[Fanfic] Out of the Shadows (Chapter 4)
Title: Out of the Shadows
Characters: America, England, Canada, Australia, a bit of Russia
Rating: I'd say probably a pg-13, might go higher later on though
Warnings: Overall fanfic, language, violence, creepy and disturbing (hopefully) imagery
Summary: America takes a dare to stay overnight in a haunted house, but when fear is all that remains what's left to keep the shadows at bay?
America stood with a hand against the doorframe, eyes transfixed by the blinking red light, uncertainty pulsing through his veins, propelled by a pounding heart. He was caught in limbo, unable to move and slowly realizing that his sanctuary had turned into another hell.
Hell? Hell was too strong of a word, surely. It was just a blinking light. A blinking light he hadn't started. A blinking light that seemed to fill the entire other half of the room, not with its red glow, but with an aura of impenetrability. A blinking light that blocked his means of escape. No. Hell might have been the right word after all.
Hair stood on end as frosty air whispered across the back of his neck and he jumped, turning around to face the other way while stumbling backwards out of the doorway and into the front room.
"N-n-n-nothing." He clenched his teeth for a moment against the stutter, while slowly stepping backwards. "It's nothing." He glanced over his shoulder towards the camera then back towards the doorway he had just been standing in. "Just a draft. You're letting things spook you." He breathed in slowly, willing his heart to stop trying to force its way out of his chest. Thank God he wasn't Russia. He smiled weakly at the thought and breathed out, then breathed in again. He probably would have had to pick the dang thing up three times by now. Seriously, how does he deal with it getting dusty. Blow on it before sticking it back in? The image of Russia treating his heart like an old NES game was too much and the air rushed out in a laugh. It was short lived, the humor dissipating quickly in the tense atmosphere, but it was enough to shore up America's resolve, at least for the moment.
He looked back down at the camcorder on the floor and its small blinking light. He had probably hit it or something when he left the room earlier, both shifting its position and turning it on. "Yeah, that sounds about right," He said aloud. America bent down to pick it up and frowned sharply. It was icy cold and the chill soon spread to his fingers. He turned it off and set it back on the box, then quickly stuck his hands in his pockets. So there was a logical explanation for the camera, but the window was a slightly different matter. That was a little more difficult to figure out. Unless, he thought, a possibility striking him, there was someone outside who did it. He walked over to the window and peaked out for the first time, looking across the road. The car was gone, but that didn't mean they were. They could have parked a ways up the road and walked back.
But why? America scuffed his shoe against the floor. He hadn't done anything lately to warrant getting pranked, right? Well aside from that incident with the peanut butter… Nah. He shook his head and crossed his arms. That really hadn't been anything out of the ordinary. Not enough to set this off. Course, they were both assholes. They didn't really need a reason. It did seem a little elaborate though, concocting the dare, driving all the way out into the boonies, then there were those packets. But it was getting close to Halloween.
"That's it!" he shouted, slamming his fist into his palm. He smiled smugly, thoroughly satisfied with himself over solving the mystery. England had enlisted help with this years contest. He frowned. Kind of an early start though. Maybe going for the element of surprise? America scratched his head. Not like he had to, considering the current record. Their scores weren't exactly neck in neck… by any means. And why would he pull in Australia, or Russia of all people? Why Russia? The frown America wore deepened. Because he was frickin' Russia, that's why. He'd do it and he'd do it well. America rolled his shoulders. At least that took a bit of the edge off. And to think he had been about to hit the door. He could just imagine himself running down the stairs like a bat out of hell, just to meet up with the three of them laughing their asses off. Like hell he was going to let that happen.
