Pam's October fanfic challenge
Title: Haunted
Author: Carm
Rating: PG-13 for gore
Summary: The death of the season brings Alex back to the death of a man.
Notes: This was the October fic challenge put out by Pam. My words that I had to use were dried leaves, blood, flashlight, ghost.
The dried leaves crunched underfoot as Alex Mahone walked across the backyard. It was a warm October in Chicago, warmer than usual, but the heat hadn’t stopped the leaves from turning brown and falling in death to the ground. The grass was still green, though, but soon, probably in a matter of days, the tips of each blade would be white with frost. He lived in the Midwest, after all, and what is it that they said?
If you don’t like the weather, wait an hour.
Alex stopped at the birdbath. Why had he put that thing in? It was ridiculous, and the only water it got was from rain. He had thought that maybe it would somehow cleanse the yard. Something so pure covering something so filthy--
The birdbath wasn’t working, though. The backyard was still tainted. And because it was still tainted, the house was empty and lonesome. The thing just stood there in the middle of the lawn mocking him, reminding him why he had been forced to send his family away, why he had to distance himself, why he had to wallow in self-imposed solitude.
Alex turned away, but for some reason, was pulled back. He hated his reflection in the dirty water of the birdbath. It wasn’t the man he wanted to be. He didn’t see a protector. He didn’t see a soldier. He didn’t see an intelligent, successful FBI agent. He only saw a murderer, and looking at his wavering reflection, there was no way that he could deny that monicker.
Agent Alexander Mahone was a murderer.
His eyes fell to the water, even as he tried to tear them away. He watched his reflection flicker and dance about as a slow, warm wind shifted it in its basin. He watched as the sky seemed to darken, even though it couldn’t have possibly been that late, yet. Or maybe, it was. Alex lost track of time when he was out in the yard. Sometimes, hours passed before he realized the time. Maybe it was that later, after all.
A drop hit the water, and at first, Alex thought that it was rain. He thought it was rain until he looked down and, as more drops fell, the water grew more and more red. Blood? His hand shot to his forehead, but there was nothing there. His skin was bone dry. Alex turned behind him, and there was nothing there. Where was the blood coming from?
He turned back to the birdbath, and there was no blood. The water was dirty, but it wasn’t red. Bizarre? Alex shook his head and ran a hand through his dry, messy hair. He was losing it again. And to think, he thought that this was a day where he would go the entire twenty-four hours without losing control. Maybe he’d have accomplished that if he had stayed out of the backyard.
“Murderer.”
The voice was a hiss that licked at Alex’s ears. He whirled in a circle, but he saw nothing. The only sound was his feet crunching dry, dead leaves beneath his feet. He was cracking. Or someone was-- No, there was no way that there was a joke being played on him. The only one who had ever tried any jokes on him, pranks on April Fools’ Day and cheap scares on Halloween, was nowhere around. Pam was gone. Alex had made sure of that.
“Murderer.”
There it was again. “Who’s there!” Alex whirled around, his head whipping back and forth as he landed facing the birdbath. He gripped its concrete sides and stared out into the darkness. And yes, it was dark, now. The streetlights were on, and his neighbors had their back porch light on. He’d done it again, wallowed in his crime long enough for the last few hours of the day to pass him by.
“Murderer.”
“Goddammit!” Alex cursed as he ran from the backyard, storming into the house. He re-emerged a few minutes later, holding a heavy black Maglite flashlight. The beam flew left. It flew right. He was only in the backyard, and yet, there was that voice, still hissing at him, burning the flesh on his ear.
“Murderer.”
“Murderer.”
“Murderer.”
“You son of a bitch!” As Alex turned this time, the beam passed the mirror of the birdbath. He saw something quick, only a second, and it was gone when he moved the flashlight. But, when he put the beam back on it, there it was. Unbelievable and proof that he really was going insane and that he needed a stronger drug of choice.
Oscar Shales stood there, his reflected forehead touching Alex’s. Most of his neck and the bottom of his jaw were gone. Bits of grizzled bone glowed in the moonlight and under the beam of the flashlight. Blood congealed around the wound, a very familiar wound. The wound that Alex had inflicted before putting the lowlife piece of shit in a hole in his backyard. His head hung off to the side, because Alex had blown away most of the connective tissue on the left side of his neck.
“You’re not real,” Alex whispered. He closed his eyes tightly. He turned off the flashlight. He shook his head. Alex did not believe in ghosts. Not the real kind that actually, physically haunted a man. Ghosts of memories, bad dreams-That kind of thing, sure. But real ghoulish ghosts who hovered over their burial site-- Alex did not believe in those.
