whips his hand through the air again, this time balling his hand up and hitting Malcolm in the temple.
He goes limp, his head hanging as drool and a little blood dangle out from his mouth onto his pants.
Brahms screams and goes to swing again, this time raising both arms up and bringing his hands together, a sure fire way to kill if the hit is hard enough.
Greta finally finds her voice as he starts to move, "BRAHMS!" She shrieks and the man stops instantly, his face slowly turning to peer at her from under his raised arms.
"Brahms, please, come here...come to me…"
He continues to stare at her a moment before he looks to Malcolm reluctantly, she can tell how much he wants to do it, like a child who really desires that last cookie even though it belongs to someone else.
Greta is desperate to get his attention though and so sucks in a breath and says with authority, "Brahms, now!"
He lowers his arms and slowly turns away from the unconscious man looking to her with curiosity.
"Don't you want your kiss?" She asks him and at the offer Brahms nods slowly and she gives him a smile, "Yeah? Well come here then, you silly boy. Come give me a kiss."
His hands clench and unclench at his sides quickly, his right foot coming up to scratch at the back of his left calf only to then take a step towards her.
"That's it, come here you good boy. You deserve a reward. Come give me a kiss." And she keeps her voice sweet, the smile planted firmly in place and her eyes locked with his.
She has no doubt if she even spares Malcolm a single glance Brahms will resume his attack. Her eyes are only for him, a fact she is starting to learn quickly.
He gets within a few feet before he stops and she sees his body tense, his hands fist at his sides and she furrows her brow in confusion.
"Brahms? What's wrong?" She asks and ever so slowly his head turns downward, looking to the bloody spot of fabric over the wound she had inflicted only hours before. He looks back up at her and tilts his head to the side and Greta swallows as she realizes his dilemma.
"Brahms-" she starts but her mouth has gone dry. She clears her throat and tries again, "I am sorry I hurt you Brahms. You scared me...just like Cole scared you...you killed him because he was trying to hurt you...I tried to do the same because I thought you were trying to hurt me...do you understand?"
He stands there staring at her for a moment before he nods and she smiles again, "Do unto others as you'd have done to you. That is very important Brahms. Very important, now come get your kiss."
He moves to stand before her, slowly bends down, the mask hovering there and her stomach churns.
Those eyes look at her, studying her with intense focus before he lets out a small whimper and presses the mask to her lips.
Unlike in the bedroom it is quick, he places the lips of his mask on hers and waits only a few seconds before he retracts and stands up straight.
"Thank you, Brahms. That was very nice." the following silence is thick, though she can tell he has relaxed immensely and she feels a little worry of her own slide away. She must find a way to get out of this, to save Malcolm.
So far, Brahms has only ever hurt her when she hurt him, and truthfully the natural reaction to getting stabbed is to push the attacker away.
His choking of her a rage induced reaction by a fractured mind. Even now, considering how he has acted towards her, she retains her doubts about his willingness to actively or purposely hurt her.
If she tries to escape he grows frantic. If she shows Malcolm any favoritism, he gets jealous. If she denies him physical contact when he wants it he throws a tantrum.
All this indicates his childlike impulses are more dominant than his adult reasoning skills.
If she can remember these simple responses she may be able to get the better of him. Manipulating a child isn't difficult, dealing with them after they realize they have been tricked the hardest part.
"Brahms?" She questions softly and he tilts his head to the other side, his apparent way of responding to just about any questioning tone.
"Would you like me to help you...with that?" She nods her head to his wound and a shaky hand grabs the bottom of his shirt and pulls it up.
Greta winces as the fabric sticks and she realizes that because his trousers are dark she had not been able to see the amount of blood he has lost.
The hole in his stomach continues to bleed though it is slow and only trickles down his stomach. She doesn't see anything else trying to bulge out, no hernia or other.
Missed all essential organs, how could you miss them...you know where-
"Greta? You will help me?" He asks her and she nods quickly, his voice swooning through to his upper register. "Yes Brahms, I will help you but you have to do something for me, alright?"
