Author's Notes: Hell of a long time to update, I know. (looks down in shame) But I did update…and better late than never…right? (hopeful smile) I'm currently in the process of re-organizing my thoughts regarding this story. Chapter One has been edited a bit, and the other two chapters will follow the suit. No major revisions, but some things to take out, some things to add.

However, I was too impatient to do all that and decided to post this chapter instead! I hope you all enjoy. Please, please pardon me for my tardiness!

Castle of Dreams
Chapter 4: Shattered
By Callisto Callispi

Lavander shuffled through the wind and rain, drawing the edges of the coat closer across her chest. She spared one quick glance up at the town clock and shivered. It was nearing midnight, and she still found no trace of Hermione. Lavender closed her eyes shortly, trying to calm her throbbing heart and trying to sort through the possibilities of what might have happened. She did not consider that Hermione left to a party and got drunk with some of the other Hogwarts boys -- she was a respectable girl and prone to shy away from such things.

Lavender opened her eyes and was surprised to find her hands shaking. What happened to her friend? They were not even close to the red-light district of the province, and this place was one of the safest in the country. Could it be a possibility that Hermione had been kidnapped or… Lavender continued walking, though worry plagued her. She tried to push away the thoughts of rape, of murder, of mutilation. She kept her eyes down on the streets, tracing the blackened moss growing in between the cobbles.

As Hermione was a good friend to her, Lavender wanted to find her and help her from whatever kept her away. However, like a great majority of people, she was also quite scared and wanted to run back to the safety of her hotel room. No matter how safe the city, no matter how Babylonian it seemed, a young woman such as herself had absolutely no reason to be up and alone at night.

Excuses. Lavender scowled in her muffler. She was a damn coward, that's what she was. Hermione would have been up all night, arranging search parties to find any and all missing persons in need. Hermione was an amazing girl and a great friend at that, but she was also very tiring because of her energy and her desire to help. Lavender always felt so diminutive compared to Hermione, even if she was one of her closest friends. Lavender felt as if she was never up-to-par. At times, it annoyed her, especially when she could do nothing to help.

Hermione's energy drew people to her like a flame to a moth. But as Lavender realized with her increasing sense of frustration and anger, getting to close would mean scorching herself in a way that was almost fatal.

Lavender headed back to the hotel, her heels clicking upon the stone sidewalk Click, clack, click, clack. The shadows lengthened and eventually drowned the world as the clouds shielded the scanty light of the wickedly curved crescent moon. Without her knowing, her heels tapped more and more quickly upon the stone, her desperation for light and warmth revealing itself in flourishing colors within her steadily panicking brain. She was a grown woman -- there should have been nothing to fear.

But…what about Hermione?

Lavender cried out and broke into a full run toward the hotel, wondering if the buildings that seemed so familiar before were but tricks upon her eyes. Was she going on the right path, was she running in the right direction? No, this was not Babylonia -- this was a monster's playhouse, empty with darkness, filled with tricks and malice.

Run, run, faster, FASTER!

The voice was not her own, but she hardly noticed. The terror gripped her, and she obeyed only that the voice told her. She submitted to the panic, and lost her control over her legs, over her mind.

But the demons seemed to wish to be merciful this time. For within seconds of feverish running, she approached the brightly lit hotel, tall and grand. As she walked up the steps, her heart pounding, she nodded toward the doorman, her eyes hot with tears. Thank the gods, she was finally home in the light where the demons could not touch her.

She stepped into the lobby, greeted by the rolling language that was so unlike English. But Lavender frowned slightly. Something was amiss. People were running, intently attempting discreetness as if trying to give the impression that nothing was wrong. Uniformed hotel officials spoke into little gadgets with each other, as if they were spies.

Lavender walked up to the front clerk, a woman with wide brown eyes and thin lips. Lavender recognized her from her first day in the country, remembering how she greeted the NEWT students in English.

"Pardon me, but what is going on here?" Lavender asked the woman, disrupting her from filling out many forms with her quivering peacock quill. "Why are the men running about?"

The woman smiled. It was a fake one. "Nothing at all, miss. We just had a mishap with dinner preparations, is all."

Lavender did not question any further as the clerk suddenly spoke out something very rapidly, very urgently to a running bellhop in her native language. Then, she turned back to Lavender and ushered to go upstairs, assuring that there was no problem and that she should take a hot bath in order to evade illness. When Lavender stared down at herself, she noticed she was soaked to the bone, running about in the cold rain like that.

