[Fanfic] Out of the Shadows (Chapter 6)
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: language, violence, creepy and disturbing (hopefully) imagery... this chapter... definitely some violence
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 stock-still, staring at the small boy in front of him, heart thundering, but unable to move. His hands hung down to his sides, even as the cold biting at his fingers made him want to bring them up to his chest. The child was the one who finally broke the spell, stepping forward, and causing America to instinctively take a step back.
Pain etched itself across the child's face. "Help us," he pleaded, his face screwing up. He looked down, America getting just a glimpse of tears about to spill over. Other instincts began to take control, overriding America's fear, and he took a step forward, then another when he found himself still in one piece.
"W-What is it kid?" he asked, still hesitantly standing a few feet away. The child kept his head down, silent, and America's fear returned as he waited for the head to pop back up, bearing sharp teeth and hungry, soulless eyes. He had not, however, expected the sniffles. They came, at first barely audible but then growing steadily in volume. They swiftly eased whatever doubts had plagued America's mind and he somehow found himself kneeling in front of the boy, who looked scarcely older than six, bending down slightly in an attempt to look up into the child's face.
"Kid?"
With that questioning word the sniffles turned to sobs and America's eyes widened. He reached into his pockets, looking for a tissue that may or may not have been there. It had been years since he'd habitually carried around a handkerchief. Giving up after a quick but uneventful search he held out his hand to rest on the child's shoulder. The cold tension, the urge to flee, returned when it went through, instead of meeting solid flesh. He held down the shiver as best as he could and hit his lower lip. "Kid?" He asked. "What's wrong?"
The child simply shook his head, shaggy brown hair shaking from side to side and going straight through America's hand, which had moved towards the child's face to examine the tears which had begun to drop from cheeks onto the floor, clearly hitting but never leaving a mark.
"Kid, I know it's hard" America said, "Whatever it is," he added, mumbling to himself. "But I can't help you until you let me know what's wrong". America swallowed, but remained kneeling, his arms slightly open.
The child slowly looked up. "D-Don't," he hiccuped. "D-Don't let them get us."
America's brow furrowed in confusion at the 'us', but he prodded further. "Who?"
The child just shook his head again, as forcefully as before, and brought his arms up to hide his face.
"It's okay," America encouraged.
"I- It hurts," said the child, his eyes squeezing shut behind his arms. "Don't let them hurt us," the child sobbed.
"Kid," America started with uncertainty, then sighed, scratching the back of his head. "Okay, yeah. I'll help, okay?" He had hoped the reassurance would calm the boy's tears, but they continued to fall.
"Hey, it's okay." He grinned. "You can count on the he-"
The child's cries abruptly stopped and the temperature plummeted. The child looked up at America, dropping his arms down to his chest, wide eyes meeting wide eyes. "That's them," he whispered, leaning forward towards America, who in turn leaned in towards the child.
"Who?" the word came out in a puff of white.
The child began to open its mouth, but was interrupted by a growl. America's eyes darted around the room, looking for the source of the sound, which seemed to come from both everywhere and nowhere, and finding nothing.
"Please don't let them please don't let- please don't-"
America looked back to the see the child collapsed on the ground, legs drawn up to his chest. He swallowed down his own fear and stood, glaring about the room. "Hey!" He said, loudly. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" He felt his stomach drop as the words came out of his mouth. 'What are you stupid,' a voice from inside asked. 'According to England, yes. Just fulfilling expectations I gue-'
America's train of thought was derailed as the growling grew deeper and the floor began to shake violently, sending him to the ground. He looked around for something to hold onto and, finding nothing, reached out towards the door frame. America looked inside himself and shook a little harder, an internal trembling adding to the quaking which was affecting the room. It wasn't an earthquake. Surely England wasn't crazy enough to bring down a house on his head just for a joke? Right?
A sharp cry brought America's attention up and out of his own panic. The boy was being pulled backwards towards the right wall by something he could not see, rips and tears appearing on the child's pants, as if claws were gripping his legs.
America crawled forward, reaching out towards the child who was being swiftly pulled away. He stood up unsteadily, trying to step forward when the child was lifted aloft, but a cold force pushed against his chest and he landed flat on his back, head cracking against the wall.
"No! Please no!" the boy cried, looking backwards at something America couldn't see. "I'll be good! I'll-"
As America struggled to regain his footing the child disappeared into the wall and suddenly the room was silent and still, all shaking stopped. America leaned against the door-frame, as the room spun, from the force of the impact he realized and not through any supernatural means. He reached around to touch the back of his head, hand coming away red, and winced, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, then opening them again, hoping to clear his somewhat blurry vision. The room was too still, after the quaking and chaos he had just experienced, the silence almost as sinister as the growling which had just filled the room. He took one step backwards towards the hall, hesitated, glancing back, then moved quickly until he felt his hand resting against the railing above the staircase. He stumbled gingerly to the side, the pain in his ankle flaring, reawakened by the shaking floor. His eyes remained fixed in the direction the child had disappeared until he began making his way down the stairs, and even then he glanced up and back occasionally.