His fist tightened. It was kind of a dirty trick though, in a way. Like he had told Australia before, he took his film projects seriously, and if England was going to set up a bunch of stuff just to get a jump start on Halloween then the project was pretty much a bust already. America crossed his arms again and leaned back against the wall. He'd just have to think of a different angle to go at in that case. A simple debunking just wouldn't work, not with the tricks he knew England could pull out of the woodwork, and especially if he had the other two hanging around to help him out. He tapped his arm absentmindedly. 'Of course,' he thought, a shiver running down his spine, 'If England was involved… then he might really be dealing with...' America cut himself off at that point, laughing out loud. But really, it was too early for England to start the contest anyway, so that was probably out. Probably just Russia and Australia wanting to mess with him. Yeah, that was it.
"Well," he said, a little loudly for the benefit of the audience he had just discovered, pushing himself off from the wall. "Might as well get this over with. See what sort of spooks I'm dealing with here." Or more likely what sort of storyteller Australia had turned out to be. He sat down on the ground, still nestled in the patch of light, which was starting to stretch out across the room with the changing angle of the sun and reached into the box, pulling out the stack of manila envelopes and noting that each was labeled with a number and a location, the one at the top bearing a large red "one". He assumed that meant it was the one they wanted him to open first and after setting the camcorder up with a tripod on the ground he opened it and pulled out a piece of computer paper. "What, did you guys just print this off a website or something?" he mumbled. "Kind of expected more effort than this."
He cleared his throat and began to read. "The history of the Clarkstead house is one of sadness and tragedy" He rolled his eyes and muttered "As if it was gonna be a comedy," then continued reading. "The Clarksteads were the owners of a local mill and had a daughter named Emily. The story goes that Emily was seeing a young man from town, by the name of William, who her parents disapproved of. They instead wanted her engaged to the son of the Harrison's, a wealthy family who the Clarksteads had business arrangements with. Emily followed her parents' wishes and allowed The Harrison's son to court her, however, she continued to leave the house secretly to see her young lover, climbing down the tree outside her window each night. One night however, William failed to meet her at the appointed time, leaving her waiting in the forest. She went back before daybreak, and returned the following night to wait again. Still, William never came. Eventually a note was found in his room at a local boardinghouse, stating simply that he was moving out. That was the last that anyone heard from him. There were rumors, of course, of the possibility of foul play, but both the Clarksteads and the Harrisons were well respected families and rumors were swiftly hushed. Emily however, was devastated. The night before she was to be married to the Harrison's son she hung herself. On the second floor- second floor, really? Why start with the second floor? On the second floor is her bedroom, the room where she took her life." America rolled his shoulders to ease the tension that he told himself wasn't there. "The room is said to be haunted by her restless spirit and observers have seen a female form that looks like Emily gazing out the window at night. Many believe she is waiting for William to return and meet her. Really?" America laughed, ignoring the way his voice had been growing steadily softer. "How stereotypical."
"In addition," He continued, "If you listen carefully on certain nights, crying can be heard coming from the second floor. It is assumed to be Emily. Your task is to go to Emily's room and do an EVP session. It must last at least five minutes. No stalling for time." Damn it! They knew him too well. "Happy hunting."
America leaned back against the box and stared up at the ceiling. "Great," he sighed, "So I'm having a conversation with a ghost, and a whiny one at that." He bent over and dug through the box with one hand, shoving his messenger bag aside when it swung in the way, and began to pull out various items. He had several more bags of cables, very few of which he could actually use, a bag of camcorder batteries, and several cameras of various sizes and makes. The one item he needed however, his handheld audio recorder, was being elusive. He bent further into the box, grunting as the messenger bag swung back around to the front again. He paused for a moment, in consideration, and then hesitantly took it off. It's not like he really needed it anyway, he told himself, ignoring the chill that passed through him as he sat it on the ground. Rubbing his arms, he picked up his bomber and slipped it on, grimacing at the cool slickness of the lining, then turned around. The recorder was on the floor sitting a foot or so away from the small pile he had just unloaded. Shaking his head briskly before any thoughts could develop, he picked up the electronics and walked back towards the hall, once again holding the camera in front of him.
