A Broken God

by ExtraLargeChips

Summary:

Wiggly’s ‘bitch of a sister’ sends him to earth, stripped of his powers and in his human form. Just his luck, he’s found by Macnamera in the middle of the Witchwoods. Things could NOT get any worse for him. Right?

Chapter 1

John MacNamara wasn’t sure what had possessed him to take a midnight patrol through Witchwood that night. Maybe it was the itch of unresolved tension that refused to let him sleep. Hatchetfield had always been a place where strange things happened, and after years of facing horrors beyond comprehension, a man could develop a sense for when something wasn’t right.

And tonight? Something was definitely off.

John stepped over a rotting log, his flashlight beam slicing through the dense mist that clung to the forest floor. His boots crunched against the underbrush as his hand lingered on the sidearm at his hip. That was when he heard it—a low groan, distinctly human but tinged with a pathetic sort of whimper.

“Who’s there?” he barked, his voice sharp enough to make even the nocturnal creatures scatter. He followed the sound, pushing aside a cluster of branches, and froze at what he saw.

A man—no, not quite a man—curled up at the base of a tree. His green curls were a tangled mess, matching the green cardigan that hung loosely on his frame. He was small, almost unnervingly so, as though the universe had decided to compact a storm into a teacup. His face, pale and etched with a scowl, looked up at John with a mix of disdain and something dangerously close to fear.

“Great,” the stranger muttered, his voice dripping with venom. “Of all the wretched mortals to find me, it had to be you.”

John blinked, his brow furrowing as he took a cautious step closer. “Do I… know you?”

The man chuckled bitterly, pushing himself to his feet with shaky legs. “Not like this, no. But don’t let that fool you. You’ve spent years trying to kill me.” He gestured dramatically to himself, his cardigan swishing in a way that would have been comical under different circumstances. “Behold! The great Wiggog Y’Wrath, stripped of his divine form and thrown into this pitiful meat suit by my bitch of a sister!”

John’s eyes narrowed. He knew that name—Wiggly. The Lord in Black. The eldritch god who had turned his men into raving lunatics and left Hatchetfield teetering on the edge of destruction more times than he cared to count. But this? This wasn’t the omnipotent monstrosity he’d spent sleepless nights dreading.

This was a guy. A guy in a cardigan.

“You’re joking,” John said flatly.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Wiggly snapped, arms flailing as he stepped closer. His green curls bounced with every dramatic movement. “I’m trapped in this miserable little husk, and it’s all Webby’s fault! She’s always been jealous, you know. Couldn’t stand the fact that I was better at—”

“Stop.” John raised a hand, cutting him off. “You expect me to believe that you’re Wiggly?”

“I don’t care what you believe, mortal.” Wiggly crossed his arms, glaring up at John. “Just point me to the nearest cult, and I’ll take it from there.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

John stared at the diminutive, cardigan-clad man claiming to be Wiggly, feeling a headache brewing in his temple. The absurdity of the situation almost made him laugh—almost. But the tension in the air, the prickling sensation of something not quite right, kept him grounded.

Wiggly—or whatever this guy was—shifted his weight impatiently, glaring up at John like a housecat who thought it was a tiger. “What are you looking at, mortal? You’ve never seen a god in distress before?”

“Not like this,” John muttered. He was still gripping the hilt of his sidearm, though he wasn’t sure it’d be much use against this… whatever he was. The Wiggly he knew, or rather his monstrous true form, wouldn’t have even flinched at bullets. But this guy? He looked like he’d fold under a strong gust of wind.

Wiggly’s lip curled in disdain. “Go on, then. Gawk. You might as well enjoy it, because it’s the last time you’ll see me in such a humiliating state. Once I regain my powers—”

“You mean if you regain your powers,” John cut in, his voice dry. “If what you’re saying is even true, sounds like your sister got the better of you. Can’t imagine what kind of cosmic family drama ended with you looking like… this.” He gestured vaguely at Wiggly’s entire existence.

That hit a nerve. Wiggly’s face twisted into an expression of pure indignation, his green curls bouncing as he stomped a foot. “She’s a meddling hag, that’s what she is! Always sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. Humanity is ripe for chaos, and I was merely giving them what they deserved! She had no right to—”

John tuned him out, rolling his eyes. He didn’t have the patience for another monologue from a self-proclaimed god. He’d had his fill of that nonsense during the years of battling Uncle Wiley’s cult. The thought of Wiley made his jaw tighten.

“So, what’s the plan?” he interrupted. “You’re just going to wander through Witchwood looking for some sucker to worship you?”

Wiggly narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need a plan. My followers will find me. And when they do—”

“Oh, you mean the same followers who went nuts and ended up in military custody? Yeah, they’re real loyal,” John said with a smirk. He took a step closer, towering over Wiggly, who instinctively took a step back.

“I still have one loyal follower,” Wiggly said, his voice dropping into a sly, almost taunting tone. “And he’s far more competent than you give him credit for. Far more devoted.”

John stiffened. He didn’t like where this was going. “What are you talking about?”

Wiggly’s smirk widened, and he tilted his head, savoring the moment. “Oh, you know him well. Wilbur Cross—or as I prefer to call him, Uncle Wiley. My right-hand man, my most trusted disciple. Did you know he chose me over you? Of course you did. Must burn, doesn’t it? Knowing he saw you for what you are—weak—and devoted himself to me instead.”

John’s hand was on Wiggly’s collar before he even realized he’d moved. He hauled the smaller man up onto his toes, his teeth clenched in barely restrained fury. “Don’t you dare say his name.”

Wiggly laughed, his pale face alight with glee. “Oh, hit a nerve, did I? It’s true, though, isn’t it? He didn’t love you, MacNamara. Not really. He used you, and when he found something greater, he didn’t hesitate to—”

The punch landed squarely on Wiggly’s jaw, cutting off his sentence with a satisfying crack.

Wiggly staggered backward, his hands pressed against his face where the punch had landed, his body shaking in the aftermath. For a moment, his thoughts felt like they were unraveling. The pain was too much—he couldn’t make sense of it. He had never been hurt before. Gods didn’t feel this. Gods didn’t react like this.

It was the panic that overtook him first. His breath came in ragged gasps, as though he were drowning. His vision blurred, but the pressure in his chest wouldn’t let him breathe. He fought it down, but it surged again. That feeling of weakness, of fragility, made him feel like a stranger in his own skin. This was real. The pain—this suffering—was real.

“Stay down,” John growled, his voice a harsh whisper, his eyes flickering with something Wiggly couldn’t place. Sympathy? Maybe. Maybe it was a bit of pity, but there was something else there too—disgust.

He couldn’t process it. The sensation of being physically hurt, of being vulnerable, was too much to bear. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be a force of nature, untouchable and invincible. He wasn’t supposed to be human—small, weak, and completely at the mercy of this man in front of him.

Wiggly’s mind spun, but he couldn’t think clearly. The anger inside him, the need for vengeance, the deep-seated belief that he was destined to destroy and reshape the world—it was all still there. But it was distorted now. He wasn’t a god anymore. He was a man, and a broken one at that.

“You alright there, Wrath?” John’s voice was gruff, almost a mockery of concern. He knew he shouldn’t feel anything for the creature he had spent so long fighting, but part of him couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something. Wiggly wasn’t a god anymore. He was just a man who had been broken.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Wiggly snapped, still struggling to find his footing. He tried to stand up straight, his legs shaking with the effort.

The military man was no fool. He had seen Wiggly’s terror, the wide-eyed panic and the trembling body. He had seen something human in him, and it was unsettling. It was wrong. The god, the being who had once had the power to control and destroy, was now nothing more than a man—a small, terrified, and broken man at the mercy of someone who had never even been his equal.

John took a step back, his gaze lingering, but Wiggly’s anger surged through the terror. He pushed himself to his feet, barely managing to stand. His voice was thin but sharp. “You don’t understand. You can’t. You—” His words faltered as he tried to steady himself, but the dizziness from the pain was too much. His human form felt so weak, so vulnerable, and it enraged him.

Suddenly, a voice broke through the tension. “Well, well. Look at you two.”

Wiggly’s head snapped toward the familiar voice. His heart skipped a beat. It was Wilbur—Uncle Wiley. But there was something different about him, something off. The man in the denim jacket stood just beyond the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, a smug smile plastered across his face.

Wiggly’s chest tightened, and he tried to push himself up further, his voice trembling with both fury and a desperate sense of hope. “Wilbur… You’re here. Finally, you’re—”

But Wilbur’s eyes never softened. There was no warmth in his gaze. “Oh, I’m here alright. But I’m not here for you,” he said, his tone colder than anything Wiggly had ever heard.

The words hit Wiggly like a slap to the face. His throat went dry. “What… what do you mean?”

Wilbur took a step forward, the smugness fading just slightly to reveal something much colder. “I’ve moved on. Wiggly. Uncle Wiley has been busy… And I’ve finally found a way to even more power.” His eyes flicked over to John briefly. “I have a new purpose now. One that doesn’t include you.”

