All Leif could see was the faint line of light around the edges of the trap door. He could hear sounds from the hallway below, but they were muffled by the insulation and masked by the wind and rain. He thought Shawn might be screaming, but he couldn't be sure.
When the noises finally stopped, Leif scrambled to his feat. Heart pounding like he'd just wrestled a twenty minute match, he waited for the thump or the claws or the slow, deliberate push at the trap door.
They didn't come. Instead, he heard the slow, irregular passage of some shambling thing down the hallway and, finally, the stairs. He was alone. Alone. God, what had he done? It was too late to take it back now. He could never tell Marty. He could never tell anyone.
A flash of lightning illuminated the attic and for a split second Leif saw the bare rafters and the shapes of furniture under dusty sheets. Saw the figure standing by the window.
Horror gripped him and, quick as thinking, Leif pivoted, kicking back. As his foot connected with the witness's jaw he felt something give. He heard the crash of the body against the window as somehow, impossibly, something - the head, he knew it was the head - bounced back and hit him in the chest.
He caught it instinctively even as his mind recoiled. A second lightling flash illuminated the object in his hands.
Clutching the mannequin head to his chest, Leif Cassidy began to laugh.
It was impossible to judge the passage of time in the bright room but, after he had given up on the door and spent some while sitting and watching the light dance, Hunter knew he wasn't alone. The room was here too, and the lanterns. He watched them, resentment almost eclipsing his terror of the entity and the malevolent will that was having everything its own way.
In a fit of petulance, Hunter sprang to his feet and snatched a lantern from the wall. He meant to throw it on the ground, let them all burn together, if he was going to die it would be of his own spite, by God, and according to no one else's plan. But as he raised the lantern above his head, he saw the others flickering, as if in a frenzy.
"Don't like that, do you? Open the door then. Go on." He curled his lip and tried to mask his pounding heart with haughtiness. "It was a mistake, trying to scare me. Now, I'm just as afraid of you as I am of burning to death and, you know what?" He paused, watching shadows cast by the flaring and flickering lights with petty satisfaction. "I hate you more."
With a rush of air, the door slammed open.
Scott could hear Fatu crying and he reached out to squeeze his shoulder. "It's not your fault. None of this fucking mess is your fault," he said and, god, he meant it. Fatu was the best person he knew.
He felt Fatu's hand cover his. "It's not yours either. God, this is so fucked." Rain dripped through the cracks in the windshield. Blood too, probably. "I don't think I can stay here, Scotty."
"No, me neither. Let's go find the others." Reluctantly letting go of Fatu, Scott opened the door and stepped into the storm, shivering. He turned to watch Fatu doing the same and, by the glow of the interior lights, he saw the dead man on their windshield move.
"Oh Christ," he heard Fatu moan from the driver's side. "Scotty, he's alive."
He met Fatu's eyes and didn't have to ask. Mercy was incapacitated. In this weather, exposure would finish him long before morning came.
Sighing, Scott said, "I'll take his feet."
Shawn sat, huddled in the light of the last burning lantern in the hall, and waited. He was afraid, but it wasn't the fear that kept him from running so much as a bleak, exhausted defiance. He was tired of fighting. The house would do whatever it wanted with him, that much was clear, and he didn't have to help it.
You broke his heart.
He was tired of playing its stupid, pointless game. Those bulges in the carpet would reach him soon and he didn't know what would happen. Maybe he would be fine, maybe the house couldn't do anything but scare him. Maybe whatever happened to him would look like a heart attack when they found his body. If he was lucky, maybe it even would be.
They crept closer, growing, spreading into new shapes. Trying to make him bolt. Shawn shuddered and hugged his knees.
"Fuck you," he said, voice coming out in a whisper. "You can't tell me what to do."
The pounding from the walls quieted and a new, purposefull pounding started up. The footsteps on the stairs again, coming for him at a furious pace. This was it.
From the darkness of the hall, he saw the flickering light of a lantern. The carpet sank back to the floor, deflated, as if whatever was under it was cringing away from the approaching light.
Then he heard the voice. "I will burn this filthy fucking rat hole to the ground, so help me God!" Hunter was illuminated in gold, waving the lantern in his hand and sneering at the house itself. He was resplendent. "Shawn?"
He hurried to Shawn's side and offered him an arm. Shawn took it gratefully, half collapsing against Hunter once he got to his feet. He felt terrible, like he'd been wrestling a tough match with a high fever, like sitting in this hallway had done something to him.
"Come on. Let's get you out of here." Hunter slung Shawn's arm around his shoulders and prepared to walk him down the hall, away from the pile of scrap wood that used to be a ladder.
