A/N: Alright, I'm back relatively quickly with a new chapter, cos I felt bad leaving everyone hanging. Hope it doesn't disappoint! Oh, and you might want to stop eating anything before you read this chapter… Just an idea.

As always, the response has been simply wonderful. Reviews make my day, so thank you so much to Bella1992, Don'tTellMeICan't, LittleMissCheese, OMG, Pazzesco, LiveLoveLaughLife and spazzmanaray. I love long reviews, so special thanks (as always) to OMG, and also to spazzmanaray. But any length of review makes me happy!

Title? Cry Little Sister from the movie The Lost Boys. Dark, gothic, foreboding… need I say more?

DISCLAIMER: Yeah, yeah, I know, I don't own Glee. I wish I did though…

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Quinn took a faltering step backwards. Her feet, cold in their thin ballet pumps, caught painfully on a rock protruding on the lake's edge, but all she could concentrate on was keeping away from the still-advancing form of Mike Chang. Her breath caught in her throat as he extended one hand and reached towards her.

This was madness. Quinn had known Mike Chang since her first day of junior high and he had never been anything other than sweet to her. She had rode with him to the hospital when he got his butt kicked by a bunch of out-of-town thugs at a football game and he had held her hair when she threw up at a house party because some bitchy older Cheerio decided it would be funny to spike her drink. They were friends, close friends.

But now Mike was advancing on her with those lifeless eyes, with bright red blood gleaming on his hands. Quinn held the rock up high and squeezed her eyes shut. Puck's image filled her mind, gloriously perfect and gloriously hers. He looked frantic, scared, and he opened his mouth in a silent plea to her to run. Quinn realised that Beth had his eyes.

I'm sorry, she thought wildly and opened her eyes with newfound determination.

"Mike," she called, tripping slightly over his name. "Mike, don't do this."

The slender boy limped towards her. He looked terrifying, paler than usual and dressed in a high-collared, oversized cream coat. A smudge of blood smeared his lower lip. Quinn sidled slightly sideways.

"Why, Mike?" She wished she didn't sound quite so petrified. In fact, she wished, not for the first time, that she was like Rachel Berry, always able to plaster on a brave façade no matter how much fear rippled beneath the surface. She had to try now to be like Rachel, the girl she had once hated so venomously. It was her only chance. "Why are you doing this? Attacking people? Killing Tina?"

Mike raised his deadened gaze to meet hers. She saw pain in those almond-shaped eyes, pain and something close to bewilderment. He opened his mouth to speak, but broke off with a sudden agonised gasp. His entire face twisted and he glanced down surreptitiously. Quinn followed his line of sight, careful to keep a tight hold on the jagged rock cutting into her palm, and felt a gasp of her own tug itself from her lips.

How could she not have noticed before? Blinded by fear, she had not seen how his coat, so unlike anything he would usually wear, hung clumsily from his frame as though somebody else had shoved it onto him. She had not seen the egg-sized bruise on his temple. She had missed it, missed everything, missed the dark stain that was now spreading steadily across his abdomen. Her stomach lurched.

Slowly, dream-like, Mike unbuttoned the coat with fumbling, frightened fingers. He looked shakily at what lay beneath and raised his terrified gaze to meet Quinn's. The former cheerleader bent over and vomited into the scrub on the lake's edge.

He had been gutted.

Gutted.

Like a fish.

His entire chest had been carved open and amidst the sickening masses of blood and bone were the gaping wounds where Quinn was pretty sure his internal organs should have been. She had no idea how he had managed to stay on his feet so long.

So much blood, so much emptiness… and she hadn't noticed! Mike was, quite literally, falling apart before her eyes and she had been so paralysed by idiotic fear for her own life that she had thought he was the killer. He had reached out to her for help, and she was afraid of him. Of her friend. Her friend who was dying. Her throat burned with a sudden surge of bile.

"Oh Mike!" she exclaimed, rushing to his side. "Mike, I'm so sorry! I… I…"

"Quinn."

Oh God, his voice was so weak. Barely a rattle.

"Mike, it's OK," Quinn soothed as he toppled to the ground. She tried so hard not to wince at the wet sloppy noise this new contact made. It could not be good. "It's OK, we're going to get you to the hospital, you'll be-"

"Quinn."