He lets go of his shirt and it clings to his skin, leaving his lower abdomen exposed and she notices the trail of hair disappearing below the edge of his pants is matted and filthy.
He nods and steps closer, "I need you to untie me-" he steps back quickly, shaking his head and letting off a growl, "N-no."
"Nonono, Brahms, shhh, its okay, its okay, calm down….hey….hey look at me-"
He has turned his face away at her gentle cooes and stomps his foot in protest.
"Brahms, hey...Brahms...I need you to look at me." Slowly, with great reluctance, he does and she smiles, "My special boy, aren't you my special boy? I can't help you if I am tied up. I can kiss your ouch and make it better...won't you let me help you? I promise, I promise I won't hurt you."
The irony if that statement is not lost on her, knowing just how much like Cole she sounds. It disgusts her, makes her feel slightly inhumane and she wonders if Cole ever felt this way when he promised to stop hitting her.
Brahms studies her a moment and then his eyes leave hers to travel to Malcolm. He looks at the man for a very long time until Greta realizes he is thinking.
"Brahms?" She calls in question softly.
His face turns back to her before a childish giggle escapes his throat and her heart jumps at the sound of it.
How he could manipulate his voice to sound so innocent...so childlike. It makes her skin crawl every time. She thinks about the envy of any ventriloquist would have if they met him. He can throw his voice around the house as if it is a ball, sound like a child so perfectly it makes her blood run cold.
She is pulled from her thoughts when Brahms opens a drawer and starts searching for something. After a moment he withdrawals a rather large knife and crosses to Malcolm.
"Brahms! Brahms, no! Please, god no! Please!" She sobs out as she closes her eyes and looks away.
There is no horrible squelching sound, no tangy smell of copper pervading the air and as she sobs into the silence her heart feels like it might give out.
As the quiet of the kitchen continues to ring she tries to calm her breathing and wait for the onslaught of violence but the call of her name makes her lookup, "Greta?" It's Brahms, that innocent child's voice echoing in her head like a haunting memory.
She sees him standing next to Malcolm, his fingers laced through the man's hair as he holds his head back. The man is still unconscious, completely unaware he has a butcher's knife to his throat.
"Brahms, please...please don't-" she whispers, her voice having gone again with the sudden flush stress. Tears roll down her face in thick torrents, she feels the snot dripping from her nose and the spit that has built up at the corners of her mouth.
"Please!" She whines out, a stressed whisper, "Greta." He says again in that voice, the one she is starting to hate so much, the deceiving child that hides his brutality.
Brahms taps Malcolms throat with the knife and then points it at her and then to his wound.
Her mind desperately tries to put it together but she is so tired, in such a state of perpetual shock and fear she can't seem to sort out his mysterious gestures.
"Brahms, please, use your words. Tell me, I will do anything you want, I will help you just don't…"
"Play nice, Greta." He says and then taps Malcolms throat again. The light finally goes off in her head and she nods as quickly as she can.
"Yes, yes I understand. I will, I will play with you-"
"And follow the rules?" He asks.
"Yes, yes every one."
"The punishment if you don't." He sings out snidely and once again taps the exposed throat of his hostage.
"I understand." She says sorely, more than clear on what he is implying.
Brahms releases Malcolm and the man's head sags forward again. He places the knife on the counter and then approaches her, tucking down behind her and undoing her binds.
When her hands are free she pulls them to her chest and rubs the soreness from her wrists only to jump a second later when the soft whisper of a full grown man caresses the shell of her ear, "I'll play nice if you will, pretty Greta."
She centers herself quickly, not wanting to upset him and nods, "I will."
He moves around the chair and starts to work on her feet, his eyes looking up at her the whole time to make sure she isn't going to try anything.
His hands come to her rib cage, slowly running down to the ropes around her waist and she sees the faintest shutter from him as his hands feel along her body. She swallows, tries to wait patiently and counts her blessings when he doesn't linger on feeling her up.