The stairs leading up to the second floor were steep and noisy, creaking with every step he took as if to complain (or warn, a small voice supplied- America squashed it like a bug). Emily's room, as he had unfortunately began to think of it, was, according to the front of the envelope, the middle door of three which lined the right side of the upper hall. It was easy enough to find. He stepped through the opening, noting the pastel pink wallpaper which hung down in strips, having come loose in sections like the wallpaper in the front room. A window was opposite the door, and another, open, door was to the right. He walked towards it and jumped at the sight of rope dangling down from the ceiling of the closet. It was tied into a noose. He chuckled nervously. "Seriously?" he mumbled,"Don't you think that's a bit much guys?"
He took a few steps towards it, then paused. He really didn't have to examine it. He knew what a rope (noose) looked like. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat and sat down, cross legged, in the patch of sun, facing the hallway. He placed the camcorder in position, making sure it was still rolling, and pushed record on the voice recorder.
"EV-" His voice cracked and he coughed into the crook of his arm. "EVP session one, Emily's room. Time is approximately," he glanced down at his watch, then continued, "4:17 PM." He glanced around the room for a moment, pointedly ignoring the closet. "Okay, um… I'm Alfred." He paused for a moment, uncertain about how long he should remain quiet. "Um, is anyone here?" The silence was almost palpable. "I've heard someone likes to hang out here." He paused, glancing down at his watch (Oh God, just 30 seconds. It had just been 30 seconds?) before adding nervously. "It would be totally cool if you came out." Did he say that? Did he really just say that? Totally cool if you came out, what the he-
Creak.
'It didn't. It didn't. It didn't didn't didn't didn't,' thought America, who was squeezing his eyes so tightly shut he could feel tears building in the outer corners. After a second he pried them back open and slowly turned his head to the left, wide eyes staring at the closet. There was nothing.
He laughed nervously, hoping that it would have the same affect it had had downstairs. He was out of luck it seemed. "Okay, um, so," he breathed in, then out. "So why are you here?" he asked quickly, bracing himself for another sound. Silence. America twisted his hands nervously. "Is this where you died?"
Thump!
America was up and running as soon as he heard (Felt! Felt! He had felt it hit the ground just a few inches behind him!) the sound, gripping the doorway with one hand as he pushed his back up against the wall of the hallway in between Emily's room and another. His chest heaved in and out quickly, whimpers coming out every so often. He waited, frozen to his spot, for something to happen. After a moment however, rationality began to take control. He was panicking, badly. He needed to assess the situation. "Something just tried to take my head off, how's that for an assessment!" he snapped at himself. Wait. Stop. Breath. Nothing came near his head. (Inches away! Inches away!) It was probably just another bird. (Bird's don't react to questions!) There was nothing to be afraid of in that room (Were we in the same room? Fuck you! Seriously. Fuck you!). He needed to go back to prove himself of that (Fuck that!) and get the job done.
He slowly turned himself towards the opening of the door, peaking into the room, certain that he was going to come face to face with a floating figure with glowing red eyes and a gaping mouth that would suck him into the darkness, never to return. The room, however, was clear. He licked his lips, and gripped the doorframe, a question coming out before he could stop himself. "Was that you?" he whispered.
Thump
The sound was equally as soft as his question, but he still found himself in a familiar position, back against the hallway wall. He once again peaked in through the doorway slowly. Finding nothing, he crept back into the room, then hesitantly sat back down on the ground. "Okay," he said, licking his lips again. When did his mouth get so dry? "We're going to try a system. One knock for yes, two for no. Now," he paused, wiping his palms off on his pants. "Are you Emily?"
Thump
"A-ah," he stuttered. "N-Nice to meet you… I think." He took a moment to gather his thoughts, realizing it was one of those rare times that he wasn't certain exactly what to say. "Um, is it rude to ask how you died?" The temperature suddenly dropped, America's breath coming out in little white puffs in front of him. The feeling of cold was overwhelming, as if it was a physical presence that engulfed the entire room.