Wiggly felt his world crumble. His right-hand man—the one who had been his closest ally, his disciple, even someone he thought might have been something more—had betrayed him. The weight of it was crushing. Wilbur had left him. For power. It wasn’t just a betrayal—it was a destruction of everything Wiggly had built. Wilbur had chosen his own throne. Chosen his future over loyalty.

Wiggly staggered back, his breath catching. “No,” he whispered, but the word tasted like ashes. “No, you… you can’t be serious. Wilbur… Uncle Wiley, you… you were mine!”

Wilbur didn’t respond, just turned to look back at John, who was eyeing him with a mix of wariness and disbelief. Wilbur’s expression softened, but it was anything but affectionate. “Don’t get any ideas, MacNamara. This isn’t about you either. It’s about power. And right now, you’re just… in my way.”

Wiggly’s knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, his face twisted in disbelief. His hands were shaking, and the tears he had been holding back finally came, though he hated himself for it. He had never allowed himself to feel like this. He was a god, the god. He wasn’t supposed to break. He wasn’t supposed to cry.

But as Wilbur turned to leave, the dagger of betrayal plunged deeper into Wiggly’s chest. He could feel the weight of it, crushing him from within. He reached out, but Wilbur didn’t even glance back.

John hesitated, watching the scene unfold with an unreadable expression. Wiggly was no longer the terrifying figure he had once been. He was a broken man—just a man, fragile and powerless.

John sighed, the faintest trace of pity in his eyes as he looked at Wiggly, still kneeling on the ground, his eyes wide and desperate. He had no words to offer. He wasn’t about to show sympathy for the former god who had caused so much harm, but… this was different. Something about Wiggly’s shattered, human form tugged at something inside of him.

Without a word, John stepped forward and extended a hand to Wiggly, offering him the help he had never thought he would give to the creature he once swore to destroy.

Wiggly looked up, eyes bloodshot and wild with panic. He had never felt more small in his entire existence. The god who had once reveled in chaos, who had sought to bring the world to its knees, was now nothing but a broken man—betrayed by his most loyal follower, left to rot in a mortal world that he had no power to control.

“You… you’re taking me with you?” Wiggly’s voice trembled, the question escaping him before he could even stop it.

John’s hand was still extended, though he hesitated, looking at Wiggly for a moment longer. His expression was unreadable, but there was no denying the sympathy that lingered behind his hardened exterior.

“Not to PEIP,” John muttered, almost to himself. “You’re not going back to the agency. I’ll… I’ll take you somewhere else. Somewhere out of sight.”

Wiggly’s heart skipped, the confusion and dread swirling in him once again. “Why?”

“Because,” John said, his tone surprisingly gentle for someone so used to harsh commands. “I can’t just leave you here. You’ve been through enough.”

It wasn’t pity, not entirely. But there was something else there—a flicker of understanding. And as Wiggly’s hands trembled and his vision blurred once more, he realized something that shook him to his very core:

He was no longer a god. He was nothing.

And John MacNamara, of all people, was the only one who hadn’t completely abandoned him.

The darkness in Wiggly’s chest shifted, not toward chaos or revenge—but toward something much more terrifying: vulnerability.

John helped him to his feet, and Wiggly, for the first time in his existence, allowed himself to be helped.

Chapter 2

The cabin was eerily quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire. Wiggly had been sat on a small couch, while John rummaged through a cabinet nearby.

He flinched when John set a first-aid kit on the table with a loud clatter. It felt like a reprimand, though John hadn’t said much since they arrived. Instead, the man had been strangely… composed. He worked in silence, his hands quick but careful as they tended to the split skin on Wiggly’s face. The antiseptic stung, but it was nothing compared to the pain already gnawing at Wiggly from the inside out.

“Done,” John muttered after a while, stepping back and inspecting his work. His voice was gruff, and his expression unreadable, though Wiggly didn’t dare look him in the eye.

“Why?” Wiggly finally managed to croak, his voice raw. He wasn’t even sure why he’d spoken, the word slipping out unbidden.

John paused, folding his arms. “What?”

Wiggly hesitated, his fingers curling into the fabric of his cardigan. “Why… why are you doing this? Helping me?”

John raised an eyebrow, his mouth twitching into a humorless smirk. “You think I’d just leave you out there to die? Even after everything, I’m not that heartless.”

Wiggly frowned, his gaze dropping to the floor. “You should’ve.”

“Maybe,” John admitted after a beat. He crouched down to pick up the first-aid kit, his movements steady and deliberate. “But you’re not exactly the same thing I fought back there, are you?”

The words hit harder than Wiggly wanted to admit. Not the same thing. He wanted to lash out, to prove John wrong, to show him he was still powerful, still the Lord in Black. But he wasn’t. Not anymore.

He didn’t reply. What could he say?

John straightened, watching him for a moment longer before walking to the small kitchen. Wiggly didn’t move. He sat in silence, staring into the fire, the flickering light casting shadows across his face.

He hated this. The stillness. The vulnerability. The way John’s small act of mercy left him feeling hollow and raw.

And then it hit him all at once. The loss. The weight of everything he had lost. His powers. His purpose. Wilbur.

The tears came before he could stop them.

“No,” Wiggly whispered, his voice trembling as he clenched his jaw. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing the tears to stop. “No, no, no.”

He hated this. Hated himself. Hated John for seeing him like this.

But the tears wouldn’t stop.

From the kitchen, John’s footsteps hesitated. Wiggly could feel the man’s eyes on him, but he refused to look up. Instead, he turned away slightly, his shoulders hunched as though he could shrink out of existence.

John said nothing. After a moment, the footsteps retreated, the man leaving him alone with his shame.

Wiggly didn’t know how long he sat there, hunched over and trembling. His tears eventually slowed, leaving him feeling raw and empty. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep from sobbing again.

“Pathetic,” he muttered to himself, his voice a broken whisper. “Absolutely pathetic.”

The fire burned low, and the cabin grew colder. Wiggly finally lay back on the couch, staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling. His chest felt hollow, and his mind was a restless storm of guilt and anger and confusion.

Sleep didn’t come easily. As a god, he had never needed it. But now, as whatever he was—human, mortal, something in between—he felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him.

He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the world, but the quiet was unbearable. He could hear every creak of the cabin, every shift of the fire, every movement from the other room where John had disappeared.

The couch was stiff and lumpy, doing little to ease Wiggly’s restless body. His eyes were closed, but his mind wouldn’t let him drift. Thoughts crept in like unwelcome shadows—twisting, pulling, reminding him of everything he’d lost. His sister. His powers. Wilbur.

He groaned softly and turned over, facing the back of the couch, but it was no use. The silence was oppressive, and the fire had burned down to embers. The only sound was the soft ticking of a clock somewhere in the cabin.

John had disappeared into the back room hours ago, and Wiggly hadn’t heard a sound since. Was he asleep? Wiggly didn’t know. Didn’t care. He just needed something—anything—to get his mind off the spiraling thoughts that refused to let him rest.

He swung his legs off the couch, wincing as the wooden floor creaked beneath him. He froze, glancing toward the hallway where John had gone. When no sound came, Wiggly slowly stood, pulling his cardigan tighter around himself.

The cabin was small, but he hadn’t taken in much of it when John had practically dragged him inside. Now, in the quiet, he decided to give himself a tour. Maybe distraction would keep him sane.

The main room was modest—cozy, almost, though Wiggly wouldn’t admit it. The couch sat across from a small stone fireplace, its mantle lined with a few old photos in simple wooden frames. He hesitated before stepping closer, squinting at one of the pictures in the dim light.

It was a group photo, several men and women in military uniforms standing in front of a large vehicle. John was there, younger but still stern, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked… different. Less worn down, maybe. Or maybe Wiggly was imagining it.

The kitchen was next—small and utilitarian, with only the bare essentials. A knife block sat on the counter, and Wiggly’s fingers twitched as he considered taking one. Not that he planned to use it. But holding a weapon, any weapon, might make him feel less exposed.

He sighed and left the knives alone, moving on.

The hallway was darker, quieter, and Wiggly found himself tiptoeing despite himself. He didn’t like the thought of John catching him snooping around. Not because he was afraid—he wasn’t afraid, damn it—but because he didn’t want to deal with the man’s judgmental glare.

One door was slightly ajar, revealing a small bathroom. Another was shut tight, and Wiggly assumed it was a storage closet or something equally uninteresting. The last door at the end of the hall was John’s room.

Wiggly hesitated. The door was closed, but not locked—he could tell by the way it sat in the frame. He leaned closer, pressing his ear to the wood.

Nothing.

“Typical soldier,” Wiggly muttered, pulling back. “Probably sleeps with one eye open.”

He turned back toward the living room, but his curiosity itched at him. There had to be something here. Some clue as to why John had brought him to this place instead of dumping him with P.E.I.P.

Wiggly paced back to the kitchen, opening random drawers and cabinets. He found mismatched mugs, old utensils, and an assortment of canned goods. Nothing useful.

His hands tightened into fists as frustration bubbled up inside him. This was pointless. He wasn’t going to find answers by rifling through cans of soup and chipped plates.