His mouth opened and only air came out. He swallowed, his hands clenching his jacket tightly, and crept into the front room, mouth still opening and closing, almost at random. America stood there at the window for a full two minutes before he finally found his voice.
"I-I," he started, then cleared his throat. "I give up." He stared at nothing in particular for a moment, still feeling dazed, then began to laugh bitterly. "Okay? You guys win. You can come out now." He realized at that point that the temperature of the house hadn't warmed at all. That his words were still coming out in clouds. "Oz? Russia? Guys?" His voice came out with a tremble when he once again felt an odd sensation at his back, the feeling that there was someone just over his shoulder. He turned around swiftly, in hopes of seeing a friendly face, a gloating, arrogant grin. Instead he met only open space.
"Eng-" He began in a shaking breath. "Arthur?" He winced as the name came out in a squeak. "You can stop now."
America breathed in sharply when he heard the tape recorder in his pocket click, a button pushed, then start playing. A growling, the same he had heard in the bedroom, began, turning into a low laugh. "Alfred," the voice said.
America reached into his pocket and pulled out the tape recorder, which was as cold as ice. He quickly pressed the stop button, but jumped when it almost immediately began to play again on its own.
"Alfred," the voice said in a low growling chuckle.
America threw the tape recorder against the wall. It broke, pieces falling to the ground with a loud clatter. He didn't pay it much mind however, running to the door instead and pulling against the doorknob. His blood ran cold when it refused to move, failed to twist or turn in any direction. Even pulling on the door as hard as he could, he realized, panic rising in his gut, it barely rattled.
"Oh God. This isn't funny!" He yelled, still yanking at the door. "Guys! This isn't funny!"
"Alfred." The growling voice returned, both from the broken tape recorder and from everywhere else it seemed, echoing against the walls and filling the room.
America whimpered and ran over to the window, attempting to pull it open. "Arthur!" he yelled. "Stop! You win!" The window fought him just as much as the door had, not budging at all.
"Arthur can't help you." The voice said calmly. America's breath quickened as his fingers began to pull up and back painfully. He tried to step away, freeing one hand, but finding the other held fast. "And neither can your god," the voice growled out, full of cold hate. America's fingers bent back sharply with pops and cracks. His scream echoed across the house and the force let him go, laughing spitefully. The room suddenly became black, as America fell onto his knees holding his hand. He broke out in a cold sweat and gagged, tears coming, unseen, to his eyes. He knelt, stomach churning, for an eternity it seemed, his vision only slowly returning.
When it did begin to clear, the room was far darker than it had been previously, the objects surrounding him barely visible. He struggled to get to his feet, against a throbbing ankle and shaking knees, and looked towards the window, preparing to break it. The world outside however was concealed by a shifting black miasma. He stepped back in shock and turned towards the hallway. He half-limped through the doorway only to stop as the doors began to slam shut one by one, starting at the far end and swiftly coming towards him. He made his way back towards the front room, no longer a sanctuary he realized as the laughter followed him, and fell to the ground in front of his bag, which he pulled into his lap. His breath came in gasps as he pulled things out with one hand, throwing comics and candy aside. His hand hit various items, the cold metal of a flashlight which he switched on, a small flannel bag, but never touched the familiar plastic of his phone- nowhere to be found. A whimper escaped his throat and he looked up and around, seeing the undulating darkness beginning to move in towards him. He moved his hand back through the bag, pushing items aside in desperation until his fingers finally drifted across and closed firmly around a cold chain. America lifted it out of the bag, charms glinting across the dimmed glow of his Maglight and, holding the chain up in front of him, yelled, "In the name of all that's good and holy leave me the hell alone!"
The laughter stopped and America sat still, too shocked to move. The room was still cold, yet the presence he had felt just a moment prior was gone and sunlight came in through the window. He panted, the cold air stinging his lungs, and he attempted to stand, reaching towards it. As suddenly as the light returned however it disappeared, a dark form massing back in front of the window. He sat back down, hard, and shuddered, then curled in on himself, cradling both his bag and his throbbing, broken hand in his lap. He turned his head away from the window and tucked his head against his chest, shivering as wetness trickled down both his cheeks and his neck. What had he gotten himself into?
