I'm not... perfectly happy with this one, but I wanted to get it over with. Let me just reply to reviews, and then I'll leave you to read this.
Hinata001: Huh. Never thought of it as a Mystery Trio story. But I guess that's what it is, isn't it?
Candymouse22: Thanks! The matter of Fiddleford's muteness will be elaborated on later.
Mariana (guest): Superior? I think that's a bit exaggerated, don't you think? I'm glad that everyone's in character, at least :)
Alysia of the Pen: Yeah, I'm trying to focus on Stan's desperation to prove his competence in this story. Sorry if the POV switches get annoying, but it's one of my methods of practising with my writing. I'm glad that you approve of Ford's subconscious methods of trying to fix himself, and don't worry about seeming mean; I love guilty characters a little too much myself ;)
JuneGilbertVivianRaeven: Wow, I'm surprised at the attention this story's getting already. Thanks! I'm referring to both Stans in the A.N. Stanley is 'Stan', Stanford is 'Ford'. We'll get to Mad Ford's reactions to seeing Stan in the next chapter ;)
Yeah, I feel bad for picking on Fidds, but I plan on giving him a lot of fluff in the future. And cookies solve everything!
Guest (guest): Thanks! And yes, the possibilities are endless, which is what I love about fandom communities as a whole. There is so much potential.
Gladothell: Thank you! *hugs you tightly*
celebi4ever: I do believe that that is my madness spreading onto you. Glad it's a good thing, though. And yes, caring Stan is best Stan.
Chapter 2 – A Bad Feeling
A (Now Confirmed) Sane Point of View
It took a few wrong turns, but Stan eventually managed to find his way to the hotel with a little help from Fiddleford. By the time they got there, a full-force blizzard had kicked up; shrouding the world in white-speckled fog; and Fiddleford was starting to get… the only way Stan could describe it was 'antsy'. His knees had made their way to his chest with his arms wrapped tightly around them, and it was more than just his hands that were shaking now. Whenever the Stanleymobile rounded a turn in the road, he tensed and pressed his face into his legs as if anticipating disaster. Paranoid, much?
But when Stanley parked his car in front of the hotel and reluctantly left its comfortable warmth to trudge to the entrance, disappointment met him in the form of a sign on the door announcing that the place was closed for maintenance work. Just his luck; he was going to have to spend another night in the car. At least he'd have company this time.
"The place is closed," Stan grumbled as he re-entered the car. "Great. Just… just great. You wanna take the back seat, Fiddleford? I've got some blankets in the trunk."
A ponderous frown made its way onto Fiddleford's face, and he pulled out his notepad to write in it (Stan had realised that the guy was mute when he kept writing answers to his questions in that book for him to read instead of just talking). Dutifully, he read the message. The handwriting was atrocious, thanks to McGucket's constantly shaking hands, but thankfully, it was still legible.
"I think I know a place where we can stay."
"You do?" Stan queried, his spirits lifting somewhat. "Well, do you want to take the wheel and drive us there, or..?"
At the mention of driving, Fiddleford's face drained of whatever colour was left and vehemently shook his head 'no'. He looked positively terrified of the prospect.
"Whoa, okay then. Careful before your head falls off," Stan joked half-heartedly; feeling concerned for his newfound companion. "I'm only asking."
Fiddleford quickly calmed down, but he still looked nervous as he scribbled more words underneath his previous statement.
"I can't drive."
"Oh. Right. Okay then, just… just point the way you want me to go, then, kay?"
An affirmative nod was the silent answer he received.
"Well, let's get going."
From a Mute's Skewed Perspective
Before Stan had claimed there was nowhere to stay, Fiddleford hadn't had the slightest recollection of the place. But as he looked at the image of Stan in his mind's eye and mulled over what had been said, it had just… come to him. He'd inexplicably remembered it; a picture of a snow-covered shack set in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by tall, dark sentinels in evergreen uniforms that had darkened with the cold of winter; casting the forest they guarded in shadows even more impenetrable than ever. The unfamiliar familiarity of repeatedly visiting the house and seeing Stan's face there slowly returned to him, and he had to wonder if it was his mind playing tricks on him. It just… it seemed so solid; he even remembered the way there, something he never thought possible.
He'd told Stan; knowing that the man wasn't happy about sleeping in his car; but the moment he'd proposed that Fiddleford drove them there, cold terror immediately seeped into his bones, followed by the agonising sensation of loss, and sending phantom pains through his right arm.
Thankfully, he hadn't had to sit behind the wheel of the Cadillac; instead being allowed to merely point out directions from the passenger seat. For once, he didn't mess up (he'd lost count of the amount of times he'd gotten himself lost trying to make his way around town), and successfully guided Stan to the road leading to the shack.
"This it? Down the road and we're there?" Stan enquired bluntly.
Fiddleford nodded, secretly proud of his accomplishment. Leaning back, he tried not to think about the fact that he was riding in a car; something he realised he was really, really anxious about for some reason. As he and Stan rolled further and further along the road, he felt another kind of unease building in his gut, as if there were something else to fear here.
Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to tell Stan about the shack.
Back to Looking Through Saner Eyes
The closer Stan got to the place Fiddleford had been directing him to, the more he got the feeling that he wasn't… welcome there. A dark foreboding that he found difficult to shake off, despite telling himself that it was stupid to think such a thing.
It's just that fear of the unknown kicking in again, Stan thought dismissively. This town is as dull as it can get; you're just being paranoid.