When she is free she takes hold of the doll on her lap and stands slowly, he copies her and once again they are next to each other, sizing the other up.
She holds the doll to her chest, finding comfort in having something between them and she cradles it closer, wishing for a brief moment the doll had truly been possessed.
Brahms notices her protective hold on it, his eyes then scanning up to her and he hums. Leaning forward a little, the nose of his mask sliding along her forehead as he inhales her scent deeply.
Greta knows she must keep him away from whatever fantasy he is submerging into, must not feed any excitement with her fear.
As her heart begins to pound again she tries to even out her breathing by inhaling slowly and she gently laces her fingers through his.
He jerks his head to look down at their joined hands and then back up at her, "Come on."
PAGEBREAK
They enter the bathroom and Greta tries to release his hand but he refuses and she looks at him with an authoritarian face, "Brahms, it's time to let go now. I need you to sit on the toilet."
He hesitates but compiles, "Good boy." she sets the doll gently on the small counter top and starts to look for anything to help.
Slowly she circles the room but sees nothing first aid related. She checks under the sink and then in the closet but finds only towels.
Finally she turns to her companion who has been watching her with fixed eyes the whole time. His hands are on his knees, fingers digging in and holding the fabric with a deathly grip.
He is holding himself from something, those eyes so intensely focused on her she swallows as she asks him a question, "Brahms, do you know where I can find a first-aid kit...medical supplies? Something to help me fix your wound?"
"My room." He whispers and she can hear the excitement in his voice and her heart sinks though determination sets in, the image of Malcolm bleeding out through a slice in his throat sobering away her fears.
She crosses to the doll and gently picks it up,"Alright, let's go."
This time Brahms takes her hand and a giggle escapes him as he leads her from the bathroom and down the hall.
He pulls her through the doorway into her room and then into the closet where he takes the secret passage through the walls.
Her heart once again pounds and she tries to remain calm as she willingly moves deeper into the dragon's lair.
She knows it is important to try and memorize the route, tries to think of where they are in relation to the rest of the house. She gets confused quickly, well aware she is still not familiar enough with the house to keep track.
They finally reach his room and he laughs excitedly as he pulls her in and swings around. His hold on her hand slides away and he rushes to a makeshift desk filled with all forms of arts, crafts and sewing supplies.
Upon her entry, this time, Greta takes a moment to truly look around. Why this area is bigger than all the others she isn't sure. But her eyes take in more of her surroundings this time.
The over abundance of creatures makes her wonder if Mr. Heelshire hadn't given dead animals to his son to stuff and collect. The walls are lined with shelves, each filled to the brim with books, bored games, puzzles newspapers, craft supplies and more. She even sees a section dedicated to movies and she remembers the tv on the wall behind her.
There is a sink, fridge, microwave and even a washer and dryer tucked under the stairs.
She approaches his position, keeping her eyes away from his bed, away from the life size replica he made of her. She doesn't want to think about it, what he may have used it for, she had a feeling it wasn't just for spooning.
From under the desk he pulls a large wicker basket and inside is an assorted mess of medical supplies.
"Is this...all for you?" she asks in surprise but his only response is to stare at her longingly before sliding the basket over to her.
"Alright, here, be a good boy and sit." He settles down onto a short stool and puts his hands in his lap.
She looks him over, realizes his clothes have to come off and steadies herself for the issues sure to come. She goes to place the doll on the desk but Brahms suddenly stands and takes it from her.
He rushes to his bed and places it on the lap of the Greta doll and then positions the rounded stubs of her hands as if it is holding the mini Brahms.
He looks at her then, tense and silent and she offers a nod and a forced smile, "Very nice. Now come here so I can help you."
His zombie like walk back to the stool creeps her out and as he sits down again Greta moves to his side, "Brahms, I need to remove your sweater and shirt...is that alright?"