He leaned against the counter, staring out the small window above the sink. The forest outside was dark and still, the trees swaying slightly in the breeze. Wiggly hated it. The quiet. The isolation. He was used to chaos, noise, power. This… this was suffocating.

He glanced down at the sink, noticing a half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the counter beside it. A glass sat next to it, the rim still faintly smudged. John had been drinking before bed, it seemed.

Without thinking, Wiggly grabbed the bottle and poured himself a small amount. The amber liquid caught the faint light from the embers in the fireplace. He stared at it for a moment before taking a tentative sip.

It burned going down, and he coughed, grimacing.

“Humans are insane,” he muttered, setting the glass down. But the burn in his throat was a welcome distraction from the ache in his chest, so he took another sip.

Time dragged on, and Wiggly found himself drifting aimlessly around the cabin, the glass of whiskey never far from his hand. He paused in front of the fireplace again, staring at the photos on the mantle. One of them was just John, standing beside a dog that looked just as stoic as its owner. Wiggly snorted.

“You’re a real mystery, MacNamara,” he muttered.

The creak of a floorboard behind him made him freeze.

Wiggly turned slowly, his heart pounding as he saw John standing in the hallway. The man’s hair was mussed from sleep—or maybe he hadn’t slept at all—and his eyes were sharp and alert, locking onto Wiggly immediately.

“What are you doing?” John asked, his voice low but steady.

Wiggly opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. He felt like a child caught sneaking out of bed.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said finally, his voice sharper than he intended. He gestured vaguely to the room around him. “Your cabin’s not exactly a five-star hotel, you know.”

John didn’t reply, but his gaze flicked to the glass in Wiggly’s hand. His brow furrowed slightly.

“Should’ve known you’d get into that,” John muttered, stepping closer.

Wiggly tensed as John approached, half-expecting the man to snatch the glass away or scold him. But John only sighed and reached past him, grabbing the bottle of whiskey and setting it back on the counter.

“You’re lucky I don’t care enough to stop you,” John said, his tone dry. “But don’t drink too much. You’re already a mess—I don’t need you getting worse.”

Wiggly bristled at the comment but didn’t reply.

John lingered for a moment, his eyes scanning Wiggly’s face. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he only shook his head and turned back toward the hallway.

“Try to get some rest,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ll need it.”

Wiggly watched him go, his mind swirling with questions he didn’t dare ask. When John’s door clicked shut, the cabin was quiet once more.

He set the glass down on the mantle, his hands trembling slightly. Rest wouldn’t come, he knew that much. But maybe—just maybe—the night wouldn’t feel quite so unbearable now.

Chapter 3

Wiggly woke with a start, the hazy remnants of sleep dissolving quickly as he realized the discomfort in his head was not just a lingering dream. The pounding in his skull felt relentless, a throb that pulsed with each heartbeat. He groaned, pressing his palms to his temples, but that only made it worse. His stomach rolled, and the acidic taste of bile crept up his throat.

He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep, much less that he’d been out for hours. There had been no dream, no escape, just an empty void of nothing. And yet, the first thing his body demanded was the brutal reminder of his first real hangover. He could have sworn he hadn’t drank that much, but as his human body seemed to recoil from the sensation, he realized with a sinking feeling that this was his first time dealing with the aftermath of alcohol… as a mortal.

A wave of nausea hit him, and he barely managed to keep himself from vomiting. He closed his eyes tightly, hoping the spinning would stop, but it didn’t.

Then he smelled it—something warm, something familiar. Bacon. Eggs. The sizzling sound of breakfast being made.

Wiggly slowly pushed himself up, his body stiff and unwilling to cooperate. He winced, still disoriented, and glanced around the small cabin, realizing that John must’ve been up for a while. The man was at the stove, his broad back turned to Wiggly as he worked in silence.

The smell of the food hung heavily in the air.

Wiggly’s stomach turned again. He hadn’t eaten in what felt like days, and yet the idea of food—food in this form—made him feel more ill than before. But he knew he had to. He had to eat to survive.

He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling slightly as he made his way toward the table, sitting down on the edge of the chair. He tried to ignore the way his head throbbed, the unease still clawing at his chest. He stared at the plate John set in front of him—scrambled eggs and bacon. The eggs looked pale and mushy, nothing like the extravagance he’d once enjoyed. But it didn’t matter.

With the slightest grimace, he picked up his fork and speared a small portion of the eggs, bringing it to his mouth.

He swallowed. It tasted like nothing. Bland, lifeless. He could barely choke it down.

The bacon, on the other hand, was tolerable. It was greasy and salty, a little bit of comfort for his aching body. He nibbled on it, trying not to feel too self-conscious as the silence between them thickened.

John didn’t say anything, but then again, Wiggly hadn’t expected him to. The man had a quiet intensity to him, like he was constantly observing everything around him.

For the first time in what felt like ages, Wiggly wasn’t sure what to say. His usual banter, his usual sense of superiority, was gone. In its place, there was nothing. Not even resentment.

He could have said something about Wilbur. He could’ve made a snide remark or twisted the knife just a little more. But every time Wilbur’s name flickered through his mind, a sickness swept over him. The word made him feel cold, made his stomach churn in ways he didn’t know he could still feel.

Wiggly could almost feel grateful, in a strange, twisted way, that John didn’t bring him up. Not yet. But it was clear John knew. They both knew what had happened. Wiggly could read the tension in the way John’s hands held the utensils, in the way he had kept his gaze steady. He didn’t press, but the unspoken understanding was there.

John had been through something similar with Wilbur. Maybe that’s why he didn’t comment. Maybe it was because, deep down, John knew the sting of betrayal was something neither of them could escape.

Wiggly set down his fork, his hunger gone. He stared at the eggs, his mind turning over the situation he found himself in, the hole in his chest that was only getting bigger.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to survive anymore. Survive what, exactly? What was there left for him? Power? It meant nothing now. His power had been ripped away, his form reduced to something pathetic and fragile. The loss of Wilbur—the loss of everything he once held dear—stung more than he cared to admit.

John cleared his throat, his eyes still focused on his own plate. “You’re not saying much today.”

Wiggly lifted his gaze to meet John’s. There was no malice in those words, just a quiet observation.

“Not much to say,” Wiggly muttered, the rawness in his voice betraying him.

John didn’t respond, but the silence stretched on. Neither of them spoke again.

Wiggly picked at the food some more, but he couldn’t bring himself to finish it. His stomach was too tight, his mind too clouded with thoughts of everything he had lost.

John watched him for a moment, sensing the unease in Wiggly’s posture, the way he avoided eye contact, the way he fidgeted with his fork. It was clear that Wiggly wasn’t in any shape to talk, but there was something else that John knew might help.

“Hey,” John said, his tone gentle but firm. “Why don’t you go freshen up? There’s a bathroom down the hallway. I’ve got some clothes you can borrow.”

Wiggly glanced up at him, not saying anything for a moment, before looking down at his plate again. The idea of freshening up sounded almost foreign to him. When was the last time he had felt clean? Last time he had felt like he could do something as simple as wash himself? He hadn’t exactly been concerned with hygiene when he was a god. His form had been, well, untouchable.

“I’m fine,” Wiggly muttered, though the discomfort in his clothes, now stained and threadbare, told a different story. His cardigan hung loosely on his frame, his hair messy and unkempt. He hadn’t bothered to care for himself, not when he had been untouchable.

John sighed, standing from the table and making his way toward a small closet. He rummaged around for a moment before pulling out a faded, well-worn pair of pants and a simple shirt. “Look,” he said, voice softening. “I know you’re probably not used to this kind of… lifestyle, but you’re not going to get anywhere sitting in your own filth. Just go clean up, alright? You don’t have to talk, just take a damn bath.”

Wiggly wanted to snap back, to protest, to act like he didn’t care. But the truth was, he did feel disgusting. The whiskey still clung to his senses, his body felt heavy and tired, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had properly washed. Maybe John was right. Maybe he should clean up.

With a deep, defeated sigh, Wiggly pushed himself away from the table and stood up. His legs wobbled slightly, still unaccustomed to the fragility of his human form. He shuffled to the bathroom door, casting a glance back at John, who stood in the kitchen, arms crossed but looking oddly… concerned?

“Thanks,” Wiggly muttered under his breath. He wasn’t sure if he was thanking John for the clothes or just for the momentary reprieve from his own spiraling thoughts.

John didn’t respond, and Wiggly wondered for a second if he had even heard him. He opened the bathroom door and stepped inside. It was a small, simple room, but it was clean. The bath was a humble tub, not anything grand, but it was more than enough for what Wiggly needed. The warm water would at least give him a temporary sense of relief.

He stared at the tub for a long moment, unsure of how to even begin. He hadn’t had to operate something like this in… well, forever. There was a small set of soap and a towel hanging on the wall, but it all felt so… ordinary.

He fumbled with the taps at first, twisting them the wrong way, unsure of what he was doing. He huffed in frustration as the water splashed over the edge of the tub, making a mess of the floor.

“Need some help?”