His voice was fainter now, yet somehow more persistent. His movements were sluggish, like he was underwater, but so purposeful. His eyes swam with suppressed tears. Quinn held him tight; he was trembling from head to foot.

Going into shock, Quinn thought faintly, remembering some first-aid course the Cheerios had attended because Coach Sylvester considered it important that they could treat each other's injuries in case of attack from some rival cheer squad.

"I swear," she said in a wavering voice that threatened to break at any moment. "I swear, it'll all be-"

"Quinn."

Mike uttered her name for the third time, this time with complete desperation. His eyes widened impossibly, bugging out as he stared over Quinn's head at something she couldn't see.

"Don't, Mike," she cooed. "Everything's-"

"Hello Quinn."

She froze and then whirled around at the sound of the new voice. An unspeakable terror gripped her. A figure emerged from the trees, shrouded from head to foot in black. It glided forward effortlessly, clinically, its face obscured by the long hood it wore. All she could see was its mouth, stretched into a sardonic smirk that chilled her to the bone. She clambered frantically through the dirt, shielding Mike's still form.

"Aren't you going to say hello?" the figure asked with a wry chuckle. She realised that its voice was distorted, technologically synthesised. She couldn't tell if it was a female voice or a male one, young or old. "I thought as much. Always so high and mighty, weren't you? No matter. We can fix that."

Panic fluttered through her and her eyes flew unwillingly to Mike's mangled innards. The figure chuckled coldly again.

"No, no, no. Mike was fun to do, nice and messy. But there won't be any mess with you, Quinn Fabray. I've got something special planned. Something that will suit you perfectly.

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Kurt blinked once. Twice. Three times.

His vision settled. Brown on brown. Dirt. Water.

Rain.

He remembered.

Frantically, he bolted upright, ignoring the dull ache in his temples. It was still raining as heavily as ever. The water pounded in his ears and he felt so, so cold. His shoulder blades burned with blinding pain and every part of him hurt. He attributed that to the way he had fallen, sprawled awkwardly on the dirt track.

His green eyes flitted from tree to tree, looking for the perpetrator. Everywhere he looked was empty. The only sign that life even existed here was betrayed by the jewel-bright eyes of some small rodent in the depths of the undergrowth, and the soft hooting of a long-eared owl in the trees overhead. Kurt was alone. He began to shake.

Get to safety, a small voice in his head told him. Get out of the woods.

His breathing ragged, he reached out for the flashlight which had rolled a couple of feet away when he was jumped. The red metal glinted slightly in the dim half-light. Grateful for the light source, Kurt flicked the power switch.

Nothing happened.

He tried again.

Nothing.

No light. No safety.

No hope, he thought bleakly. Then he shook himself. Don't think like that. Just get back to the house.

Shaking like a leaf, he got unsteadily to his feet. He wiped the dirt from his face and fumbled in his pocket for the small oval locket that had belonged to his mother, which he carried like a talisman. His palms were sweaty.

As the sky overhead darkened, Kurt began to jog along the dirt trail, uncertain of the direction he should be moving in. Silence enveloped the forest. Once, he thought he heard somebody cry out. But when he listened again, it was gone.

Just an animal, he thought, and kept walking.

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"Let me go!" Quinn cried, flailing in the cloaked figure's grasp. It tugged viciously on her ponytail and tightened the restraints on her wrists until the ropes drew blood. Tears began to spill over despite her best efforts.

"Shut up," the figure sneered, tugging her further down the lake's edge.

"Please!" the blonde girl moaned. "Please, don't hurt me. I won't tell anyone you were here, I swear. Please."

"In time, they'll all know I'm here," shrugged the figure. "Admittedly, they won't know for very long. They'll be like Mike and Tina. Like you. Dead."

"No!" Quinn shrieked desperately. She could barely breathe, panic crushing her from all sides as efficiently as any medieval torture equipment. "No, no you can't! I have a baby. Her name's Beth. She needs me!"

The figure smacked her hard across the face. Her cheek ached.

"I know you have a daughter Quinn. But I know you gave her up, you didn't want her. She most certainly does not need you. Nobody does. You're poisonous, Quinn. All you've ever done is use people. Use them and abuse them. The Cheerios. Puck. Finn. And you hurt so many people."