As soon as she bathed, Lavender watched outside the window, surprised to see snow falling so heavily. She made it just in time to the hotel, it seemed. It looked as if a blizzard would hit them. Dear God, where was Hermione? She couldn't possibly survive outside with what she was wearing. Lavender sat on the ledge next to the window and gathered her knees to her chest, the candle flame wavering at her feet. Hermione's empty bed in the room troubled her, as if an invisible hook tugged on her ankle, her strands of hair, her fingers. But when Lavender looked down at her feet, as her hands rose to pat her hair, every part of her body had been conveniently untouched. But afterward, the air would seem so much colder, despite the fire in the hearth. Her breaths seemed a bit tighter, more constricted.

Lavender hugged her knees more closely. She wanted Hermione with her. Lavender hadn't realized how much she had depended on Hermione -- her unfailing logic that assured them both that such things as malignant spirits of children whose broken faces bled that innocent (and therefore most evil) hate did not exist. Because that was what Lavender saw that day in the Tower -- the day that Hermione disappeared.

It had a face as pale as winter, eyes as black as coal colored slightly burgundy with the right light.

Lavender couldn't stand the solitude any more. The emptiness pushed in all around her like real substance, as if she were trapped inside a mattress slowly being stuffed with thousands upon thousands of half-broken feathers. She couldn't stand the hardship of dealing with Hermione's disappearance herself. Slipping into her robe, Lavender ran toward Professor Jethro's room.

He looked surprised to see her, hair wet and breathing heavily. Lavender, again, was struck by how handsome he was, how sharp his eyes were. They were the eyes of a cat, though far more sentient and far more aware.

"Are you all right, Miss Brown?" he asked, eyes narrowed slightly in concern, and Lavender slowly felt some of her fear slipping away little by little, warmth instead replacing the coldness that had unknowingly gripped her heart ever since she began this trip. Even his voice affected her -- perhaps she had fallen in love with him, though the idea amused her to no end.

"I apologize for disturbing you, professor," she began slowly, "but I was wondering if…Hermione had returned yet. I went out for a bit, but I didn't see her."

The professor's lips curved downward into a frown. "I haven't either. She hasn't returned, I believe. The hotel clerks would have notified me if she had. Miss Brown -- has she said anything to you? About where she would go? About where she would be? When she would return?"

Lavender's eyes glazed over. That small shame flooded her throat. "She told me she would go to Hottsgobin Tower." She noted the dark disappointment coloring the professor's face and despaired. "I'm so sorry, professor… I couldn't stop her. I wanted to go with her. I really did. But I was…I was…"

"Scared?" he interjected coldly.

The backs of Lavender's eyes pricked. She nodded, her face coloring with shame, though she could not figure out whether her shame resulted from Hermione's disappearance or from Professor Jethro's displeasure.

"And did you go to that Tower this night, Miss Brown?"

That cold wave of fear washed over her, leaving her trembling and freezing from the inside out. "I…tried. I was scared, Professor, but I tried. The doors were closed, locked with iron as thick as my body. I sought out the officials, and I told them what had passed, but even they could not budge the locks." With a dull sense of dread, Lavender remembered their faces, how surprised they were that the iron did not slide off the door. The professor's expression, though none of his features seemed to have altered, seemed stormier, angrier. "They told me it was the cold, the ice. That the lock had frozen over, thus it wouldn't move."

The professor's eyes darkened. He opened the door further open and ushered a surprised Lavender in. "Please, enter. We must speak."

Lavender stood rigidly. Enter the professor's room? Entering a professor's room would surely arouse the nastiest rumors, especially from the Slytherin group. Though no matter how unorthodox the request, she felt her feet move toward him, as if some unknown force pulled her inside. Before she knew it, she was already inside and the professor had closed the door behind her.

-x-x-

Draco remembered seeing very little sun that day when he accompanied his father to that white room of the hospital. The sky was an overcast grey and the air cold, even though it was only late August. As autumn approached, so did the rain. The fog had quickly thickened over the moors. The road was a damp, slushy mess, sucking in the wheels of their carriage every as if hungry for the dry, hard wooden shell after bloating itself on water.