He nods and so she begins, wrapping her fingers around the edge of his worn green cardigan and slowly pulling it down and off his shoulders.
Setting it aside, Greta pulls at his suspenders and leaves them to hang.
"Shirt next, arms up like a good boy." His arms rise up as if he is in a trance and she slowly pulls his beater up and over his head, being extremely careful not to touch or snag the mask.
His back is suddenly exposed to her and in the dim light of the room she sees twisted angry scars stare back at her.
A massive burn covers the back of his arm, neck and the right rear side of him. It travels all the way down to the edge of his pants and she guesses it goes beyond.
"Oh...my…" but she doesn't finish, her curiosity gets the best of her and she gently brings her fingers to the old wound. His back arches when she touches it and he gasps and moans, "Pretty Greta…" he says and the soothing way he says it tells her he is finding far more joy in a simple touch from her fingertips than any sane person would.
He has built this all up in his head over the last two months, watching me, hearing me….my dress….his fantasies are causing heightened reactions...delusions based on his dreamt up reality.
Still, she needs to know what kind of hold she has over him and gently, so as not to arouse him more, she moves her fingers over his scare and he shutters and groans but stays seated.
"You silly boy, how did you get so burned?" She says it with as much loving care as she can manage, tries to remain in her role of caregiver despite the fact she knows at any moment this person could turn and end her.
"Mummy was protecting me." He says softly, his childish voice having returned in full and this time it eases her because Brahms the child does not want her attentions the same way Brahms the adult does.
She feels herself relax and slowly, allowing her hand to stroke across his upper shoulders, she moves around him and comes to stand before him, bending over to look at the mask.
"What did mommy need to protect you from?" She asks though she knows this all leads back to the death of that little girl in the woods.
Emily Cribbs…...
Brahms turns his mask away and before she can push him further he sniffs and says in a sickly way, "Ow." She hears the tears in his voice and sees his hand move to rest next to the injury she is supposed to be mending.
"You're right Brahms. I'm sorry, let me see it, there's a good boy now, sit up straight so I can look at it, there you go...much better."
She looks over the rest of his body, making note that the scaring does not wrap further than his side. His chest and torso are covered in a healthy slick of hair and it reminds her of an old black and white movie she used to watch with Sean Connery.
Now that he is bare from the waist up she takes a good look at him in hopes of catching any weaknesses. Unfortunately, aside from his mental state and the burn he was born healthy.
A long lean torso connects to a broad chest and shoulders. His arms are equally long and though they seem a little sinewy she has no doubt of the power behind them.
She continues to make her mental notes but glances up when she hears him huffing behind the mask and sees a stray tear fall out from underneath.
Her heart goes out to the boy trapped inside him, but she steals her resolve against it, her empathy is the enemy and she refuses to allow any form of stockholm syndrome to form.
Gently feeling around the wound, Greta is both relieved and disappointed it's clean through, no extra punctures or damage to the surrounding tissues.
She looks up at him and sighed, "Brahms, I can fix this. I can make it better, but to do that it is going to hurt. I need you to be a strong for me, can you be a brave boy and let me take care of this?"
"Yes, ma'am." And that is the most sincere she has heard the little boy sound, she feels this moment Brahms the boy is in full control and so she moves quickly, not wanting to lose this opportunity of relative safety.
She digs through the basket quickly, grabbing disinfectant, sterilized gauze pads, bandages and a wrap. She then looks for a needle and thread but sees only those spread out among the sewing supplies.
She thinks a moment, tries to decide the best course of actions and then opts to use the thickest thread she can find and sterilize a needle.
She gets everything ready and starts to work, rubbing the disinfectant onto her hands first before applying it to a sterile pad and beginning to clean Brahms's wound.
He whines and moans the whole way, and for awhile, she almost forgets he is a full grown man. So focused is she on the task at hand that the sounds of a young boy elicit automatic responses from her.
"It's okay, I know it burns sweetie. Hold still, just a bit longer we have to make sure it's clean."