John’s voice came from the doorway, surprising Wiggly, who jumped slightly at the sound. He hadn’t realized the man had followed him.

“No,” Wiggly snapped, a little too sharply, then softened. “I’ve got it.”

John just nodded, watching from the door as Wiggly managed to get the water running properly, albeit with a few more awkward fumbles. When it was finally the right temperature, Wiggly hesitated, still unsure of what to do next.

“Clothes are on the counter,” John said, before turning to leave, shutting the door behind him.

Wiggly glanced at the clothes he had been given—just a simple t-shirt and some old jeans. They were far too big for him, the waistband sagging too much, the sleeves hanging loose. He would’ve scoffed if it wasn’t for the overwhelming sense of nothing inside of him. What was there to argue?

After a long, quiet bath, Wiggly eventually emerged from the bathroom, his hair damp and hanging loosely around his face. He wasn’t exactly clean, but it was the best he could manage. The clothes were far from fitting well, but they were at least fresh.

When he returned to the small living room, he found John in the same spot, sitting at the table with his coffee. For a moment, Wiggly considered what to say—whether to make a snide comment, to get angry, to demand an explanation for what had happened with Wilbur. But none of those things came.

Instead, he just stood there for a moment, trying to ground himself in his new reality. His human reality.

Finally, John looked up at him, a flicker of something passing in his eyes—something Wiggly couldn’t name.

“Better?” John asked simply.

Wiggly didn’t answer. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Instead, he nodded, though the feeling of unbecoming still sat heavy in his chest. The life he had known was gone. And no amount of clean clothes or warm baths would bring it back.

No matter what John did, he couldn’t fix that.

Chapter 4

Notes:

timeskip because i tried rewriting this chapter like 100 times which is also why it took so long (also being burnt out)

Weeks passed, and Wiggly grew accustomed to the nights of quiet, dreamless void. The emptiness had become his solace—a reprieve from the chaos of his waking thoughts. He didn’t need to wrestle with memories of his fall or the faces of those who had stripped him of everything. He didn’t even need to consider what he had become.

But nothing in his life—or what was left of it—ever stayed simple.

The void cracked.

At first, it was subtle, like the distant sound of glass under strain. Then, with a jarring shift, Wiggly found himself standing in the Black and White—a monochrome purgatory that had once been his dominion.

He looked around, the eerie stillness pressing down on him. The air felt dense, colder than he remembered, and the familiar thrumming of power was there, faint but unreachable. He glanced down at his hands and flinched. They weren’t the small, mortal hands he had grown used to. They were elongated, warped, the faint shimmer of his old form lurking just beneath his skin.

For a moment, his chest tightened with hope. Was this it? Was his power finally returning?

Then came the voice.

“Still clinging to scraps, huh?”

The words cut through the stillness, dripping with amusement. Wiggly’s breath hitched. That voice… He knew that voice.

Slowly, he turned, his heart pounding—a sensation he still hated, even after weeks of enduring it.

Wilbur Cross stood a few feet away, or rather, the twisted man he had become: Uncle Wiley. He wore the same casual denim attire, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his head cocked slightly to the side. That infuriating smirk tugged at his lips, but his eyes…

His eyes glowed with something feral. Something that made Wiggly’s stomach churn.

“Wilbur…” Wiggly whispered, his voice cracking. It was strange hearing his own fear.

“Funny,” Wilbur said, taking a step forward. The Black and White rippled beneath his boots. “You of all people using my name like that. Like you’ve earned the right.”

Wiggly tried to take a step back, but his legs wouldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot, his mind racing. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Wilbur—no, Wiley—couldn’t be here.

“You took everything from me,” Wiley continued, his voice low but venomous. “My humanity. My life. My mind. And now?” He chuckled, a sound that sent chills up Wiggly’s spine. “Now you think you can just… skulk around in a cabin, play at being human, and pretend none of it happened?”

“I didn’t—” Wiggly started, his voice trembling.

“Didn’t what?” Wiley snapped, cutting him off. “Didn’t destroy me? Didn’t try to control me like a puppet? Didn’t make me a monster?”

Wiggly clenched his hands into fists. “I… I didn’t mean for it to—”

“Mean to?” Wiley’s voice rose, his smirk twisting into a snarl. He stepped closer, the air around him crackling with an energy Wiggly hadn’t felt in weeks. “Don’t give me that crap, Wiggly. You don’t get to mean anything anymore.”

Wiggly tried to summon the remnants of his power, reaching deep into the hollowed-out core of himself. But there was nothing there. Just the faintest flicker, a dying ember.

Wiley laughed coldly, clearly noticing the effort. “Pathetic,” he sneered. “Look at you. A shadow of what you were. A god brought down to nothing.”

Wiggly’s chest tightened. He wanted to fight back, to scream, to lash out. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t even move.

And then Wiley lunged.

Wiggly barely had time to react as Wiley’s hand wrapped around his throat, lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing. His grip was iron, unyielding, and Wiggly struggled, clawing at his arm, gasping for air.

“John should’ve finished the job when he had the chance,” Wiley hissed, his face inches from Wiggly’s. “But he didn’t. And now?” His lips curled into a grin that was almost inhuman. “I’m going to finish it for him.”

The Black and White pulsed violently, the air vibrating with raw energy. Wiggly’s vision blurred, his strength failing him. He could feel Wiley’s power pressing down on him, suffocating him, crushing what little remained of his essence.

“Goodbye, Wiggly,” Wiley said, his voice almost soft, like a mockery of kindness.

And then, with a violent shove, Wiley hurled him into the void.

Wiggly screamed as he fell, the darkness swallowing him whole. The world dissolved into chaos, his form breaking apart piece by piece, unraveling into nothingness.

And then—

Wiggly jolted awake, gasping for air, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it would burst from his chest. He clutched at his throat, his skin slick with sweat, his hands trembling.

It had been a dream. Just the first dream he’s ever experienced.

But the weight of Wiley’s words lingered, heavy and suffocating. Wiggly buried his face in his hands, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

Wiggly sat on the edge of the couch, his hands still trembling as he tried to steady his breathing. His chest felt tight, his mind a swirling storm of fragmented thoughts and emotions. The echo of Wiley’s voice still lingered, sharp and mocking, cutting deeper than it had any right to.

The floor creaked, soft and hesitant. Wiggly froze, his hands lowering just enough to peer into the dimly lit room.

John stood in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the faint moonlight. He looked like he hadn’t been asleep long—his hair was mussed, and he was still in the old T-shirt and sweats he always wore to bed.

“You okay?” John’s voice was low, cautious.

Wiggly turned away, dragging his hands down his face as if he could wipe away the remnants of the nightmare. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though his voice betrayed him with its uneven tremor.

“Bull,” John replied simply, stepping further into the room.

Wiggly tensed, curling his fingers into his palms as he felt John’s presence settle nearby. He heard the creak of wood as John pulled over one of the chairs and sat down, not too close but not far enough for Wiggly’s comfort.

“Nightmare?” John asked after a moment, his tone surprisingly gentle.

Wiggly laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “What gave it away? The sweating? The gasping? Or the pathetic wreck sitting here like an idiot?”

“None of that,” John said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “It’s the look in your eyes. Like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Wiggly flinched at the word.

John didn’t press, didn’t move closer. He just waited, his calm presence somehow more unnerving than if he’d started grilling Wiggly outright.

After a long pause, Wiggly finally broke the silence. “It wasn’t… just a nightmare.” His voice was barely above a whisper, and he kept his eyes fixed on the floor. “It was him. Wiley. He… he was there.”

John’s posture stiffened slightly, though his expression didn’t change. “What did he do?”

Wiggly hesitated, his throat tightening. “He… said I deserved this. Everything. Losing my power. Losing everything. And then…” He swallowed hard, his hands clenching into fists. “He tried to kill me. To finish what he started.”

John was quiet for a moment, his gaze steady and unreadable. “But it wasn’t real,” he said finally.

“No,” Wiggly admitted, his voice raw. “But it felt real. It felt… too real.”

“That’s how nightmares work,” John said simply. “They dig into your fears, twist them, make them feel like the truth. But they’re not.”

Wiggly looked up at him, his expression a mix of anger and desperation. “What if he’s right, though? What if I do deserve this?”

John’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. When he did, his voice was steady but firm. “Nobody deserves what happened to you. Not even you.”

Wiggly barked a laugh, bitter and sharp. “That’s rich, coming from you. You were ready to kill me a few weeks ago.”

“And maybe I still should’ve,” John said bluntly, the words hitting like a slap. “But I didn’t. And you know why? Because somewhere in there, there’s something worth saving. Maybe it’s buried deep, maybe it’s broken to hell, but it’s there. And until you see it for yourself, I’m not going anywhere.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of John’s words hanging heavy between them.

Wiggly’s throat worked, but no words came. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to process the strange mix of guilt, anger, and something he didn’t want to name—not gratitude, not hope, but something close.

John lingered there for a moment longer, then let out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well,” he said, his tone shifting to something a touch lighter, almost casual, “seeing as you’re probably not getting back to sleep anytime soon, might as well get a head start on the day.”