Eventually, he found himself pulling up outside a lone cabin, surrounded by menacing trees that loomed over everything and shrouded the woods beyond with shadows. Anything could be lurking in there. A hungry bear, a rabid cougar, maybe even a psychopath with an axe. In other words; the place was the perfect setting for a crappy horror movie.
"Sheesh, is this supposed to be some sort of lame horror movie set?" Stan commented as he killed the engine and got out of the car. "What sort of occupation did you have to get you here?"
He almost missed the grim expression that flashed across Fiddleford's face, but it was gone as soon as he noticed, so he merely dismissed it.
"Looks abandoned," Stan mused as he observed the shack some more. There was a multitude of ramshackle 'KEEP OUT' signs stuck into the ground, and coils of barbed wire were set up here and there in a cheap attempt to defend the place. It looked like a badly thought out war zone crossed with a really low-budget horror movie. "The heck..?"
The scratching of a pencil against paper alerted him to Fiddleford's attempts to communicate with him. He looked nervous, as if he regretted his choice to show him here.
"I'm starting to have doubts," was the hastily scrawled message.
"This place does have that kinda vibe, doesn't it? But I'm pretty sure there's no one living here. I mean, look at it! It's clearly been out of commission for a while."
A dubious, worried look flickered across Fiddleford's face, but he didn't argue, so Stan trudged through the snow and up to the porch. It creaked ominously under his weight, and a sudden gust of wind sent shivers racing along his spine, but he continued towards the door regardless. Raising his hand to knock, he realised that it was already open, hanging slightly ajar as if someone had left in a hurry.
It's nothing, Stan tried to convince himself. The lock just rusted away, and the wind blew it open.
And to prove it, he checked the lock. It was in almost pristine condition.
Oh, Stan thought. Well, umm… They just forgot to lock the door properly. Whoever 'they' are.
Shaking way his unease, Stan pushed the door open and entered. Cripes! The place was colder on the inside than it was on the outside!
"Hey, McGucket!" he called back over his shoulder. "You comin'?! This house is colder than a refrigerator in Hell, but it looks more comfortable than the car!"
Immediately, Fiddleford rushed inside, but halted the moment he'd stepped within the door. Fear and bewilderment plagued his eyes as his head swivelled one way and then the other in search of… something.
"Everything okay?" Stan enquired, and at the sound of his voice, Fiddleford's eyes locked onto him, and terror flashed through them briefly before he blinked, and the expression was replaced with mild confusion. He looked around him in a less frantic fashion than before hesitantly stepping forward. His actions confused, Stan, but nothing was said as he headed down the hallway, noting the clutter of crumpled fliers and wind-battered envelopes. "This place has definitely been empty for a while. I wonder where the kitchen is."
Spurred on by this, Stan began his search for the kitchen. What he found was a ton of rooms that were crammed with junk that was a mix of stuff he could recognise and stuff he couldn't. Of what he could discern from the mountains of chaos, there was a dusty old vacuum cleaner, several partially dismantled appliances (a blender, and something that looked like the remains of a computer were among the mess), a skeleton like the one that lurked in the corner of his old biology class (hadn't someone stolen the head of that thing for an art project once?), lots of cardboard boxes and black plastic bags full of what he hoped was clothes or some other object that didn't rot and make the place smell bad.
A sharp knock rapping against the wall alerted him to Fiddleford, who was standing half in, half out of a room he hadn't checked yet.
"That the kitchen?" Stan asked.
A small nod was all he got as an answer, but it was good enough for him. With haste, Stan headed into the room. Surprisingly, it wasn't as cluttered as everything else, but there was a dusty loneliness about it.
A prickle of unease clawed along his spine. Someone or something… still visited this house.
"Strange," he mused, trying to stay calm so as not to alarm Fiddleford. "I'd have thought it'd be dustier." If Fiddleford found this statement odd, he made no comment, instead standing by the refrigerator and staring about blankly. He was running his hand along his cast, picking at the bandages absent-mindedly. Stan shivered as the cold bit into him a little deeper. "You wanna go look for some blankets?" he suggested. "I'll see if there's a working boiler here."
The mute nodded and briskly vacated the room, leaving Stan to search around. Checking the cupboards, he realised that they were completely empty, save for some stale bread and a tin of vegetable soup. The fridge yielded a half-empty carton of milk that was months past its sell by date and cheese that had been reduced to a pile of hairy blackish-green mould, making Stan want to gag.
Okay, so the boiler isn't in here, Stan concluded. Oh god, please tell me it's not hidden behind all the junk in the other rooms. That stuff will take ages to search through.
Seeing no other option, Stan exited the kitchen and headed over to the nearest door. He was just about to open it when he heard laboured breathing behind him.
"What're you doing in my house?!"
Oh, shit.
Howl: And that, folks, is why you should never compare real life to a bad horror movie. Chances are, it'll bite you in the butt later on.
Wax Sherlock: Care to explain why Stan Pines is suddenly so observant of his surroundings? That does not seem very in-character of him.
Howl: *frowns* Are you kidding me? The guy's had to look over his shoulder every five seconds for the past ten years, of course he's going to pick up those sorts of traits. How do you think he's stayed alive all this time?
Wax Sherlock: You... have a point.
Howl: Ha! I got you to admit you were wrong! Now remember what you promised?
Wax Sherlock: No.
Howl: Oh, that's funny, because I could have sworn I heard Pacifica saying she had just got a new tanning bed. Hint, hint?
Wax Sherlock: *sweats* I remember, now! Review, please!
Howl: Good. Now, where did I put that heat mat?
Wax Sherlock: A what?!