Author's Note: So yeah, 'twas time to lay off the subtlety and just let America have it. Perhaps it would have been more effective otherwise, but that's just how the chapter came together. Hopefully it turned out okay anyway. But Alfred, I'm not certain the best way to get rid of a malicious force is to curse at it…
Characters: America, England, Canada, Australia, a bit of Russia
Rating: I'd say probably a pg-13, might go higher later on though
Warnings: language, violence, creepy and disturbing (hopefully) imagery... this chapter... definitely some violence
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 stock-still, staring at the small boy in front of him, heart thundering, but unable to move. His hands hung down to his sides, even as the cold biting at his fingers made him want to bring them up to his chest. The child was the one who finally broke the spell, stepping forward, and causing America to instinctively take a step back.
Pain etched itself across the child's face. "Help us," he pleaded, his face screwing up. He looked down, America getting just a glimpse of tears about to spill over. Other instincts began to take control, overriding America's fear, and he took a step forward, then another when he found himself still in one piece.
"W-What is it kid?" he asked, still hesitantly standing a few feet away. The child kept his head down, silent, and America's fear returned as he waited for the head to pop back up, bearing sharp teeth and hungry, soulless eyes. He had not, however, expected the sniffles. They came, at first barely audible but then growing steadily in volume. They swiftly eased whatever doubts had plagued America's mind and he somehow found himself kneeling in front of the boy, who looked scarcely older than six, bending down slightly in an attempt to look up into the child's face.
"Kid?"
With that questioning word the sniffles turned to sobs and America's eyes widened. He reached into his pockets, looking for a tissue that may or may not have been there. It had been years since he'd habitually carried around a handkerchief. Giving up after a quick but uneventful search he held out his hand to rest on the child's shoulder. The cold tension, the urge to flee, returned when it went through, instead of meeting solid flesh. He held down the shiver as best as he could and hit his lower lip. "Kid?" He asked. "What's wrong?"
The child simply shook his head, shaggy brown hair shaking from side to side and going straight through America's hand, which had moved towards the child's face to examine the tears which had begun to drop from cheeks onto the floor, clearly hitting but never leaving a mark.
"Kid, I know it's hard" America said, "Whatever it is," he added, mumbling to himself. "But I can't help you until you let me know what's wrong". America swallowed, but remained kneeling, his arms slightly open.
The child slowly looked up. "D-Don't," he hiccuped. "D-Don't let them get us."
America's brow furrowed in confusion at the 'us', but he prodded further. "Who?"
The child just shook his head again, as forcefully as before, and brought his arms up to hide his face.
"It's okay," America encouraged.
"I- It hurts," said the child, his eyes squeezing shut behind his arms. "Don't let them hurt us," the child sobbed.
"Kid," America started with uncertainty, then sighed, scratching the back of his head. "Okay, yeah. I'll help, okay?" He had hoped the reassurance would calm the boy's tears, but they continued to fall.
"Hey, it's okay." He grinned. "You can count on the he-"
The child's cries abruptly stopped and the temperature plummeted. The child looked up at America, dropping his arms down to his chest, wide eyes meeting wide eyes. "That's them," he whispered, leaning forward towards America, who in turn leaned in towards the child.
"Who?" the word came out in a puff of white.
The child began to open its mouth, but was interrupted by a growl. America's eyes darted around the room, looking for the source of the sound, which seemed to come from both everywhere and nowhere, and finding nothing.
"Please don't let them please don't let- please don't-"
America looked back to the see the child collapsed on the ground, legs drawn up to his chest. He swallowed down his own fear and stood, glaring about the room. "Hey!" He said, loudly. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" He felt his stomach drop as the words came out of his mouth. 'What are you stupid,' a voice from inside asked. 'According to England, yes. Just fulfilling expectations I gue-'
America's train of thought was derailed as the growling grew deeper and the floor began to shake violently, sending him to the ground. He looked around for something to hold onto and, finding nothing, reached out towards the door frame. America looked inside himself and shook a little harder, an internal trembling adding to the quaking which was affecting the room. It wasn't an earthquake. Surely England wasn't crazy enough to bring down a house on his head just for a joke? Right?
A sharp cry brought America's attention up and out of his own panic. The boy was being pulled backwards towards the right wall by something he could not see, rips and tears appearing on the child's pants, as if claws were gripping his legs.
America crawled forward, reaching out towards the child who was being swiftly pulled away. He stood up unsteadily, trying to step forward when the child was lifted aloft, but a cold force pushed against his chest and he landed flat on his back, head cracking against the wall.
"No! Please no!" the boy cried, looking backwards at something America couldn't see. "I'll be good! I'll-"
As America struggled to regain his footing the child disappeared into the wall and suddenly the room was silent and still, all shaking stopped. America leaned against the door-frame, as the room spun, from the force of the impact he realized and not through any supernatural means. He reached around to touch the back of his head, hand coming away red, and winced, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, then opening them again, hoping to clear his somewhat blurry vision. The room was too still, after the quaking and chaos he had just experienced, the silence almost as sinister as the growling which had just filled the room. He took one step backwards towards the hall, hesitated, glancing back, then moved quickly until he felt his hand resting against the railing above the staircase. He stumbled gingerly to the side, the pain in his ankle flaring, reawakened by the shaking floor. His eyes remained fixed in the direction the child had disappeared until he began making his way down the stairs, and even then he glanced up and back occasionally.