Wiggly frowned, still sitting frozen on the couch. “What are you talking about?”

“Breakfast,” John said simply, standing and moving toward the kitchen. “It’s early, but whatever. We’ll eat, figure things out.” He paused at the counter, turning his head slightly toward Wiggly. “Might need to go grocery shopping later. We’re running low.”

Wiggly blinked at him, caught off guard by the sheer normalcy of the statement. Grocery shopping? After everything that had just happened? The thought was so mundane it was almost insulting.

“Are you serious?” Wiggly asked, his voice hoarse.

John shrugged, already pulling out a frying pan and setting it on the stove. “Why wouldn’t I be? We’ve still got to eat. You’re not living off bacon scraps forever.”

The faint clatter of pans and the click of the stove burner filled the silence as Wiggly stared at him. He didn’t know whether to laugh, yell, or simply shut down again. Maybe a mix of all three.

Eventually, Wiggly sighed, leaning back against the couch. His body felt heavy, his mind too tired to keep fighting whatever strange rhythm John seemed intent on forcing him into.

“Grocery shopping,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

John didn’t answer, his focus on cracking eggs into a bowl and whisking them with a precision that suggested this was far from his first time cooking under strange circumstances.

The cabin filled with the scent of sizzling butter and the faintest hint of something resembling stability. For the first time in a long while, Wiggly let himself sit in it, not quite relaxed but no longer on edge.

Grocery shopping?

Chapter 5

Notes:

mini chapter because the next one is gonna be a little insane!! just a heads up

The truck’s engine rumbled as they made their way down the quiet road towards a more populated area of Hatchetfield. Wiggly sat slouched in the passenger seat, the hoodie’s hood pulled low over his head. He was doing his best to blend into the background, though his restless hands betrayed his nerves. He hadn’t been in a car before—not in this form, not as a mortal—and the sensation of motion under his control-less body made him feel… unsettled.

John tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as the radio crackled to life. Static gave way to the faint notes of a familiar tune.

“Moving forward, using all my breath…”

The upbeat rhythm and smooth, nostalgic vocals filled the cab of the truck, and Wiggly’s head instinctively tilted toward the sound. He didn’t recognize the song, but something about it caught his attention.

“Making love to you was never second best…”

John didn’t seem to notice at first, his focus on the road, but Wiggly leaned forward slightly, his green eyes narrowing as he processed the music.

“What’s this?” Wiggly finally asked, his voice quiet but not accusatory.

John glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “The radio,” he said simply.

“I know that,” Wiggly said, irritated. “The song.”

John shrugged. “Modern English. I Melt With You.”

Wiggly let the name sit with him for a moment as the chorus swelled, the singer’s voice dripping with a strange kind of longing and joy.

“I’ll stop the world and melt with you…”

It wasn’t like the music his brother, Pokotho, would endlessly rave about. That had always been grandiose, clashing, chaotic—a cacophony of sounds that grated on Wiggly’s nerves. He’d despised it, hated how it made him feel unmoored. This, though—this was something else. It was… simpler.

“I like it,” Wiggly muttered before he could stop himself.

John’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he didn’t comment.

The truck rolled on, and Wiggly found himself leaning further into the song. He didn’t want to admit how much he was enjoying it, but the way the melody wrapped around him, warm and inviting, was undeniable. It was the first thing in weeks that had sparked something other than bitterness or despair in his chest.

By the time the song reached its bridge, Wiggly was tapping his fingers lightly on the armrest, a motion that caught John’s attention.

“You alright?” John asked, his tone neutral but curious.

Wiggly immediately stopped, glaring at him as though John had committed some great offense. “Don’t ruin it,” he snapped, turning his gaze back toward the radio.

John smirked faintly and didn’t press the matter. He turned the volume up slightly, letting the song fill the space between them.

For a moment, Wiggly forgot about his human frailty, his lost power, and the ache of betrayal that still gnawed at him. The music carried him away, even if just for a fleeting moment.

Chapter 6

Notes:

once again struggled to finish this. i couldnt figure out a way to continue without separating this chapter soo

The truck’s engine cut off with a low rumble as John parked in the lot of Hatchetfield’s grocery store. Wiggly’s fingers still twitched nervously, and he tried to adjust the hood of the oversized hoodie, pulling it lower in an attempt to hide the telltale green of his hair.

The early hour meant the parking lot was nearly empty, and there was no crowd waiting at the entrance. Wiggly exhaled in relief as he followed John into the store, hoping the anonymity of the place would keep him hidden. But of course, that wouldn’t be the case.

Inside, the fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the shelves, and Wiggly kept his eyes trained on the ground as they made their way through the aisles. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just trying to avoid noticing people. But of course, he couldn’t help but recognize a few familiar faces in the store.

He spotted Paul Matthews almost immediately. A long-standing “favorite plaything” of Pokotho’s. Paul, who always seemed out of place, awkward and shy in a way that never seemed to fit the spotlight his brother had placed him in. Paul was the leading man, but not in any way that Wiggly could respect. He glanced over at his partner, Emma Perkins. The woman exuded confidence, a sharpness that Wiggly immediately disliked. Emma looked like she could see right through anyone—especially Paul, who was probably too used to being propped up and ignored at the same time.

Wiggly continued scanning the store, and his eyes landed on Ted Spankoffski, the sleazeball of the town. He was busy perusing the frozen food section, clearly unaware of Wiggly’s presence. Ted was Tinky’s favorite, one of the many souls caught in Tinky’s web. Wiggly felt a strange mix of pity and annoyance as he watched him. Poor bastard.

John moved down the aisles, tossing things into the cart without much thought. Wiggly followed close behind, trying to stay out of sight and focus on the task at hand. His mind kept wandering, though—especially when they reached the checkout line.

A sudden, unnerving familiarity stopped him in his tracks.

Hannah Foster.

Wiggly blinked, his stomach twisting. It took a moment for him to recognize her—older now, no longer the young girl he remembered from his sister Webby’s past. But even after all these years, he knew her face. Wiggly could feel the weight of memories pressing on him. Lex, Hannah’s sister, had been part of the strange family dynamic, and Webby—his sister—had once cared for them both, in her own way.

Hannah didn’t speak when she saw him. Wiggly could see her eyes flicker with recognition, but she said nothing. She didn’t comment on his green hair, didn’t ask why he looked so different, and most notably, didn’t question why he was with John, the stranger. Wiggly could feel his pulse quicken in his throat.

John didn’t notice the silent exchange, too focused on the groceries he was placing on the conveyor belt. He didn’t know who this woman was.

But Wiggly knew.

“Just get the stuff and go,” Wiggly muttered, turning his gaze down, trying to block out the growing sense of panic bubbling inside him.

They paid for the groceries and headed back to the truck, Wiggly’s nerves still buzzing. He hadn’t noticed how tense he had become until the cool air hit him once they stepped outside. He pulled his hood tighter, instinctively glancing over his shoulder.

It wasn’t until they were back at the truck, the groceries loaded in the back, that Wiggly heard a hurried voice calling after them.

“Wait!” Hannah’s voice rang out, and Wiggly turned sharply, a mixture of anxiety and dread building in his chest.

Hannah came jogging up to them, looking slightly out of breath. Her eyes met Wiggly’s, and for a moment, she hesitated, as if she wasn’t sure whether to speak or not.

“Wiggly,” she said quietly, almost as if to herself. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

Wiggly stiffened. His heart pounded in his chest, and he couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably. He didn’t want to be seen, didn’t want to have to explain anything. But Hannah was looking at him with a kind of quiet understanding in her eyes, like she knew there was something more to his presence here than just an accidental encounter.

“Webby…” she started, her voice soft, her words almost tentative. “She’s been… she’s been cast from her domain, and her powers have been stolen… by Wiley.”

Wiggly’s chest tightened, his fingers gripping the edge of the truck door until his knuckles turned white. The name Wiley alone was enough to make his blood boil, but the idea of Webby, of all people, being stripped of her powers?

He wanted to laugh. Wanted to sneer at the somewhat poetic justice of it. The sister who had cast him out, forced him into this wretched mortal existence, now reduced to the same pitiful state as him. It should’ve been satisfying. It should’ve been a moment to relish.

But it wasn’t.

Instead, the words sat heavy in his chest, a weight he couldn’t shake. He opened his mouth to snap at Hannah, to dismiss it, to mock Webby’s misfortune. But no words came. He couldn’t summon the bitterness, couldn’t force himself to feel anything close to triumph.

“Wiley,” he said at last, the name dripping from his tongue like venom. “How?”

Hannah shook her head. “I don’t know. Webby won’t talk about it. She’s staying with me and Lex now, but she’s… different. Quieter. Scared, I think.”

“Scared,” Wiggly repeated, the word tasting foreign. Webby—the good one, the one who had always been calm, collected, strong in ways he and his brothers never could be—scared? It didn’t fit.

“How did he do it?” Wiggly asked, his voice sharper now. “She’s not a Lord in Black, but she’s one of us. She’s powerful. Was powerful. Wiley shouldn’t be able to touch her.”