He opened his eyes, and Shales was still there, his reflection still hovering opposite Alex’s. Alex lifted his head and stumbled three steps backward. His knees went weak and he fell to the ground, leaves crushing beneath him. He balled his fists and pulled at the grass.
“You are not here,” Alex said, his voice firm and steady, showing none of the panic and disbelief that filled him. And yet, there he was, Oscar Shales, standing on the opposite side of the birdbath, the light of a bright, nearly full moon lighting him completely so that Alex could see every wound inflicted on him, all of the damage that his bullet had done.
Then, the ghost of Shales started to deteriorate. No, that wasn’t quite right. He was seeing decomposition, what must have happened beneath the ground after Alex poured the lye over his dead body. The bubbling and crackling of the skin, boils popping and flesh sizzling. The flesh slid from his bones like something out of a grotesque horror film. All of it sliding away, but the jaw still flapping as the ghost of Shales tried over and over again to continue saying his condemnation.
“Murderer.”
“Murderer.”
“Murderer.”
Alex closed his eyes. This wasn’t real. That’s all there was to it. He obviously was stressed, and during stressful times, his mind created images. This wasn’t real, and as long as he told himself that it wasn’t real, he’d be able to believe that as truth.
With his eyes still closed, Alex climbed to his feet. He reclaimed his steps carefully, his arms out, until his hands touched the concrete sides of the birdbath. Alex counted to ten. He took a deep, cleansing breath. He counted to twenty. He opened his eyes. The skeleton was standing there staring at him, mocking him.
Alex grunted a laugh that, even to him, sounded just this side of psychotic. He reached into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out his pen. The cap twisted off easily. Alex shook one, small white pill into his hand, and then another, just to be on the safe side. He popped the pills into his mouth and swallowed them without water. And as the pills pushed down his throat, he watched the skeletal figure disappear from head to toe, almost as if it had just sank back into the ground.
“There is no such thing as ghosts,” Alex said. He bent down and picked up his flashlight. He was confidant. He was sure. He was a little bit crazy, but that was okay, because he wasn’t crazy enough to believe that Shales had really been there.
Alex went in the direction of the back door, headed back into the house. He stopped a few feet from the sliding glass doors and turned around. He panned the flashlight over the yard. He listened for sounds other than crickets and various sounds of the night. There was nothing.
Because there was no such thing as ghosts.
And if ghosts did exist, well, he had the cure for them. A little white pill that made it all go away. Thank God for that little white pill.
Author: Carm
Rating: PG-13 for gore
Summary: The death of the season brings Alex back to the death of a man.
Notes: This was the October fic challenge put out by Pam. My words that I had to use were dried leaves, blood, flashlight, ghost.
The dried leaves crunched underfoot as Alex Mahone walked across the backyard. It was a warm October in Chicago, warmer than usual, but the heat hadn’t stopped the leaves from turning brown and falling in death to the ground. The grass was still green, though, but soon, probably in a matter of days, the tips of each blade would be white with frost. He lived in the Midwest, after all, and what is it that they said?
If you don’t like the weather, wait an hour.
Alex stopped at the birdbath. Why had he put that thing in? It was ridiculous, and the only water it got was from rain. He had thought that maybe it would somehow cleanse the yard. Something so pure covering something so filthy--
The birdbath wasn’t working, though. The backyard was still tainted. And because it was still tainted, the house was empty and lonesome. The thing just stood there in the middle of the lawn mocking him, reminding him why he had been forced to send his family away, why he had to distance himself, why he had to wallow in self-imposed solitude.
Alex turned away, but for some reason, was pulled back. He hated his reflection in the dirty water of the birdbath. It wasn’t the man he wanted to be. He didn’t see a protector. He didn’t see a soldier. He didn’t see an intelligent, successful FBI agent. He only saw a murderer, and looking at his wavering reflection, there was no way that he could deny that monicker.
Agent Alexander Mahone was a murderer.
His eyes fell to the water, even as he tried to tear them away. He watched his reflection flicker and dance about as a slow, warm wind shifted it in its basin. He watched as the sky seemed to darken, even though it couldn’t have possibly been that late, yet. Or maybe, it was. Alex lost track of time when he was out in the yard. Sometimes, hours passed before he realized the time. Maybe it was that later, after all.
A drop hit the water, and at first, Alex thought that it was rain. He thought it was rain until he looked down and, as more drops fell, the water grew more and more red. Blood? His hand shot to his forehead, but there was nothing there. His skin was bone dry. Alex turned behind him, and there was nothing there. Where was the blood coming from?
He turned back to the birdbath, and there was no blood. The water was dirty, but it wasn’t red. Bizarre? Alex shook his head and ran a hand through his dry, messy hair. He was losing it again. And to think, he thought that this was a day where he would go the entire twenty-four hours without losing control. Maybe he’d have accomplished that if he had stayed out of the backyard.