His mouth opened and only air came out. He swallowed, his hands clenching his jacket tightly, and crept into the front room, mouth still opening and closing, almost at random. America stood there at the window for a full two minutes before he finally found his voice.
"I-I," he started, then cleared his throat. "I give up." He stared at nothing in particular for a moment, still feeling dazed, then began to laugh bitterly. "Okay? You guys win. You can come out now." He realized at that point that the temperature of the house hadn't warmed at all. That his words were still coming out in clouds. "Oz? Russia? Guys?" His voice came out with a tremble when he once again felt an odd sensation at his back, the feeling that there was someone just over his shoulder. He turned around swiftly, in hopes of seeing a friendly face, a gloating, arrogant grin. Instead he met only open space.
"Eng-" He began in a shaking breath. "Arthur?" He winced as the name came out in a squeak. "You can stop now."
America breathed in sharply when he heard the tape recorder in his pocket click, a button pushed, then start playing. A growling, the same he had heard in the bedroom, began, turning into a low laugh. "Alfred," the voice said.
America reached into his pocket and pulled out the tape recorder, which was as cold as ice. He quickly pressed the stop button, but jumped when it almost immediately began to play again on its own.
"Alfred," the voice said in a low growling chuckle.
America threw the tape recorder against the wall. It broke, pieces falling to the ground with a loud clatter. He didn't pay it much mind however, running to the door instead and pulling against the doorknob. His blood ran cold when it refused to move, failed to twist or turn in any direction. Even pulling on the door as hard as he could, he realized, panic rising in his gut, it barely rattled.
"Oh God. This isn't funny!" He yelled, still yanking at the door. "Guys! This isn't funny!"
"Alfred." The growling voice returned, both from the broken tape recorder and from everywhere else it seemed, echoing against the walls and filling the room.
America whimpered and ran over to the window, attempting to pull it open. "Arthur!" he yelled. "Stop! You win!" The window fought him just as much as the door had, not budging at all.
"Arthur can't help you." The voice said calmly. America's breath quickened as his fingers began to pull up and back painfully. He tried to step away, freeing one hand, but finding the other held fast. "And neither can your god," the voice growled out, full of cold hate. America's fingers bent back sharply with pops and cracks. His scream echoed across the house and the force let him go, laughing spitefully. The room suddenly became black, as America fell onto his knees holding his hand. He broke out in a cold sweat and gagged, tears coming, unseen, to his eyes. He knelt, stomach churning, for an eternity it seemed, his vision only slowly returning.
When it did begin to clear, the room was far darker than it had been previously, the objects surrounding him barely visible. He struggled to get to his feet, against a throbbing ankle and shaking knees, and looked towards the window, preparing to break it. The world outside however was concealed by a shifting black miasma. He stepped back in shock and turned towards the hallway. He half-limped through the doorway only to stop as the doors began to slam shut one by one, starting at the far end and swiftly coming towards him. He made his way back towards the front room, no longer a sanctuary he realized as the laughter followed him, and fell to the ground in front of his bag, which he pulled into his lap. His breath came in gasps as he pulled things out with one hand, throwing comics and candy aside. His hand hit various items, the cold metal of a flashlight which he switched on, a small flannel bag, but never touched the familiar plastic of his phone- nowhere to be found. A whimper escaped his throat and he looked up and around, seeing the undulating darkness beginning to move in towards him. He moved his hand back through the bag, pushing items aside in desperation until his fingers finally drifted across and closed firmly around a cold chain. America lifted it out of the bag, charms glinting across the dimmed glow of his Maglight and, holding the chain up in front of him, yelled, "In the name of all that's good and holy leave me the hell alone!"
The laughter stopped and America sat still, too shocked to move. The room was still cold, yet the presence he had felt just a moment prior was gone and sunlight came in through the window. He panted, the cold air stinging his lungs, and he attempted to stand, reaching towards it. As suddenly as the light returned however it disappeared, a dark form massing back in front of the window. He sat back down, hard, and shuddered, then curled in on himself, cradling both his bag and his throbbing, broken hand in his lap. He turned his head away from the window and tucked his head against his chest, shivering as wetness trickled down both his cheeks and his neck. What had he gotten himself into?
Author's Note: So yeah, 'twas time to lay off the subtlety and just let America have it. Perhaps it would have been more effective otherwise, but that's just how the chapter came together. Hopefully it turned out okay anyway. But Alfred, I'm not certain the best way to get rid of a malicious force is to curse at it…