“I don’t know,” Hannah admitted, her voice tinged with frustration. “But he did. And if he could take her powers, what about the others? What about your brothers?”

The mention of his brothers made Wiggly’s stomach churn. Tinky, Blinky, Nibbly, and Pokey—they were everything he wasn’t right now. Powerful, untouchable, monstrous. Each a different brand of chaos and cruelty, but all of them dangerous. Could Wiley go after them too?

“I don’t think he could take them all down,” Wiggly muttered, though the words sounded hollow even to him. “They’d see it coming. They’d fight back.”

“Webby didn’t see it coming,”

Chapter 7

Notes:

so i just got a very large burst of inspiration. unfortunately the next chapter will be a very bad time for wiggly… sorry not sorry? he REALLY needs a hug

The double-wide sat in its tired lot like a forgotten relic, the paint cracked and peeling, its windows clouded with grime. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and old smoke. Wiggly’s footsteps crunched on the gravel as he followed John to the porch, his heart pounding harder with every step. The weight of what he was about to face pressed down on him, heavier than the sunless sky overhead.

Before Wiggly could knock, the door swung open. Hannah Foster stood there, her face worn but steady, eyes immediately flicking to Wiggly with something that felt like cautious hope. Behind her, Lex sat on the threadbare couch, arms wrapped tightly around a figure barely visible in the shadowy living room.

“Wiggly,” Hannah said softly, stepping aside to let him in.

Wiggly stepped inside, his eyes immediately searching for Webby. The dim room smelled like stale coffee and old wood. And there she was—slumped on the couch, motionless except for the slow rise and fall of her chest. Her hair hung limply around her pale face. Her eyes, once fierce and bright, were vacant, like windows covered in fog.

At first, Wiggly thought she was just exhausted. Surely, after everything, she’d snap out of it in a moment. Maybe a few minutes.

But minutes passed.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t blink.

She didn’t speak.

Wiggly’s chest tightened, a cold dread curling in his gut. His voice cracked as he tried again. “Webby?”

No response.

“Hey, you okay?” His tone sharpened, edged with panic he was barely keeping in check. “Talk to me.”

Still nothing.

Wiggly’s knees felt weak. He swallowed hard, stepping closer. “Goddammit, talk to me!”

The room grew heavier. Lex’s grip on Webby tightened, but Webby remained a ghost of herself, utterly withdrawn, silent.

Wiggly’s hands balled into fists at his sides, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he shouted, voice breaking under the weight of raw, desperate fear. “Why won’t you say anything?!”

No answer.

His voice cracked again, tears pooling in his eyes despite himself. “You’re not like this! You’re not… this!” He shook his head, anger flooding in, fueled by the terror clawing inside him. “You think this is all some big joke? Like I’m just gonna stand here and watch you die inside?”

Lex opened her mouth to say something, but Hannah shook her head slightly, mouthing, Let him get it out.

Wiggly paced, stumbling over his words, struggling against the swelling panic and fury that bubbled uncontrollably to the surface. “You’re supposed to be the strong one! The calm one! What the fuck happened to you? To us? To everything?”

Still nothing from Webby.

The silence pressed in on him until he felt like he was drowning.

“Goddammit, talk to me!” he screamed, voice raw and cracked. “I can’t fix this if you won’t even try! I’m not asking for much—just a word. A sign. Something!”

His shoulders shook violently as tears spilled freely down his face. “I’m so tired of being the one who’s supposed to hold it together. I need you, goddammit. I need something from you!”

Webby’s face remained unmoving, blank. A deep, unbearable ache settled in his chest, the hollowness gnawing at his insides like a poison.

Suddenly, exhausted and broken, Wiggly spun on his heel and stormed toward the door. His voice was thick with anguish. “I can’t do this. Not like this.”

Hannah hurried after him, pleading quietly, “Please, stay. Just for a little while longer.”

But Wiggly shook his head, barely hearing her. The weight of the silence and the stillness had squeezed the air from his lungs, and he needed to breathe. To get away. To find something—anything—that could keep him from shattering completely.

Wiggly didn’t wait for another word. The suffocating stillness in the house felt like chains tightening around his chest. He shoved the door open and burst into the night air, the cold hitting him like a shock.

His footsteps pounded across the gravel, the crunch beneath him sharp and urgent as he didn’t look back. He had to get away before something inside him shattered completely.

John’s truck sat idling just off the porch, its engine humming softly in the quiet night. Wiggly flung himself into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and buried his face in his hands.

The world inside the truck was small, contained, and mercifully still. But his breathing was ragged, uneven—like the air itself was slipping through his fingers.

John watched him quietly, saying nothing at first. The silence stretched, heavy but safe.

Finally, John’s voice cut through the stillness, low and steady. “You alright?”

Wiggly looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and glossy. For a moment, he just blinked, unable to form words.

Then, in a raw whisper, almost a confession, he said, “I don’t know if I’m ever going to be alright.”

The words caught in his throat, and he swallowed hard, fighting the weight of everything he’d just seen—Webby like a ghost, silent and broken.

John nodded slowly. “You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

Wiggly shook his head, tears slipping down despite himself. “It’s not about carrying it. It’s about not knowing what to do when the person you need the most… won’t even speak. Won’t even look at you.”

His fists clenched at his sides, trembling. “I don’t know how to fix this. And I’m scared—scared I’m too late. Scared she’s already gone.”

John reached over, placed a steady hand on Wiggly’s shoulder. “You’re not too late. You still have her.”

Wiggly’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “Not like this. Not like her.”

The truck’s interior felt too small for all the weight in Wiggly’s chest, but here—inside this cramped space—he let the storm inside him rage, knowing John wouldn’t ask him to stop.

Wiggly sat slumped in the passenger seat, shoulders trembling, his breath fogging up the glass as the weight of everything pressed harder against his chest. The silence stretched out between them again—John, steady as ever, not saying a word he didn’t need to.

Wiggly finally broke it, his voice rough and wrecked. “Can you… just drive?” He didn’t look at John when he said it. His eyes stayed on the dashboard like it could hold him together. “Back to the cabin. Please.”

John looked at him, searching his expression. “You sure?”

“Yes,” Wiggly snapped, the word sharp and too loud, his raw nerves bleeding through. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tightening. “Sorry,” he added a moment later, quieter, cracked. “I just… I can’t be here right now.”

John didn’t press. He just gave a single nod and shifted the truck into reverse.

The tires crunched over gravel as they backed slowly down the drive. The porch light flickered in the side mirror, pale and sickly, barely cutting through the gloom. Wiggly turned his head—he couldn’t help it—and caught a glimpse of Lex standing in the doorway.

She wasn’t saying anything. She didn’t wave. She didn’t shout after him. She just… watched.

And something about that nearly undid him.

Her arms were crossed tight over her chest, but her face wasn’t angry. She looked tired. Disappointed. Worried. Like she understood exactly what he’d just seen in there. Like she knew how much it had gutted him.

Wiggly’s throat closed up. He jerked his eyes forward again and stared out the windshield, willing the tears not to fall.

He told himself not to look back again. He told himself she didn’t blame him.

But that didn’t stop the shame twisting in his gut.

He swallowed hard and clenched his fists in his lap. Every breath felt like dragging glass through his lungs. He couldn’t stop hearing that silence from inside the house. Webby’s silence. That hollow, unblinking stillness that refused to break.

It echoed in him louder than anything.

He didn’t say another word for the entire ride. Neither did John. There was nothing else to say.

Wiggly just sat there in the passenger seat, trying to remember how to breathe, forcing himself not to turn around and go back—even though every bone in his body was screaming at him not to leave her like that.

But he stayed forward. Staring into the road. Into the dark.

And he didn’t look back.

Notes:

next chapter is already being worked on and im gonna warn here and the next chapter’s notes there will be an suicide attempt

Chapter 8

Notes:

BIIIIIG SUICIDE ATTEMPT WARNING
its like the main focus of this chapter so you have been warned!
also expect an animatic post to go with this (on my tumblr)

The cabin comes into view, its familiar silhouette cutting through the night. John pulls up and kills the engine. The sudden silence is deafening after the hum of the truck. Wiggly sits there frozen for a long moment before finally pushing open the door and stepping out into the cold air.

The night air is crisp and biting, the kind that seeps into your bones and refuses to let go. Wiggly shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill as he walks towards the cabin. John follows behind him, keys jingling softly in his hand.

Wiggly pushes open the cabin door and steps inside, the warmth of the small space hitting him like a wall. He doesn't turn on any lights, preferring the dim glow of the moonlight filtering through the windows. John follows him in, closing the door softly behind them.

The air inside the cabin feels too warm after the chill outside—like stepping into someone else’s skin. It’s heavy, close, and filled with the faint scent of woodsmoke and dust. Wiggly stands just inside the doorway, motionless, his breath coming slow and uneven. The silence settles over him again, thick and unrelenting.

John doesn’t say anything. He knows better.