Draco neglected to sleep on the eight-hour trip, and he was exhausted. His body and mind were weary but an ongoing song kept tinkling in his head. When he closed his eyes and darkness engulfed him, he heard her voice and watched her fingers delicately tap the piano keys. Impeccable as always, the woman, both in dreams and in reality: fair hair coiled elegantly on top of her head, skin as white and flawless as marble, movements graceful and deliberate. She always wore white. He only saw her, her body glimmering with an inner light against the darkness. Draco could have sworn she was alone. But on top of the gentle hum of the piano, he also heard quiet moans of violins playing in the dark background.

He hated the music.

Clink. Clink.

The seat jumped and rolled about with the carriage. Draco's eyelids got heavier and heavier, and the lullaby started once more.

Clink. Clink. Her long, shapely fingernails tapped the keys, and the soft dollop of music followed. She played slowly, deliberately, making sure every note was clear. Her nails tapped continuously on the smooth white keys of the piano. Clink, clink, clink, clink…a noise that was as if crystals were shattering upon glass.

It was an all too familiar sound, the breaking of glass. He did admit, however, that it hadn't been as musical as this. Angry words and shrill screaming always accompanied the shatters. He also had to admit that the flawless woman playing the piano was not the image that remained with him of his mother.

A smell of roses drenched her chambers as of late. Perhaps a premonition of her name, Narcissa always smelled like flowers. Delicate crystal bottles of specially saturated rose water from France always filled her washroom cabinets. However, the fights got louder and her steady flow of male visitors slowly ceased to nothingness. Draco remembered with stunning clarity that cold winter day, just three days into his holidays when his father dropped in his hand a ring of small, shiny silver keys and told him that he was to lock all doors to the mansion upon it being closed. His mother, Lucius proclaimed in a voice devoid of all emotion and with a face the color of pallid grey, was not to leave her private chambers in the west wing of the house. She was neither allowed on the ground floor for the glass of the windows were not strong enough to withstand a chair crashing through them.

Draco visited his mother, hiding his keys within the deepest folds of his robes like a reluctant jailer. She did not speak but sat straight-backed in a satin-covered chair facing the window. The pale morning light managing to penetrate through the clouds accentuated the delicate bones of her pale face.

Mother.

That single word stuck to his mind, dragged out even through his thoughts. But he stood by the door, hands deep within his robes and clutching the keys so tightly that the palms of his hands were slippery with sweat. She did not even turn to face him.

Why?

Roses engulfed his senses. His mind spun as if trapped in an endless maze of hundreds of thousands of roses. The impeccable crystal bottles of rose water lay shattered on the smooth wooden floor. The perfume drenched her cushions and the sofa. The bed sheets were torn.

"Get me out."

Draco jumped. His breath shot out of his body and his heart started racing. So quiet and yet so…tranquilly angry. It was not the voice of his usual soft-spoken mother, who had never ordered for anything, but politely inquired as was the aristocratic fashion of late.

"Father said --"

Narcissa did not even turn toward him. "For the love of God. When will you get a backbone, Draco?"

Draco stepped back as if slapped. His eyes widened, and his heart skipped at beat. His first impulse was to cry, but he blinked back the hot tears that threatened to flood his eyes. To his second impulse, he yielded. He calmly collected his composure and coldly stared at the woman was supposed to be his mother. For that moment, he thought that he understood what his father was doing. His mother was always an independent, flighty creature, but her behavior as of late was atrocious. If shutting her in and placing her under house arrest was the way to fix her back up, so be it.

"Madame, you have stunned me. I had come here to discuss changes in regards to your living arrangements, but I see that Father has acted wisely. You shall never again speak to me as you have recently; you are my mother, and you will treat me with the due respect that is expected of a mother to her son."

Draco walked out, back stiff, her last sensible words creeping to his ear.

"My God, Lucius has made you his at last…"

The next week brought a few nasty surprises. They had been taking tea one minute and rushed to the hospital the next. Lucius bit his knuckles when the doctor told him of the damage done.

The shattering of the glass had made them jump from their chairs. Their steaming tea cups laid abandoned in their saucers. Lucius afterward cursed and kicked numerous house elves for leaving Narcissa unattended for such a length of time. Draco did not speak. His face was as white as a sheet as he regarded the great hole in the window and the red stains grazing the broken glass by the floor.

She laid almost dead in the snow below. There was so much red pooling underneath her, though there was no evidence of her cutting herself before. It originated from the mouth, said the doctor later, where she had bit her tongue awkwardly from the fall. She would have a difficult time talking -- even the most effective magical treatments could not mend the tongue's complex net of nerves that she had bitten off. Several of her perfectly shaped white teeth were also shattered and cut the inside of her mouth to ribbons. Her situation, however, said the doctor, was not particularly fatal except that her spine was damaged, though that could be quickly rectified.