Thud!
America drew his knees instinctively to his chest and pulled his arms in. The sound came from behind him, so much harsher than the first responses, as if something had been thrown across the room at him. "Okay, okay! Sorry! Wrong question." His apology did nothing to alleviate the chill in the room, instead he thought he could vaguely hear ice forming on the window above him. "Is William a bad topic?" He felt a sharp tugging on the shoulder of his jacket and he jumped up. "Hey! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm bothering you."
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The door to the closet began opening and closing repeatedly. Slamming loudly shut each time.
"Okay!" America's voice came out in a squeak. "I'll leave," He said, walking swiftly towards the door, only to have it slam shut in front of him. "Make up your fucking mind!" He yelled, nearly in tears as he grabbed at the doorknob and began to pull. It wouldn't budge. America's eyes widened and he pulled harder.
Sobs erupted from the closet and a creaking began. America turned his head over his shoulder to see the rope pulled downwards as if- he turned his head quickly as he saw it move back and forth, jerking slightly.
"Fuck this!" He yelled and pulled harder, not worrying about whether he broke the door or not. It still held firm and panic began to set in. "What the hell? What the hell?" He pounded on the door and pulled again, to no avail. "Let me-Let me out," He cried, his voice growing harsh and tears beginning to drip down his cheeks. He pulled and pulled, his moist hands slipping on the doorknob, until the door suddenly flew open, sending him sprawling across the floor and knocking the camera onto its side.
Almost as soon as he hit the floor he began crawling back towards the door, jumping up and running as soon as he could get a sure foot on the ground. His shoulder slammed painfully into the doorframe as he exited. As he ran through the hallway and half-tripped down the stairs he could swear that the sobs coming from upstairs had turned to vicious laughter.
Author's Note: Ah, hi. I'm just going to say one thing… writing a fic during a Hetalia event is harder than… well it's dang hard. I'll just say that. Hopefully this sounds okay. I'm actually a little worried about it, but I'm putting it up anyway. Hope you enjoy.
Characters: America, England, Canada, Australia, a bit of Russia
Rating: I'd say probably a pg-13, might go higher later on though
Warnings: Overall fanfic, language, violence, creepy and disturbing (hopefully) imagery
Summary: America takes a dare to stay overnight in a haunted house, but when fear is all that remains what's left to keep the shadows at bay?
America stood with a hand against the doorframe, eyes transfixed by the blinking red light, uncertainty pulsing through his veins, propelled by a pounding heart. He was caught in limbo, unable to move and slowly realizing that his sanctuary had turned into another hell.
Hell? Hell was too strong of a word, surely. It was just a blinking light. A blinking light he hadn't started. A blinking light that seemed to fill the entire other half of the room, not with its red glow, but with an aura of impenetrability. A blinking light that blocked his means of escape. No. Hell might have been the right word after all.
Hair stood on end as frosty air whispered across the back of his neck and he jumped, turning around to face the other way while stumbling backwards out of the doorway and into the front room.
"N-n-n-nothing." He clenched his teeth for a moment against the stutter, while slowly stepping backwards. "It's nothing." He glanced over his shoulder towards the camera then back towards the doorway he had just been standing in. "Just a draft. You're letting things spook you." He breathed in slowly, willing his heart to stop trying to force its way out of his chest. Thank God he wasn't Russia. He smiled weakly at the thought and breathed out, then breathed in again. He probably would have had to pick the dang thing up three times by now. Seriously, how does he deal with it getting dusty. Blow on it before sticking it back in? The image of Russia treating his heart like an old NES game was too much and the air rushed out in a laugh. It was short lived, the humor dissipating quickly in the tense atmosphere, but it was enough to shore up America's resolve, at least for the moment.