You broke his heart.
"Wait, we- Cassidy's up in the fucking trap door, I don't-" He wasn't going up there for Leif, couldn't, didn't want Hunter to, didn't want to wait, didn't know what to do and didn't think he could figure it out like this. His balance went again and he clung to Hunter to keep himself from falling.
"Cassidy! We're making a break for it, you coming?" Hunter called. He waited a moment, then added, "It doesn't like fire!" He pulled Shawn closer, hiking him up to take more of his weight. "Come on," he muttered, "that's all we can do."
Together, they made their way towards the first set of stairs.
They heaved the big man onto the rocking chair and stepped away quickly. Fatu adjusted his grip on the sledgehammer. He'd brought it with him, just in case.
Shivering, he looked at the gently rocking chair. Just in case he needed to bash a man's head in. He reached out with his free hand and Scott caught it in his.
"We'll wait for the others. Take Hunter's car and get the cops. It'll be okay," he said, gripping probably too hard. Scotty didn't seem to mind.
They didn't have to wait long to hear stumbling footsteps on the stairs to their left. Before long Hunter emerged from the dark, lantern in hand, half carrying Shawn.
"Jesus, what happened?" cried Scotty.
Hunter didn't even slow down to answer, "I don't know. We need to leave."
"Where's Leif?"
"I don't fucking know! Shawn said he was in the attic, but he wouldn't come out. We need to leave." Hunter seemed to spot Mercy for the first time and his face twisted. "Without him." He spat in the direction of the chair, then turned his attention back to Shawn, who was slumping perilously low and starting to slide out of his grip.
Snapping out of his stunned daze, Fatu hurried to them, getting a shoulder under Shawn's other arm. "Hey, you with us, Shawn?"
"Yeah," Shawn mumbled. "Sure."
Fatu shared a glance with Hunter over his head. He'd never seen the Conneticuit Blue Blood look so concerned for anyone before. "Uh-huh. You wanna give me a title shot?"
Shawn snorted. "Suck my dick."
Hunter gave a relieved little laugh into Shawn's hair. "Come on. We're going to be okay."
As the words left his lips, the lantern in his other hand went out with a pop.
Hunter saw Scott Taylor sprint towards the main door the moment the flame went out. It was quick thinking, he realized, these men weren't stupid, but no one could move fast enough to pull it off. The door slammed shut just as Scott plowed into it shoulder first. It didn't so much as shake, but Taylor went down in a crumpled, cursing heap.
Hunter threw the useless lantern to the ground and shifted Shawn into Fatu's arms. "Hold him." He snatched the hammer from Fatu's lax grip.
The lights snuffed out before he reached the window. He took a few, shuffling steps forward, but it felt like he was moving through clay. This was it. They'd made a good try of it, but this was the end.
Hunter could hear Scott panting in pain, Fatu murmuring someting comforting with a shaking voice, and an awful, wounded whine that he would never have recognized without the process of elimination.
Screaming, he swung the sledgehammer with all of his strength.
Scott heard the glass shatter and struggled to his feet. His shoulder hurt like hell, but he'd worry about the damage later. Right now they had a chance.
"Fatu?" he called, staggering towards the window. He could barely hear his own voice over the howl of wind through the wound Hunter had opened in the house.
"I'm coming! We're coming!"
Scott collided painfully with Hunter. "Go on!" yelled Hunter. "I'll give you a boost!"
If nothing else, he thought as he braced a foot on Hunter's hands and prepared to jump through the broken window, next time they went to Philly he'd have a war story to show up those local boys with.
He jumped. He could feel a piece of glass slice a big line on his the outside of his thigh, but it didn't hurt as much as landing. His shoulder was well and truly fucked.
He crawled to the edge of the porch. Maybe he'd manage to stand maybe not, but at least he'd be out of the way.
After what felt like forever, he heard the thump of boots on the porch. "Scotty?"
"I'm okay," he called back. He could have cried with relief. Fatu was out.
"I've got him," he heard Fatu yell. Then, "Come on, Shawn, there you go, we're going home."
Lightning flashed and he saw Hunter, sledgehammer still in hand, diving through the window.
"Here," he heard Fatu saying, "I'll get Scotty," and a moment later Fatu's gentle hands were on his ribs, helping him to his feet. "I got you. I got you."
"I'm fine," he said, meaning it more this time. "It's just this fucking shoulder."
They staggered off the porch hand in one-good-hand, feeling in the dark for Hunter's car. The storm still raged, but it didn't seem half so loud once they got away from that damned house.
"Here," Hunter called, "it's over here!" There was enough light to see him now, leaning against the car with Shawn in his arms. The lanterns in the remaining windows were re-lighting.