He is sniffling by the time she finishes and she isn't sure how she is going to make it through stitching him up when suddenly a hand grabs her wrist painfully tight and she jerks her head to look up.
"More?"
She swallows nervously but gives him a level stare and says, "Just a little more. I have to close it, Brahms. You'll get sick if I don't."
He gives a shaky nod and takes a breath and she reaches up to cup the cheek of the mask, "Such a brave boy. Now, you need to sit up as straight as you can...this is going to hurt but I only need to make a couple stitches. Can you do this for me?'"
Another nod and a sniff and she smiles, "Okay."
She goes to work threading the needle and once that is done she runs the needle over a nearly burnt out candle on his desk, the wax having broken free and formed a puddle around it.
Greta glances up at him, sees him watching her and his eyes narrow slightly. She takes a steadying breath and then leans down.
Her bottom lip gets caught between her teeth as she pushes the needle through his skin, watches as his stomach tenses and the muscles flex.
She is so close to him at this point she can smell him, it is a mixture of the sweat, filth and blood that is smeared around his torso. Any of his own natural scent is hidden below the layers of caked on muck.
Her hand starts to shake because at the piercing of his skin he grunts and the sound is no longer that of a hurt child.
She realizes the crying has stopped, the sniffling gone and she is suddenly in the presence of the murderous wretch that terrifies her.
She continues to work though, knows that the stitches he needs won't take but a few seconds and she reaches out her spare hand to press the broken flesh together so she can connect the two sides and close the wound.
Her body stills when she feel a hand come to the back of her bent head. It doesn't do anything and she waits with the needle hoovering, ready to make the second pass through his ripped skin.
The heat from his palm radiates down through her hair and into her scalp but she doesn't say a word and after another few moments pause she continues her work.
He strokes his fingers through her hair, suddenly oblivious to the pain from her work. Her heart rate increases slowly but she tries to control her hands as they shake.
"Mummy said you were a nurse before you came...a children's nurse." His voice is soft, caught between boy and man again, a flash of her escape through the passageway comes to her mind.
"Greta, come back...I'll be good...I promise…" that delicate voice that comes from being trapped between two worlds. Not a boy, not a man...more a creature crawling in the dark, confused and writhing in a mental agony over his place in the world.
"Yes." and she pushes the needle through his skin for the last time, preparing to tighten and tie off the stitches.
"You left it...came here….came to me instead." his voice is even softer now, reverence for the idea of Greta leaving her life to come here for him, feeding the fantasies he has concocted about her.
"I wanted to escape." She says honestly having no need to lie to him about it. That specific truth would not hinder her eventual escape from him, from this hell she is now in.
"Why?" He moans out, continues to stroke her hair and she grabs a pair of scissors to cut the thread.
His hand grabs her wrist instantly, the grip painful and she winces.
"I have to cut the thread, Brahms." She meets his eyes to see them staring at her, they are hard, narrow and hold a very well hidden cleverness.
"You can do it yourself if you like." She offers and he takes the scissors from her and cuts where she indicates before placing them slowly on the table.
He still has her wrist but does nothing by way of pulling her closer, though she feels him tense, notices the way he seems to be waiting for something.
"Kiss." He says softly and Greta's stomach clenches when she realizes what he wants.
I can kiss your ouch and make it better….STUPID! She muses but knows that she offered and he won't let her get out of it.
She trembles as she leans forward, her eyes darting from him to the stitches and she licks her lips nervously as her lips meet his flesh and she gives a gentle kiss to his wound.
His hand releases her wrist and comes to the back of her head, "Again." He whispers and she sees his head tilt up to gaze at the ceiling and he shutters out a breath.
She complies and does it again, his hand holding her there for a moment longer as his stomach tightens.
"Again, pretty Greta, again." His voice is strained, gravely as his presses her head towards the wound but she freezes and he instantly looks down, "T-that's enough kisses for now B-Brahms."