Wiggly steps further in, kicking off his shoes with sluggish movements, like gravity is working twice as hard on him tonight. The floor creaks underfoot, familiar, steady. He drags himself toward the beat-up armchair in the corner and sinks into it like his bones can’t hold him upright anymore.

Moonlight stretches across the floor in pale slats, cutting through the dim. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windowpanes just enough to remind them how far they are from the rest of the world.

Wiggly leans forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

He stays like that for a long time.

John lingers in the doorway, waiting. Watching. Not crowding him, but not leaving either. Eventually, he moves to the kitchenette, grabbing a mug and filling it with tap water before setting it down gently on the table near Wiggly. Still, he says nothing.

Wiggly finally speaks, but the words are barely more than a breath. “She wouldn’t even look at me.”

John doesn’t answer.

“She was just… gone. Sitting there, but not there.” His voice wavers, broken around the edges. “And I thought—god, I thought she’d yell. I thought she’d get mad. I thought she’d be Webby.”

The name cracks in his throat. He scrubs his hands down his face, fingers dragging through his hair like they might tear out the ache in his skull.

 

John walks over and lowers himself into the other chair, slow and steady. He stays quiet.

“I yelled at her,” Wiggly admits, voice low. “Screamed. Told her she was broken, like that’d fix it. I don’t even know why.” His eyes shine, catching the moonlight. “I thought if I could piss her off, she’d come back. I thought she’d snap out of it.”

He leans back and lets his head fall against the chair, staring at the ceiling. “But she didn’t. She didn’t even flinch.”

The silence stretches between them again. But this time, it feels different. Not heavy. Not crushing. Just there.

“She used to be the strong one,” Wiggly whispers. “The smart one. She held it all together. And now she’s just… sitting there, like she’s waiting for someone to give her permission to fall apart.”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear slides past his nose and lands on his shirt. He doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

“I think… I think if she’s really gone, then there’s nothing left of any of us.”

John finally speaks, his voice quiet, but sure. “She’s not gone.”

Wiggly lets out a bitter breath. “You didn’t see her.”

“No,” John agrees. “But you did. And you’re still here.”

Wiggly swallows hard. The truth in those words sinks into him slowly, uncomfortable and raw. He hates how it sounds like hope. He’s not ready for that. Not yet.

He drags in a breath and lets it out like it hurts.

“I just needed her to say something,” he says. “Anything. I needed to know she was still in there.”

John nods once. “You’ll try again.”

“I don’t want to,” Wiggly mutters. “I can’t go back there.”

John doesn’t push him. He just stands, pats Wiggly’s shoulder once in passing, and heads to the back room, giving him space.

Wiggly sits in the dark, alone again.

He presses the heel of his hand against his eye, hard, like he can push the grief back in. But it’s already loose now, rattling through him like a train that won’t stop.

Wiggly doesn’t move for a long time. He just sits there in the dark, listening to the creaks of the old cabin settling, the faint rustle of wind outside, and the soft sounds of John moving around in the back room. Eventually, John says something—just a quiet, “Goodnight,” like he’s giving Wiggly the option to say it back or ignore it.

Wiggly doesn’t respond.

The footsteps recede. A door clicks shut. Silence settles again, heavier this time. The kind that settles into your ribs.

Wiggly waits. Counts his breaths. Pretends he’s drifting off, sinking into the chair like a worn-out marionette with its strings cut.

He waits longer still.

Until he’s sure John won’t come back.

Then, without a word, he moves.

He silently makes his way to the now familiarized kitchen. Wiggly eyes the hallway cautiously as he hands settle on the counter. He turns back to face it. The little knife block holding a few knifes. He stares at it coldly as if it were the cause of all his problems. Or maybe the solution.

Wiggly hesitates before reaching to it, silently pulling the knife out of it’s protection. He holds it with a different intent than the first night he arrived here. He watches the blade as he moved it towards himself, holding his breath.

His fingers tighten around the handle. The metal is colder than he expected—sharper too, like it’s been waiting for this moment. Like it knew he’d come back.

He stares at it, tilting the blade in the low moonlight until it catches on a glint of silver that dances across the kitchen walls. The air is still. Unmoving. He doesn’t breathe.

His thumb traces the blunt edge slowly, not enough to cut. Just to feel it. Just to know it’s real.

And it is. That’s the worst part.

The weight of it in his hand is a confirmation of every hollow thought that’s wormed its way into his head since that night in the woods. And now Webby.

He turns the knife in his hand, just slightly. Enough to shift the grip. Enough to imagine it.

But he doesn’t do anything.

Not yet.

Wiggly leans forward and braces one hand against the counter, the blade still loose in the other. His reflection shimmers faintly in the darkened window over the sink—a blurry, unrecognizable thing. His eyes are sunken, jaw tight, hair disheveled from the wind and sweat. He looks like something haunted.

He feels like something haunted.

For a second, just a second, he lifts the blade—lets it hover just beneath his ribs.

He doesn’t press.

He doesn’t.

But he could.

He stands there, trembling, breath shallow and uneven, until his knees feel like they might buckle.

Then he slams the knife down.

The blade clatters against the counter, loud in the silence. Not enough to wake John—hopefully. But enough to cut through the suffocating haze in his own head.

Wiggly stares at it.

Still not breathing.

Not thinking.

His hands fall away from the counter slowly. They feel foreign, like they belong to someone else. Someone who would’ve gone through with it.

He steps back.

Then back again.

His heel hits the edge of the rug, and it’s enough to jolt him. His chest finally convulses around the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It tears out of him in a ragged gasp, like surfacing from water he hadn’t meant to drown in.

His chest heaves like something’s lodged there—something heavy and screaming and ancient—and it won’t come out no matter how hard he breathes. His hands, now trembling, curl into fists before he tears them open again, dragging them through his hair, over his face, down his chest.

It’s not enough.

He claws at his scalp, desperate, frantic, as if maybe he can dig something out—some infection beneath the skin, some rot left behind by everything he used to be.

“Get out,” he chokes to no one. To himself. To something inside. “Get out—”

His nails rake down his cheeks, red blooming in tiny, angry lines. His breath breaks around a sob. It hurts, but not enough. Not like it should. Not like it needs to.

He grips his hoodie, bunching the fabric at his chest, and pulls. Hard. Like if he could just rip it, if he could tear through the skin beneath, he’d find whatever was rotting in there and cut it out.

His knees hit the floor.

He doesn’t remember dropping, but the impact jars through him and he stays there, hunched over like something crushed. He grips his hair again, shaking now, curled so tight he’s practically folding in on himself.

A whimper escapes him. Pathetic. Soft.

He slams his fists against the floor. Once. Twice.

“Why—” he gasps. “Why won’t it stop?!”

His voice breaks like glass, raw and wet and full of everything he’s kept locked behind fury and bitterness and that smug, hollow grin. It pours out now—ugly and shaking and real.

“I can’t—” His breath hitches. “I can’t do this if she’s gone. I can’t go back there. I can’t.”

He curls tighter, rocking just slightly, fists still buried in his hair, skin burning with the heat of his own collapse.

He uncoils from the floor like a broken spring—slow, jerky, clumsy. His limbs feel wrong, like they’re not his, like they’re just bones dragged by panic. The breath in his lungs is shallow and quick, catching in his throat like it doesn’t want to stay. His knees threaten to buckle again, but he pushes himself upright anyway.

He stumbles.

Then forces one foot forward.

Then another.

The knife block waits for him in the kitchen, still turned just slightly from when he pulled the blade free. The knife—still there—gleams faintly in the moonlight on the counter where he slammed it down.

He reaches for it.

There’s no thought. No weighing of options. Just need.

His fingers close around the handle, white-knuckled and shaking, and he lifts it—quicker this time, rougher, more resolved, like the moment that just passed didn’t purge enough, like there’s still something trapped inside and this is the only way to bleed it out.

His hand trembles hard as he brings the blade toward himself. His vision blurs—rage, grief, exhaustion, some foul mix of all three. He presses the edge to the fabric of his hoodie, the cold steel kissing his chest beneath.

His breath catches again.

It burns behind his eyes.

Wiggly grits his teeth, jaw clenched so tight it aches. His shoulders quake. And still, the knife stays there, motionless but trembling. A ghost of motion. A threat he doesn’t want to say out loud.

He pushes just enough to feel the pressure, just enough to know it’s real.

“Wiggly?”

The voice is soft—barely more than a breath—but it slices through the quiet like a thunderclap.

His entire body jerks.

The knife slips just slightly in his grip, the edge dragging a shallow whisper across the fabric of his hoodie. He doesn’t press further. Doesn’t move.

His eyes stay locked forward, wide and panicked, like a creature caught in headlights.

Behind him—near the hallway—John stands.

Barefoot. Half-asleep. Bleary-eyed and stunned.

Wiggly doesn’t turn around.

He can’t.

He’s trembling too hard now, his fingers still clenched around the blade like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the floor. His chest rises and falls in short, erratic bursts.

“Wiggly,” John says again, gently this time. No anger. No judgment. Just concern, stretched thin and careful like he’s trying not to spook him. “Put the knife down.”