The Mediwizards under Lucius's payroll arrived almost immediately and carted her off to the nearest private hospital. Draco and Lucius were left watching until their own carriage arrived to pick them up, and during the ride, neither of them spoke. Draco did not know what Lucius was thinking, but Draco could not erase the image of his mother flat on her back in the snow with her head tilted to the side and blood slowly seeping into the snow around her head. It stained her cheeks and her fair hair in the boldest color.

She lied there in the coldest winter of his thoughts, re-visiting him over and over again during the darkest of nights when he often re-thought his life. She was always there, her skin as pale as the snow and the bloody halo encircling her exquisitely proportioned face. She had fallen from the sky, his tortured angel, and if he narrowed his eyes just at the right angle, he could see how the wings were torn nerve by nerve from her back.

The hospital room had been desolately quiet. Though Lucius hired someone to decorate her amply large quarters, the fact that she was in a hospital was blatantly obvious by the cords and the needles slithering from the skin of her arms and cheeks as if they were tentacle-like extensions of her body. The strong smell of antiseptic and chemical medicines permeated the very air, sanitizing and mucking it at the same time. It was almost as oppressive as the whispers of prayer and the quiet sobbing that haunted the quiet halls of the hospital day and night. The bright pink roses settled upon the mahogany coffee table almost seemed sacrilegious against the dreary grey and white of the outside and the inside. White walls, silver curtains, grey carpet, black chairs. Clean. Dull. Conventional. All prepared especially for a quiet death in a conservatively decorated sleeping quarter.

Draco spent mostly all of his winter holidays in that small little room with his father for company, though that was hardly company in itself. And of course, he remained in the company of his mother, who slept on and on and on and on and on as if she were trying to reach the blackness of death in her sleep.

Narcissa never died. But nor did she ever truly awaken.

She opened her eyes a week before Draco had to leave for Hogwarts.

But as Draco gripped her thin fingers, she merely stared at (more like through) him with those empty eyes and turned her head. Her hand slipped from his, and to the air, it seemed, she began murmuring things that made Draco's skin break out in goose bumps.

They performed more and more tests, and through it all, Narcissa talked and talked and talked, slurring her words and constantly drooling from the corner of her pale lips as her tongue was not as efficient as it was before. But Draco would have preferred that she talk to him or at least his father, not to the woman who always sat upon the ceiling or juggled black arachnids and reputedly claimed (through Narcissa) herself to be a dancer for a circus that ceased to function over fifty years ago.

Draco feared leaving his mother alone in her delicate condition, but he feared being with her more. The manner in which she spoke was so vulgar and slurred, and her conversations were littered with such impossibly disturbing themes.

One time when Draco couldn't stand to hear more about how Mary-Jane, the ex-circus dancer, once cut off the testicles of a bull that killed a Spanish matador, he left the room with a queasy look on his face. His father, however, hollered for him to return with a nurse to the room immediately, and Draco obeyed, dragging a green-robed woman with him. He heard screaming as he approached the door, and fell to the ground on his knees at the scene before him.

Narcissa had torn off her clothes and had ripped off all of the tubes in her arms and was leaning against the corner of the wall with three great, blood-covered needles quaking in her hands. Lucius could not get near her for fear of being stabbed in the eye, and the nurse had to perform a disarming curse.

It was a disgrace, the whole scene, especially as Narcissa burst into tears and squealed childishly that Mary-Jane had eaten the testicles without cooking them, and when Narcissa tried to explain how dangerous raw meat was, Mary-Jane called her a thousand awful names and tried to open her mouth to force-feed her the heart of a cow she had in her pocket.

"But Narcissa, dear, there was no one in the room with you except for your husband, and especially not a Mary-Jane," said the nurse gently while stroking Narcissa's hair to calm her from her extraordinarily childish outburst.

Draco watched the whole thing, unbelieving that this was passing. Lucius remained standing, however, and gazed coldly at the shaking woman that used to be his wife. His fists shook at his sides and without another word, he whipped around and walked out of the hospital and into the cold, winter air.

Another great bump of the carriage jolted Draco from his reverie, though his mind was groggy and hazy and he thought for that brief moment, he could see the world of his dreams in one eye and the world of the living through the other.