He stares at her, even in the dim light she can see his dilated eyes, near intoxicated from her gentle ministrations and he moans softly as his hand slides away only to grab her wrist again.
Greta loses her focus and looks away, letting Brahms win the battle of wills for now.
They remain in this position for several minutes, her fears boiling in her stomach but otherwise she just waits.
Another few minutes pass and a small yawn escapes her, the action creating a cascade effect in her body. Her focus blurs again and she sighs as a free hand rubs at her eyes.
She doesn't feel threatened right now, over the past hour he has done nothing but react in every way she predicted he would.
Children are predictable…
Her own mother's voice echoes in her mind again and she grits her teeth as she thinks about it.
If you love them, be attentive and set boundaries...they will flourish. Spoil them, neglect them or abuse them...and they will rot. Do not let Cole rot your child...please...please Greta leave him before he takes this away from you too…
Turning her head sharply to the side to escape the brutal memories she notices her body feels like rubber.
She is so exhausted, all her adrenaline and endorphins sliding away, her body is starting to ache now, the weariness bogging her down and a light haze fills her head.
Brahms's room is warmer than the rest of the house, dimly lit with candles and old bulbs that cast off amber light, the smell of dust and plaster filling the air around her.
Her body craves rest but she wishes to stay alert, though at this particular moment since Brahms is essentially holding her in this one spot and there is nothing but the silence around her to focus on, she feels her body start to shut down.
"No…" she whispers out as her eyes droop and her head starts to tilt to the side.
Upon almost passing into sleep she jerks her head up and shakes it, peering up at her would be attacker who is suddenly staring at her with narrow glee filled eyes.
He still has her wrist and she becomes very aware of how intently he is staring at her. She realizes, much to her dread, he has been waiting for her to fall asleep.
This strange sedentary and quiet moment they have shared the past half hour was purposeful, he was trying to pull her into a false sense of security, make her relax so she lets her guard down.
Clever, boy. She muses though she feels resentment at the trick and she grows determined not to let him have his way.
They stare at each other for what feels like hours, Greta fighting her fatigue, fighting her bodies natural inclination to rest after so much trauma.
She jumps a little when Brahms gives a gentle pull to her wrist and she leans forward all too easily.
"No." She mumbles, shaking her head in denial. She raises her free hand and gives a sharp smack to her face but Brahms doesn't seem to like that idea and latches onto her hand, essentially trapping her.
Her heart rate starts to increase again and she tries to pull from his hold but at her sudden resistance he yanks her forward.
Jerking back Greta digs her heels into the ground but she slides forward again anyway as he pulls, "Stop it!" She hisses out but he only responds with another sharp tug and when she yanks harder against him he finally seems to grow frustrated and shifts forward abruptly.
She falls back as he lands with a hard thump on his knees in front of her, tightening his hold on her wrists as she yanks, shoves and pulls.
"Brahms!" She yells with as much authority as she can muster but at her ragged voice his eyes light up and he gives one last mighty pull and releases one of her wrist.
Her hand flies to his chest to push against him but he scoops her up and then stands. Now he holds her much the same as a baby would be held. Rocking her gently and giving off cooed sounds meant to sooth.
She tries to wiggled away but his grip is vice like. He sits on the stool again, her legs dangling across his lap and he continues to try and sooth her as if she was an infant.
She stops her struggles when she realizes he isn't doing anything but humming and rocking her. She breathes out her stress and lets out a little sob of indignation. Though her pride should be the last thing on her mind right now she feels increasingly embarrassed by his actions.
"Brahms, please, I'm so...so tired...I can't play these games right now…" and he stops his light rocking of her, stares a moment before suddenly he swings around on the stool and Greta is faced with his bed.
Her eyes lock onto that doll, the one of her that is life size, still holding onto the mini Brahms doll.
Her favorite date dress wrinkled and dirty, the necklace from her mother dangling about the neck.
"N-no! No!" And she redoubles her efforts to get away.
The adrenaline is back and she squirms and flails as her captore stands and starts to move towards the hideous bed tucked into the corner.