“Murderer.”
The voice was a hiss that licked at Alex’s ears. He whirled in a circle, but he saw nothing. The only sound was his feet crunching dry, dead leaves beneath his feet. He was cracking. Or someone was-- No, there was no way that there was a joke being played on him. The only one who had ever tried any jokes on him, pranks on April Fools’ Day and cheap scares on Halloween, was nowhere around. Pam was gone. Alex had made sure of that.
“Murderer.”
There it was again. “Who’s there!” Alex whirled around, his head whipping back and forth as he landed facing the birdbath. He gripped its concrete sides and stared out into the darkness. And yes, it was dark, now. The streetlights were on, and his neighbors had their back porch light on. He’d done it again, wallowed in his crime long enough for the last few hours of the day to pass him by.
“Murderer.”
“Goddammit!” Alex cursed as he ran from the backyard, storming into the house. He re-emerged a few minutes later, holding a heavy black Maglite flashlight. The beam flew left. It flew right. He was only in the backyard, and yet, there was that voice, still hissing at him, burning the flesh on his ear.
“Murderer.”
“Murderer.”
“Murderer.”
“You son of a bitch!” As Alex turned this time, the beam passed the mirror of the birdbath. He saw something quick, only a second, and it was gone when he moved the flashlight. But, when he put the beam back on it, there it was. Unbelievable and proof that he really was going insane and that he needed a stronger drug of choice.
Oscar Shales stood there, his reflected forehead touching Alex’s. Most of his neck and the bottom of his jaw were gone. Bits of grizzled bone glowed in the moonlight and under the beam of the flashlight. Blood congealed around the wound, a very familiar wound. The wound that Alex had inflicted before putting the lowlife piece of shit in a hole in his backyard. His head hung off to the side, because Alex had blown away most of the connective tissue on the left side of his neck.
“You’re not real,” Alex whispered. He closed his eyes tightly. He turned off the flashlight. He shook his head. Alex did not believe in ghosts. Not the real kind that actually, physically haunted a man. Ghosts of memories, bad dreams-That kind of thing, sure. But real ghoulish ghosts who hovered over their burial site-- Alex did not believe in those.
He opened his eyes, and Shales was still there, his reflection still hovering opposite Alex’s. Alex lifted his head and stumbled three steps backward. His knees went weak and he fell to the ground, leaves crushing beneath him. He balled his fists and pulled at the grass.
“You are not here,” Alex said, his voice firm and steady, showing none of the panic and disbelief that filled him. And yet, there he was, Oscar Shales, standing on the opposite side of the birdbath, the light of a bright, nearly full moon lighting him completely so that Alex could see every wound inflicted on him, all of the damage that his bullet had done.
Then, the ghost of Shales started to deteriorate. No, that wasn’t quite right. He was seeing decomposition, what must have happened beneath the ground after Alex poured the lye over his dead body. The bubbling and crackling of the skin, boils popping and flesh sizzling. The flesh slid from his bones like something out of a grotesque horror film. All of it sliding away, but the jaw still flapping as the ghost of Shales tried over and over again to continue saying his condemnation.
“Murderer.”
“Murderer.”
“Murderer.”
Alex closed his eyes. This wasn’t real. That’s all there was to it. He obviously was stressed, and during stressful times, his mind created images. This wasn’t real, and as long as he told himself that it wasn’t real, he’d be able to believe that as truth.
With his eyes still closed, Alex climbed to his feet. He reclaimed his steps carefully, his arms out, until his hands touched the concrete sides of the birdbath. Alex counted to ten. He took a deep, cleansing breath. He counted to twenty. He opened his eyes. The skeleton was standing there staring at him, mocking him.
Alex grunted a laugh that, even to him, sounded just this side of psychotic. He reached into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out his pen. The cap twisted off easily. Alex shook one, small white pill into his hand, and then another, just to be on the safe side. He popped the pills into his mouth and swallowed them without water. And as the pills pushed down his throat, he watched the skeletal figure disappear from head to toe, almost as if it had just sank back into the ground.
“There is no such thing as ghosts,” Alex said. He bent down and picked up his flashlight. He was confidant. He was sure. He was a little bit crazy, but that was okay, because he wasn’t crazy enough to believe that Shales had really been there.
Alex went in the direction of the back door, headed back into the house. He stopped a few feet from the sliding glass doors and turned around. He panned the flashlight over the yard. He listened for sounds other than crickets and various sounds of the night. There was nothing.
Because there was no such thing as ghosts.
And if ghosts did exist, well, he had the cure for them. A little white pill that made it all go away. Thank God for that little white pill.