"It's dawn. You've not slept," came Lucius's cold voice.

Draco's gray eyes were dull and drowsy. Shadows drenched the coach, and the shapes danced about them. "I couldn't sleep."

Lucius opened his mouth to respond, but Draco could not hear his father's voice. Instead the dizzy clinking of the piano whirled around and around in his head, as if he were trapped in a brightly lit carnival of half-mad ringmasters and fanged clowns.

"And were you aware, sir, that your wife was in a highly disturbed state at the time of her fall?"

Draco's eyes slipped shut. It was as if that horrible day would stay with him forever, spinning and spinning in his head like a broken black-and-white movie reel:

His father's whirl of pale, blond hair and his fluttering cloak as he ran out of the hospital… Draco's own frenzied heart… The anguished roar torn from Lucius's throat as the psychiatrist shook his head pityingly from behind his desk…

Riding toward that same grey place, Draco at last slipped into the void of sleep, though who had said that an oblivion did not host its own glittery-eyed monsters?

-x-x-

He stared at Hermione and again bowed deeply. "My master has been waiting for you, my lady. And I am at your disposal. I beg you to treat this unworthy Puck kindly."

Hermione's eyes widened.

"Puck?" Draco demanded skeptically.

And the boy Puck stared up at Hermione, promise glimmering in his chilly blue eyes.

X

Puck. Puck. Puck.

It couldn't be. It couldn't be. Months… Years… He was forgotten. He didn't exist anymore for her.

But here he was. The cold blue eyes, so light that they gleamed pearly grey or pale green depending on the light. The shiny black hair with thick, rich curls. The Boticelli smirk.

She was mesmerized. She was horrified.

Such beauty. Such confidence.

The boy Puck.

Suspended in air as he always was.

As real as she and Draco.

"Ow!" squealed Hermione, trying to wrench her throbbing arm from Draco's fingers. She pulled and pulled until he finally yielded and let her go. Hermione breathed out. Covering her bruising forearm with her hand, she demanded shrilly, "What is wrong with you? That really hurt!"

But the look in Draco's stormy grey eyes stopped her from saying anything else. Suddenly, Hermione's knees grew weak as if the wind were knocked out of her body.

"Don't," he murmured lowly. "You'll never be able to look away from him."

Hermione did not question Draco how he knew, though she would regret it heavily later on. But she did cast her eyes down. Her heart raced. How? How could he be here? He couldn't be real. This all had to be a horrible, horrible dream!

But…

Somehow, Hermione knew with a sickening drop of her stomach that this wasn't a dream. Not in the least.

They had to get out. She had to get out. Even if she had to throw herself out of the window, just like the heroines of old Victorian terror novels, she had to get out. The desire to break free of the castle was overwhelming, almost bordering on the edge of obsession, and Hermione was shocked that Draco did not express the same longing on his face. But then again, he probably didn't feel as chained to the castle as she did. She was so tired and fatigued and could hardly lift her feet.

Her eyes flitted around the grand room, probing for some sort of an exit. The mahogany French doors were all sealed with golden chains, each link as thick as her wrist. The locks binding them closed were impressively huge, almost as big as her head, and certainly impossible to break by force alone. She faced Puck, a chill running down her spine. Panic nibbled at her every nerve ending, and Hermione tried her damnest to calm herself. She just had to keep her mind focused.

Her control, however, was as easily destroyed as it was built. It was the slightest touch, brushing like a winter wind across her cheek. Yet she felt it -- it had been something substantial, like a blood-soaked feather or a slimy, amphibious fingernail. Hermione whipped around, clapping her hand over her face, but as she expected, she was left physically untouched.

The panic rose up once more.

Where was she? Why her? What were they doing here?

"It's an honor to receive you, my Lady Hermione. My master has always prided his lovely wife, and I see now the truth of his words. You are most welcome, my Lady. Most welcome," Puck said smoothly with flair.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Wife?

Puck continued to stare at her. He smiled widely, making his face seem more kittenish. The corners of his eyes crinkled together and sharpened his already penetrating gaze.

"T-there must be some mistake. I…I've never been married. I've never even had a serious boyfriend. I'm -- I'm only seventeen! That's not possible!" She knew she was babbling but couldn't help it. Her? Married? Preposterous!