"No, I-"

"Didn't you bully them?" the figure continued in a deadly hiss. "Didn't you go out of your way to make their life a misery? Think Quinn. Who did you deliberately torture, day after day? Who?"

Rachel Berry's face flickered hazily in Quinn's mind. But this could not be Rachel; Quinn wasn't sure how tall this person was, but they were definitely taller than Rachel, who was a tiny five foot two. So who?

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, and now her voice was flat with defeat. The figure tightened its grip once more.

"To fix things."

And suddenly they were moving faster and the nightmare figure's breathing hitched with excitement. She was shunted along, unable to prevent the movement or even figure out where they were going. She clenched the rock in her fist and attempted to stab at her captor. It's synthesised laugh was cold ad taunting.

"Tut tut," it said in a sing-song voice. "Don't be silly Quinn. I may not look strong, but I can overpower you with one hand tied behind my back."

It flicked the rock easily from her grip and laughed again. Quinn dug her heels into the dirt, but her efforts were futile. Presently, they drew to an abrupt halt.

"We're he-ere!"

Quinn was certain her eyes were playing tricks on her. They seemed to have progressed a couple of hundred yards along the lake; when she twisted around she could just see Mike lying sprawled in the dirt, his eyes wide and unseeing. She gulped. And the strangest thing, the eeriest, was that standing before them was, well…

A bathtub.

It was an old-fashioned one, large with brass feet like claws. The pale porcelain shimmered ominously in the pale moonlight.

"I… I don't…" Quinn's voice trembled, shook and died as the figure pulled her forward.

"You know, they say you can drown in a bathtub if you're weak enough," murmured the figure. "And if someone's holding you down."

Roughly, Quinn's head was forced over the rim of the tub. Her eyes widened as she saw the liquid which filled it. For one heart-stopping moment, she thought it was blood. But as her face was pushed closer, she could feel the coldness radiating from it. Realisation hit her like a steel freight train.

Slushie.

"You spent so long slushying people yourself," her captor mused. "I thought I could return the favour. Bye bye, Queen Bee."

It was worth one last shot. "Puck!" Quinn screamed through her tears. "Puck!"

"I don't think your boyfriend can hear you," the figure whispered callously, right in her ear. "No matter. I expect you'll be seeing him soon enough anyway."

And without further warning, Quinn was forced into the needle-like pain of slushie. This was not a slushie facial, it was a thousand times worse. She fought and fought, but it did no good. The hand on the nape of her neck held firm. The more she struggled, the weaker she felt. Her movements became more sluggish than even Mike's had been and her eyelids began to droop as the freezing liquid filled her lungs.

Finally, she closed them. And they didn't open again.

The figure pulled the body from the bathtub and tossed what had once been Quinn Fabray carelessly to the ground. She fell like a ragdoll, her lips a nightmare shade of blue. Her killer removed a pair of black leather gloves and shoved them into an inside pocket on their robe. A smile decorated the hooded face as the robed figure swept from the clearing and into the darkness beyond.

When another figure entered the clearing minutes later, clad not in a robe but a ruined Gucci trench coat and Marc Jacobs capri pants, it was too late to save both the blonde girl and the sallow-skinned dancer.

All that Kurt could do was scream. Scream and run.

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"Where the hell is she?" Puck hissed, joining Mercedes in her frantic pacing. He glared at Matt as though daring him not to answer.

"Dude, she just needs some time," said his friend in a carefully controlled voice. Puck growled and smashed his fist into the wall. Rachel and Finn exchanged frantic glances.

"Do something!" Rachel hissed to the lanky quarterback. Wide-eyed, Finn shook his head like a bobble-head.

"No!" he mouthed. "Puck'll put my head through that wall."

Rachel frowned for a moment and then jumped to her feet. "Fine," she whispered. "Then I will."

She flounced over to Puck's shaking form and put a small hand on his muscular arm. The big footballer flinched, but he didn't bat her away. Rachel tossed Finn a defiant smile over her shoulder.

BANG.

Emma screamed. Finn jumped about a foot in the air. Matt tensed, poised to attack.

Mercedes, on the other hand, gave a squeal and rushed towards the now-open door. A ghostly figure toppled over the threshold and into her waiting embrace.

Kurt.