It looks filthy, the level of dread she feels at what is about to happen to her makes tears flow freely and she nearly shrieks when he uses his foot to gently shift the dolls aside.
He sits on the edge of the bed with her and she manages to free her arms and starts violently hitting his chest, neck shoulders and face.
"Greta-" and she hears the warning in his tone but can't stop.
"You're working yourself up." He says and she hears the way his voice slowly changes from a child to a sinister young man, his accent finally breaking through and the nature of his duality terrifies her.
She twists her torso and finally screams as she uses what strength she has left to try and make a mad dash for anywhere other than where he has her.
"GRETA!" He yells painfully loud over her in a tone that bars all argument.
She instantly stops struggling at the sound of it and stills as she lays there across his lap, his thighs pressing into her belly.
Her chest is heaving, her face a wash of tears, snot and drool and she coughs a little when the phlegm in her throat gets stuck.
"Easy, Greta." And she feels his hand come to her back and start to rub slow circles on it, much the same as she would do to any fussy child.
"Pretty pretty, Greta." she tries to roll away but finds her body is absolutely spent, her final struggle for freedom the very thing that has now condemned her.
Her face scrunches up and she starts to cry again, realizing the only remaining hope she has is to beg.
"P-please, don't hurt me...p-please don't hurt me, Brahms...please." She wheezes out the last part desperately and his hand stops moving.
They sit there like this another long while, tears slowly sliding from her eyes, small choking whines escaping and causing more spit to gather on the bedding before her.
She finally feels him move and he seems to be leaning away from her for just a second, she hears him grabbing at something which causes other unknown items to shift. When he leans up right again he ever so gently turns her over.
Readjusting their positions she is placed fully on the bed next to him and he lays down next to her, his large body pressed to the wall to give her space.
"Oh no, pretty Greta." Comes that shaky voice, half child, half man and all monster, "You are mine to love and care for. Mummy said so, didn't she? Yes, yes just relax." He reaches across her and she hears water splash, turns her head just enough to see a wash basin next to the bed and looks away in disgust at the thought of how old and dirty it probably is.
She feels a wet cool rag come to her face and shivers in protest. Brahms is cleaning her, washing away the muck and despite the fact she wants to struggle against it her heart slows.
"You must be so exhausted...pretty Greta, you will sleep now. It is time for bed...we will both sleep now."
"Brahms, please I don't want-"
"Sleep!" He growls out suddenly in a deep gravelly voice, his masked face pressing down close to her own and she lets out a small fearful yell and then continues to cry.
"Oh no, no, please...I'll be good, Greta. I'll be good...just relax...that's right...be a good girl and just sleep."
He continues to gently clean her face, twice reaching over to rinse the rag before resuming his ministrations. He shushes her softly, cooes comforting words and Greta realizes that in this moment the tables have turned.
Right now, she is his child, he is caring for her and trying to ease her into some form of comfortable acceptance of her situation.
"All children must sleep...it's past your bedtime pretty Greta. Silly Greta, played so hard you wore yourself out. Look at you, can't keep your eyes open."
He is right, her eyes continue to droop, her body starting to feel weightless. She tries to push at his hand but he slides his fingers between hers, the rag separating their palms and he presses her arm back to rest next to her head.
"No no, no fighting it. Pretty Greta, my Greta. All mine, to love and care for." He sings out and he excitedly adjusts himself to be closer, leaning over her, nearly about to cover her body with his.
"To love….and care for….forever." his hand abandons the rag, her fingers squeeze it as he runs his palm down her arm to her side where he takes a firm hold.
She feels the stress become too much and her vision blurs as his mask leans closer, the cool porcelain just barely brushing her lips and she gasps, "Oh, no….don't be scared...I promise...I will be here when you wake up. It's time for the good night kiss, now lay still, close your eyes and go right to sleep. "
As his mask descends she barely feels the icy press of his lips to her own and seconds later she blacks out.