He looked back down at the camcorder on the floor and its small blinking light. He had probably hit it or something when he left the room earlier, both shifting its position and turning it on. "Yeah, that sounds about right," He said aloud. America bent down to pick it up and frowned sharply. It was icy cold and the chill soon spread to his fingers. He turned it off and set it back on the box, then quickly stuck his hands in his pockets. So there was a logical explanation for the camera, but the window was a slightly different matter. That was a little more difficult to figure out. Unless, he thought, a possibility striking him, there was someone outside who did it. He walked over to the window and peaked out for the first time, looking across the road. The car was gone, but that didn't mean they were. They could have parked a ways up the road and walked back.
But why? America scuffed his shoe against the floor. He hadn't done anything lately to warrant getting pranked, right? Well aside from that incident with the peanut butter… Nah. He shook his head and crossed his arms. That really hadn't been anything out of the ordinary. Not enough to set this off. Course, they were both assholes. They didn't really need a reason. It did seem a little elaborate though, concocting the dare, driving all the way out into the boonies, then there were those packets. But it was getting close to Halloween.
"That's it!" he shouted, slamming his fist into his palm. He smiled smugly, thoroughly satisfied with himself over solving the mystery. England had enlisted help with this years contest. He frowned. Kind of an early start though. Maybe going for the element of surprise? America scratched his head. Not like he had to, considering the current record. Their scores weren't exactly neck in neck… by any means. And why would he pull in Australia, or Russia of all people? Why Russia? The frown America wore deepened. Because he was frickin' Russia, that's why. He'd do it and he'd do it well. America rolled his shoulders. At least that took a bit of the edge off. And to think he had been about to hit the door. He could just imagine himself running down the stairs like a bat out of hell, just to meet up with the three of them laughing their asses off. Like hell he was going to let that happen.
His fist tightened. It was kind of a dirty trick though, in a way. Like he had told Australia before, he took his film projects seriously, and if England was going to set up a bunch of stuff just to get a jump start on Halloween then the project was pretty much a bust already. America crossed his arms again and leaned back against the wall. He'd just have to think of a different angle to go at in that case. A simple debunking just wouldn't work, not with the tricks he knew England could pull out of the woodwork, and especially if he had the other two hanging around to help him out. He tapped his arm absentmindedly. 'Of course,' he thought, a shiver running down his spine, 'If England was involved… then he might really be dealing with...' America cut himself off at that point, laughing out loud. But really, it was too early for England to start the contest anyway, so that was probably out. Probably just Russia and Australia wanting to mess with him. Yeah, that was it.
"Well," he said, a little loudly for the benefit of the audience he had just discovered, pushing himself off from the wall. "Might as well get this over with. See what sort of spooks I'm dealing with here." Or more likely what sort of storyteller Australia had turned out to be. He sat down on the ground, still nestled in the patch of light, which was starting to stretch out across the room with the changing angle of the sun and reached into the box, pulling out the stack of manila envelopes and noting that each was labeled with a number and a location, the one at the top bearing a large red "one". He assumed that meant it was the one they wanted him to open first and after setting the camcorder up with a tripod on the ground he opened it and pulled out a piece of computer paper. "What, did you guys just print this off a website or something?" he mumbled. "Kind of expected more effort than this."
He cleared his throat and began to read. "The history of the Clarkstead house is one of sadness and tragedy" He rolled his eyes and muttered "As if it was gonna be a comedy," then continued reading. "The Clarksteads were the owners of a local mill and had a daughter named Emily. The story goes that Emily was seeing a young man from town, by the name of William, who her parents disapproved of. They instead wanted her engaged to the son of the Harrison's, a wealthy family who the Clarksteads had business arrangements with. Emily followed her parents' wishes and allowed The Harrison's son to court her, however, she continued to leave the house secretly to see her young lover, climbing down the tree outside her window each night. One night however, William failed to meet her at the appointed time, leaving her waiting in the forest. She went back before daybreak, and returned the following night to wait again. Still, William never came. Eventually a note was found in his room at a local boardinghouse, stating simply that he was moving out. That was the last that anyone heard from him. There were rumors, of course, of the possibility of foul play, but both the Clarksteads and the Harrisons were well respected families and rumors were swiftly hushed. Emily however, was devastated. The night before she was to be married to the Harrison's son she hung herself. On the second floor- second floor, really? Why start with the second floor? On the second floor is her bedroom, the room where she took her life." America rolled his shoulders to ease the tension that he told himself wasn't there. "The room is said to be haunted by her restless spirit and observers have seen a female form that looks like Emily gazing out the window at night. Many believe she is waiting for William to return and meet her. Really?" America laughed, ignoring the way his voice had been growing steadily softer. "How stereotypical."