"He has missed his wife dearly," said Puck, ignoring Hermione completely. "Upon your arrival, word has been sent to him. He is currently abroad, meeting a few foreign physicians. Though we are surprised, however, with the choice of company with which you have chosen to arrive." Puck stared piercingly at Draco.

Hermione was speechless. She was so confused. Was she mad? Was she in an alternate universe?

"I see my presence isn't welcome here. Send me back."

Puck did not even turn to Draco. Instead, he said loftily, "I am but a humble servant to my master."

But Draco was, as ever, the pompous asshole he was born to be. "I don't give a damn who you are. I demand to be released from this hellhole and be granted a safe journey to where I had been." His voice was chilly and his words sharp.

Puck's eyes flashed briefly neon green, and Draco unwittingly took a small step back. The chains on the floating boy's legs rattled slightly. Those chains -- was he a captive just like they were?

"No one leaves the castle without the Master's consent," Puck hissed out.

The chamber suddenly darkened and a strange, unbidden wind blew through the halls. Hermione's heart raced painfully in his chest, her stomach hurting as if sharp pieces of glass were stabbing her from the inside out. The darkness got thicker, the wind colder, and the chandeliers above swung back and forth, back and forth with the phantom wind, squeaking as the old, rusty chains once more acquainted themselves with movement after centuries of frozen silence. Only Puck, suspended in mid-air with his eyes glowing brighter and brighter against the impending darkness, seemed unaffected by this freak change. Shadows flickered here and there as Draco's fists started to shake with fear.

Hermione could not take her eyes off of Puck, whose boyish visage soon gave way to shadow and his skin paled against the brightness of his wide, demonic eyes. He looked like a life-size doll, held taught by the strings of an unknown entity, spiritless and dangling…

Unbidden tears pricked her eyes, and she couldn't even tell when Draco grabbed her arm and started to run away (to where, she did not know, but vaguely remembered him dragging her toward the back wall).

Draco yelled at her to get a hold of herself, to not fall into Puck's spell, but all Hermione could do was look into the eyes of the boy Puck and feel nothing but sorrow.

Howls and screams filled her ears, and they were not just the ones of Draco. Like a blot of ink, the black thing grew and expanded behind the boy Puck, and as it reached out its hands in pursue of the two scrambling masses of human flesh Hermione finally turned and ran with Draco, tears running down her face though for what reason, she could not understand.

The glass shattered in front of them into a million different pieces, glittering and flashing out like forgotten stars in the vast depth of outer space. The dreams came back to her, and Hermione fell just as she did numerous times before, though she relinquished no more screams.

This time, there was no turning back, and the hands reached for her. But they didn't get her for she fell too quickly, and the crystal droplets of her tears fell together with the shards of glass.

Like Alice she once more fell into the rabbit hole, into the mad house of huge teacups and of mannequins all resembling that same haunting face of the boy Puck.

X

It happened all too fast.

He had dreamt it nights before, but ignored everything to grasp onto the quiet as it slipped through his fingers like water.

The glass shattered. The sky shattered. It rained tears. It snowed shimmering flakes of ice.

An angel fell into the cold, cold river.

He remained, watching, as she flapped her white wings to escape the current. She never did.

Sitting in the hospital room with his comatose mother, he could only think of that dream.

Narcissa did not even speak to her own son for three days after waking up. But Draco preferred that she had not spoken to him at all because the only thing that she had said to him was, "Like mother like son."

He grabbed Hermione's hand and ran toward the back wall, his heart almost bursting with the desire to escape this madhouse. To escape Puck. To escape the memories his feverish mind yielded.

The window, frosted with ice so that he could not see outside, was the only that was not barred.

"Hold on," he whispered raggedly, but he did not say it to Hermione. He said it to himself.

Draco held up his free arm to protect his face, and with all the force he could muster, he slammed against the window and for a second, before falling into the emptiness of space, they flew in the air as the glass shattered all around them.

End Notes: End of chapter… I want to know everyone's thoughts! I hope this is enough of a horror-slash-suspense story for you all… There are some disturbing scenes, I'll grant you that, and the story will only get darker… So just a precaution to readers: if you are sensible to stories such as these, please stop reading. I do not, however, intend to write this as a story-without-a-plot. It does have a plot, and some interesting twists and turns.

So please review and let me know what you all think! Suggestions, criticism, peculiar anecdotes, and juicy confessions are all welcome! (And, of course, anything else you can devote your appreciated time to write down.) Hehe.