As they approached, Hunter handed his keys to Fatu. "You drive. I- you drive."
Fatu accepted them without a word, shaking. "Hey," said Scott, "is it standard or automatic?"
"Automatic." Hunter didn't even glance at him, fully absorbed in helping a sluggish Shawn into the back seat.
"I can drive," he said, squeezing Fatu's hand.
"Scotty, are you sure? I know you're hurting."
"I can drive," he repeated. Fatu hugged him carefully, pressing their cheeks together and whispering thanks in his ear.
"Start it up, I'll get the map," Fatu said aloud.
By the time he came back with the map, their compass, and the championship belt, Hunter and Shawn were safely in the back seat and Scott had the engine running. Fatu climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door.
"Let's go."
They started by retracing their steps. Fatu gave Scotty directions while, in the back seat, Hunter tried to keep Shawn awake and talking. It felt like hours before they made it back to the washed out road that started it all.
"What's the plan now?" asked Scott. Fatu could hear the strain in his voice.
"I think our best bet is to get to the nearest interstate. Then we can find a motel or a gas station, somewhere with a phone. Go straight here."
The route he led them on stuck to bigger roads and, as he'd hoped, none of them were washed out or blocked by fallen trees. When they came to an entrance ramp, they cheered. The mood didn't last, but Fatu felt the atmosphere of fear in the car lighten once they were on the freeway.
It was another twenty miles until they saw a motel, a big, lit-up sign proclaiming its brand proudly. Fatu wouldn't want to admit it, but he was absurdly relived it belonged to a national chain. The last thing they needed was to check in with Norman Bates tonight.
Hunter booked a double room with one of his fancy credit cards. He could have booked the whole place, Fatu was pretty sure, but none of them wanted to spit up again tonight.
When they got to the room, Fatu helped Scott out of his wet jacket, then turned to the telephone and dialed from memory.
"President Monsoon, this is Fatu." Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Hunter looking on in shock from the other bed. Sometimes he forgot how new Hunter was. It didn't matter how bad things got, you called promoters first, then the cops.
"Fatu, thank god. Are you alright, son? Who's with you? We've got six missing wrestlers here."
"I'm okay. Scott Taylor, Hunter Hearst Helmsley, and Shawn Micheals are with me. Leif Cassidy is missing, Waylon Mercy is - he's hurt. He was trying to hurt us. We had to leave them. I don't have the address but I can tell you how we got there, I made notes on our map."
"Easy," cajoled President Monsoon. "Slow down. Do any of you need medical attention?"
"Scotty's shoulder's out and Shawn's concussed to fuck, I think, I don't know what happened."
"Alright. You'll call the hospital. Do you need to call the police? About this thing with Waylon?"
"Yeah."
Gorilla's voice was steady and calming. "Then you do that too. Where are you boys now? I'll send some people."
"We're at, uh-" he didn't have to ask before Scotty handed him a pad of hotel paper. He read the address off the letterhead.
"You hold tight and someone will be there soon. Leave a message at the desk with what hospital you're headed to so we can find you."
Fatu sighed in relief. Gorilla was the kind of president you could be glad to call up in a crisis. "Okay. Thanks."
"Remind me what you're going to do, so I know you're not in shock."
"Call the cops. Call the hospital. Leave a message at the front desk so you can find us."
"You're a tough kid, Fatu. Just like your uncle." Gorilla's fond tone was reassuring.
"Thank you." He leaned back against the headboard. "I'll call if anything else happens." After prefunctory goodbyes, he hung up the phone. They were going to be okay, but he had more calls to make first.
Gorilla Monsoon set his cheaters down and pressed a hand to his eyes. In all his years of professional wrestling, this had to be the wildest story he'd come upon. Ghosts aside, the reports of the four wrestlers who'd driven out in Helmsley's car suggested that they ought to find two men in the house. The first was Leif Cassidy, possibly holed up in the attic, if you believed Hunter, or dead up there, if you belived Shawn. Personally, in this one particular instance he belived Hunter. Shawn didn't remember taking a blow to the head, but it was pretty clear that he had, and a bad one too. The kid had had enough of those in the past year and a half that Gorilla sure wasn't going to blame him for being a little loopy this time.
The other missing party was Waylon Mercy, who all agreed would be in or near a rocking chair in the first entry room, badly injured. Maybe bled out.
The police had found Leif alright, up in the attic, curled up around a mannequin head like it was a teddy bear. He was in bad shape.
But they found no trace of Waylon Mercy. There was no blood on the old rocking chair in the front room. Only dust.