"In addition," He continued, "If you listen carefully on certain nights, crying can be heard coming from the second floor. It is assumed to be Emily. Your task is to go to Emily's room and do an EVP session. It must last at least five minutes. No stalling for time." Damn it! They knew him too well. "Happy hunting."
America leaned back against the box and stared up at the ceiling. "Great," he sighed, "So I'm having a conversation with a ghost, and a whiny one at that." He bent over and dug through the box with one hand, shoving his messenger bag aside when it swung in the way, and began to pull out various items. He had several more bags of cables, very few of which he could actually use, a bag of camcorder batteries, and several cameras of various sizes and makes. The one item he needed however, his handheld audio recorder, was being elusive. He bent further into the box, grunting as the messenger bag swung back around to the front again. He paused for a moment, in consideration, and then hesitantly took it off. It's not like he really needed it anyway, he told himself, ignoring the chill that passed through him as he sat it on the ground. Rubbing his arms, he picked up his bomber and slipped it on, grimacing at the cool slickness of the lining, then turned around. The recorder was on the floor sitting a foot or so away from the small pile he had just unloaded. Shaking his head briskly before any thoughts could develop, he picked up the electronics and walked back towards the hall, once again holding the camera in front of him.
The stairs leading up to the second floor were steep and noisy, creaking with every step he took as if to complain (or warn, a small voice supplied- America squashed it like a bug). Emily's room, as he had unfortunately began to think of it, was, according to the front of the envelope, the middle door of three which lined the right side of the upper hall. It was easy enough to find. He stepped through the opening, noting the pastel pink wallpaper which hung down in strips, having come loose in sections like the wallpaper in the front room. A window was opposite the door, and another, open, door was to the right. He walked towards it and jumped at the sight of rope dangling down from the ceiling of the closet. It was tied into a noose. He chuckled nervously. "Seriously?" he mumbled,"Don't you think that's a bit much guys?"
He took a few steps towards it, then paused. He really didn't have to examine it. He knew what a rope (noose) looked like. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat and sat down, cross legged, in the patch of sun, facing the hallway. He placed the camcorder in position, making sure it was still rolling, and pushed record on the voice recorder.
"EV-" His voice cracked and he coughed into the crook of his arm. "EVP session one, Emily's room. Time is approximately," he glanced down at his watch, then continued, "4:17 PM." He glanced around the room for a moment, pointedly ignoring the closet. "Okay, um… I'm Alfred." He paused for a moment, uncertain about how long he should remain quiet. "Um, is anyone here?" The silence was almost palpable. "I've heard someone likes to hang out here." He paused, glancing down at his watch (Oh God, just 30 seconds. It had just been 30 seconds?) before adding nervously. "It would be totally cool if you came out." Did he say that? Did he really just say that? Totally cool if you came out, what the he-
Creak.
'It didn't. It didn't. It didn't didn't didn't didn't,' thought America, who was squeezing his eyes so tightly shut he could feel tears building in the outer corners. After a second he pried them back open and slowly turned his head to the left, wide eyes staring at the closet. There was nothing.
He laughed nervously, hoping that it would have the same affect it had had downstairs. He was out of luck it seemed. "Okay, um, so," he breathed in, then out. "So why are you here?" he asked quickly, bracing himself for another sound. Silence. America twisted his hands nervously. "Is this where you died?"