They could all tell in an instant that something was terribly wrong. Kurt was paler even than usual and he was sobbing uncontrollably as Mercedes stroked his hair. It was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and his carefully-chosen designer clothes were spoiled beyond repair.

The scariest thing was that he didn't even seem to care.

"Baby boy," Mercedes coaxed softly. "Kurt, what happened?"

The sobs intensified.

"Kurt?" Will asked. It was the first time he had managed to speak properly since he found out about Tina. "Kurt, you can tell us."

"M-Mike and Qu- Quinn, they… Oh God they're… They're dead!"

A beat passed in silence. Then all hell broke loose. Emma screamed again. Finn fell heavily into his seat. Rachel cried out as though she'd been shot.

Puck growled like a wild animal and pushed Kurt up against the nearest available wall.

"What did you do to her?" he snarled, punching the smaller boy square in the nose. "What the fuck did you do to my Quinn?"

Another punch. Another expletive. Another accusation. They rained down like gunshots until Matt and Will pulled themselves from their trance and peeled Puck away. Wild with grief, he scratched and kicked at them.

"He did it!" he screamed, a vein popping in his neck. "He killed her! He was missing when Tina turned up dead, and now Mike and Qu-quinn are gone too. He did it! This fucking fag-"

"Shut up." Finn's voice was ice as he went to stand in front of Kurt, shielding him from Puck's attack.

"He did it, he-"

"Shut. Up," Finn said again, his voice level. "Kurt didn't do this. I know it. He is-he is my brother. And you will not threaten him again."

With that, he turned his back on Puck and began to help Mercedes to tend to Kurt's bloody pulp of a face. Puck wheeled around to look at Rachel.

"Berry," he said weakly. "Berry, he did it. You believe me, don't you?"

"I believe, Noah," she replied softly. "That you are grieving, and you are looking for someone to blame. Now I know the evidence is stacked against Kurt, that we have nobody else to blame, but-"

"Hold on," Emma interrupted. She too was deathly pale, the result of this latest shock. "Something's not right. Who's missing?"

"Santana and Brit," whispered Matt hoarsely.

"And Artie," Mercedes added. "Where's Artie?"

In the spot where Artie's wheelchair had stood was a piece of paper. She bent and picked it up, reading aloud to the others:

I have to find this bastard. Sorry.

The words crashed around them all. In the ruckus which had ensued with Kurt's return, Artie had slipped away into the night. Rachel, her face awash with panic, rushed down the hall calling for Brittany and Santana, Finn right behind her. A dazed Kurt followed, propped up by Mercedes. Emma, determined to do her duty as a chaperone, brought up the rear.

They found the ditzy blonde in the bedroom the two cheerleaders had shared with Quinn. She was sitting on the floor with her back against the bed, sipping from a bottle of cheap beer. A half-empty six-pack sat on the floor beside her.

"Brittany," Rachel said, using the sort of voice one used when talking to a small child. "What are you doing?"

"Santana was sad," the other girl said in a child-like whisper. "She said something bad was happening and she wanted to forget. She said she brought some beer with her, that it would be like a party."

"Alcohol was banned for this trip," Emma said. Finn glanced pityingly at her and Kurt snorted.

"Since when has Santana paid attention to rules?" he retorted. He returned his attention to the blonde cheerleader looking up at them all. "Go on Brit."

"We had a couple of drinks. I think something bad happened, because San was crying and she wouldn't let me cuddle her like I usually do when she's upset. And then she said she needed some air. But she didn't come back."

The others exchanged horrified glances, the full consequences of Brittany's words hitting them. Now Santana and Artie were out there alone in the dark. Could one of them be involved? Or would one of them be the next victim?

"Guys," Matt panted, falling into the room. "Bad news. Puck- he's gone. He overpowered us, Mr Schue got knocked out. And Puck ran away, shouting something about getting the bastard who's doing this."

Rachel began to sob softly, unable to hold in the suppressed emotion any longer. A tentative Finn wrapped his long arms around her tiny frame. The others looked bleakly at each other, their shock beyond actions. A horrified silence fell until Brittany spoke again.

"This is bad, isn't it? Even worse than that time I put my kitty in the washing machine?"

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For once, Brittany's right. And I'm so sorry, Quinn and Mike lovers :(

Please review, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter, because I'm not so sure about it…