Thump!
America was up and running as soon as he heard (Felt! Felt! He had felt it hit the ground just a few inches behind him!) the sound, gripping the doorway with one hand as he pushed his back up against the wall of the hallway in between Emily's room and another. His chest heaved in and out quickly, whimpers coming out every so often. He waited, frozen to his spot, for something to happen. After a moment however, rationality began to take control. He was panicking, badly. He needed to assess the situation. "Something just tried to take my head off, how's that for an assessment!" he snapped at himself. Wait. Stop. Breath. Nothing came near his head. (Inches away! Inches away!) It was probably just another bird. (Bird's don't react to questions!) There was nothing to be afraid of in that room (Were we in the same room? Fuck you! Seriously. Fuck you!). He needed to go back to prove himself of that (Fuck that!) and get the job done.
He slowly turned himself towards the opening of the door, peaking into the room, certain that he was going to come face to face with a floating figure with glowing red eyes and a gaping mouth that would suck him into the darkness, never to return. The room, however, was clear. He licked his lips, and gripped the doorframe, a question coming out before he could stop himself. "Was that you?" he whispered.
Thump
The sound was equally as soft as his question, but he still found himself in a familiar position, back against the hallway wall. He once again peaked in through the doorway slowly. Finding nothing, he crept back into the room, then hesitantly sat back down on the ground. "Okay," he said, licking his lips again. When did his mouth get so dry? "We're going to try a system. One knock for yes, two for no. Now," he paused, wiping his palms off on his pants. "Are you Emily?"
Thump
"A-ah," he stuttered. "N-Nice to meet you… I think." He took a moment to gather his thoughts, realizing it was one of those rare times that he wasn't certain exactly what to say. "Um, is it rude to ask how you died?" The temperature suddenly dropped, America's breath coming out in little white puffs in front of him. The feeling of cold was overwhelming, as if it was a physical presence that engulfed the entire room.
Thud!
America drew his knees instinctively to his chest and pulled his arms in. The sound came from behind him, so much harsher than the first responses, as if something had been thrown across the room at him. "Okay, okay! Sorry! Wrong question." His apology did nothing to alleviate the chill in the room, instead he thought he could vaguely hear ice forming on the window above him. "Is William a bad topic?" He felt a sharp tugging on the shoulder of his jacket and he jumped up. "Hey! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm bothering you."
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The door to the closet began opening and closing repeatedly. Slamming loudly shut each time.
"Okay!" America's voice came out in a squeak. "I'll leave," He said, walking swiftly towards the door, only to have it slam shut in front of him. "Make up your fucking mind!" He yelled, nearly in tears as he grabbed at the doorknob and began to pull. It wouldn't budge. America's eyes widened and he pulled harder.
Sobs erupted from the closet and a creaking began. America turned his head over his shoulder to see the rope pulled downwards as if- he turned his head quickly as he saw it move back and forth, jerking slightly.
"Fuck this!" He yelled and pulled harder, not worrying about whether he broke the door or not. It still held firm and panic began to set in. "What the hell? What the hell?" He pounded on the door and pulled again, to no avail. "Let me-Let me out," He cried, his voice growing harsh and tears beginning to drip down his cheeks. He pulled and pulled, his moist hands slipping on the doorknob, until the door suddenly flew open, sending him sprawling across the floor and knocking the camera onto its side.
Almost as soon as he hit the floor he began crawling back towards the door, jumping up and running as soon as he could get a sure foot on the ground. His shoulder slammed painfully into the doorframe as he exited. As he ran through the hallway and half-tripped down the stairs he could swear that the sobs coming from upstairs had turned to vicious laughter.
Author's Note: Ah, hi. I'm just going to say one thing… writing a fic during a Hetalia event is harder than… well it's dang hard. I'll just say that. Hopefully this sounds okay. I'm actually a little worried about it, but I'm putting it up anyway. Hope you enjoy.