Wiggly still doesn’t move. But something’s breaking under his skin—has been breaking all night—and now it’s louder than his thoughts, louder than even the pounding of his heart.

John steps closer.

Two steps.

Three.

“Whatever it is,” he says, voice soft and cracking now, “you don’t have to do this.”

A bitter sound escapes Wiggly—half a sob, half a laugh. His head shakes violently.

“You don’t get it,” Wiggly spits, voice hoarse, like he’s been chewing glass. “You don’t fucking get it.”

“I know I don’t,” John says. “But I’m here.”

Wiggly finally turns, just his head—just enough for the moonlight to catch the streaks down his face, the blotchiness in his cheeks, the wild look in his eyes.

“She’s gone,” he rasps. “She’s in there and she’s gone. And I don’t know if she’s ever coming back.”

John doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move. His eyes are fixed on Wiggly’s hands—on the blade still trembling in them, so close, so dangerously close. His body’s tensed like a wire stretched too tight, trying to stay still, to stay steady, even as his gut twists.

He knows—one wrong word, one wrong twitch, and this tips over into something they don’t come back from.

“I know,” John says, soft, slow, like he’s talking to an animal with its leg caught in a trap. “But that’s not the end, Wigs. It’s not the end unless you—unless you make it that way.”

Wiggly’s knuckles are white around the handle. His whole body shakes like it’s trying to tear itself apart from the inside.

“I can’t carry this anymore,” he mutters. “I wasn’t built to—she was the one who—she knew how to hold people together.”

“You don’t have to carry it alone.”

John shifts slightly—inch by inch. The floor creaks. Wiggly doesn’t react, not outwardly. But the blade… it presses in. Just enough.

Wiggly’s breath hitches sharp and sudden as the tip of the knife dimples the fabric of his hoodie and kisses skin. Just a pinprick. A warning.

John sees it.

His heart stutters.

“No—hey—” he says quickly, hands half-raised but not reaching yet. “Stop. Stop, that’s enough. Wiggly. Please.”

But it’s too late.

Wiggly inhales sharply.

The knife bites.

It sinks deeper than either of them meant for—four inches in, clean through fabric and flesh. Not a scratch. Not a cry for help. A real wound. A dangerous one.

A flash of pain cuts across his face, small and fast but real.

John doesn’t think—he moves.

The second he sees the red blooming through Wiggly’s hoodie, dark and quick, John’s whole body reacts. He lunges forward and grabs Wiggly’s wrist with a crushing grip. His other hand braces against Wiggly’s chest, trying to keep him upright, trying to stop him from swaying. Trying to keep him here.

“Fuck—fuck, no—no, no, no—Wiggly!”

The knife slips from Wiggly’s hand as his legs buckle. John catches him before he hits the floor, dragging him down slowly, gently, holding him up against his chest.

Wiggly lets out a strangled, guttural sound—half a breath, half a sob. The kind of noise a dying animal makes when it doesn’t want to die.

“Oh God, oh fuck—” John fumbles one hand into his pocket, nearly drops his phone. His fingers are slippery now. He doesn’t know if it’s sweat or blood.

He doesn’t want to know.

He gets the phone out and dials. 911. It rings once. Twice.

Wiggly’s eyes are glassy, fluttering. His breaths are shallow and wet, like he’s drowning on dry land. He slumps forward, but John cradles him up, pressing hard against the wound with the heel of his palm.

“You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay,” John mutters, voice trembling, barely able to breathe. “Just hang on. I’ve got you. You’re here. You’re still here.”

“911, what’s your emergency?”

John almost drops the phone trying to bring it to his ear.

“My friend—he stabbed himself. Chest. It’s deep, I—he’s bleeding bad. He’s going into shock. We’re at a cabin off Route 6—please, please, send someone now.”

He hears the dispatcher repeat details to someone in the background. Sirens. EMTs. Airlift. Too far. Too late.

No. No. Not too late.

John tosses the phone on speaker, drops it beside them, and presses harder. Wiggly jerks weakly against the pain, but doesn’t push him away. That scares John more than anything.

“Stay with me, Wigs.” His voice breaks. “Hey. Hey, you hear me?”

Wiggly’s lips move. No sound. Then—barely—

“Didn’t mean to…” Blood dripped down his chin from his mouth as he tried to speak.

John swallows around a hot, rising lump in his throat. “I know,” he says, tears burning now, falling onto Wiggly’s hoodie. “I know you didn’t. Just hold on.”

Blood seeps through John’s fingers.

And all he can do is hold pressure and pray the sirens come fast enough.

Because the knife went in deep. And John knows too much about anatomy to lie to himself.

Chapter 9

The waiting room was too bright.

John sat hunched forward in one of those stiff vinyl chairs, hands clasped so tight between his knees they’d gone white. The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly, the kind of hum that drilled straight into your skull after the first hour. Or maybe it had only been twenty minutes. He couldn’t tell anymore.

Time was elastic in here. Slow and ugly and stretched thin by fear.

Wiggly’s blood was still under his nails.

John blinked down at his hands. Still trembling. Still stained.

He should’ve cleaned them. There was a sink. A bathroom. A dozen nurses passing him without a glance. But if he scrubbed it off, it would be real. Like it had already happened. Like this wasn’t still a maybe.

His leg bounced. Hard. Rhythmic. Uncontrollable. It rattled the floor.

Jesus, he’d watched Wiggly collapse. Watched the color drain out of his face, watched his lips go blue around the edges. The ride to the hospital was a blur of red lights and someone shouting vitals over the radio and John thinking, If he dies in the back of this ambulance, I’m going to have to tell Webby that he didn’t make it.

And she wouldn’t say a word back.

John dragged a hand down his face, breath catching.

He’d seen a lot of things. Had to keep people breathing through worse than this. But Wiggly wasn’t supposed to be one of them. He wasn’t supposed to be lying behind closed doors right now with his chest cracked open and tubes shoved in his body.

Wiggly was loud. Obnoxious. Smug. Always cracking some awful joke even when no one asked. Always making noise just to remind the room he was in it.

And now—

He was quiet.

Too quiet.

John squeezed his hands tighter. He tried to tell himself the doctors were doing everything they could. That it wasn’t his job anymore. That he’d done his part—kept pressure, called 911, kept him talking.

But it hadn’t been enough to stop the bleeding. Not fast enough.

Why didn’t I see it coming? Why didn’t I stay in the room? Why didn’t I take the fucking knife block out after the first night?

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes until color burst behind his lids.

This was going to break something in Webby if it hadn’t already.

It might break him too.

The door at the far end of the hallway creaked open. A nurse stepped out, scanning the waiting room.

John shot to his feet, breath locked in his throat.

Please. Anything but a too-late look. Anything but an apology.

“John MacNamara?” she asked gently.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m Becky Barnes, nurse in the recovery unit. Will is stable. He’s not out of the woods yet, but he made it through surgery. You can see him now, if you’re ready.”

John gave him a fake name, obviously the name ‘Wiggly’ would arrouse suspicion if the green hair didn’t already make him a walking target. Although there had to have been a better fake name than ‘Will’

John nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’m ready.”

She led him down the sterile halls, the beep and hum of machines leaking through closed doors. Each step felt heavier than the last. When they reached the room, Becky pushed open the curtain, and John stopped dead.

Wiggly lay there, pale and still, tangled in tubes that went in and out of his arms and chest. His face was bruised and drawn, lips cracked, eyes closed beneath heavy lids. Machines kept track of his every breath and heartbeat, a cold, mechanical reminder that he was hanging by a thread.

John’s stomach turned. It was sickening to see him like this — the loud, chaotic Wiggly reduced to this fragile, broken thing.

Becky’s voice cut softly through the silence. “He’s fighting. The next few days are critical. We’re monitoring everything.“

John swallowed again, stepping closer to the bed. The sterile smell mixed with something metallic, a scent he’d never forget.

“I’m here, Wiggly,” he whispered, voice raw. “You’re not alone.”

For the first time since the ambulance ride, John let his shoulders slump, letting the exhaustion and dread settle over him like a shroud.

Chapter 10

The monochrome world stretches wide and empty around him. The edges flicker like old film, and Wiggly stands in the center of it—barefoot, bloodless, soundless. The cold here isn’t physical. It’s the kind of cold that settles in your teeth and bones, something ancient and clean and wrong.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

He doesn’t remember the hospital. Or the ambulance for that matter.

He remembers John though, holding him while he bled out. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen John look that scared before.

And he knows, in that way dream-logic always makes too much sense, that this place is not just a dream.

A gentle clap echoes behind him. Slow. Mocking.

“Wiggly Wiggly Wiggly,” a voice coos, melodic and too close to a lullaby.

He turns.

And there he is.

Wiley.

Standing in a space that doesn’t quite exist—but is still brighter, sharper than anything else here. His grin is polite. Charming. Empty. It doesn’t touch his eyes.

“Oh, sweet little Wiggly,” Wiley says, stepping forward, shoes making no sound. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to play with knives?”

Wiggly doesn’t speak. His jaw tightens.

Wiley laughs—delicate and delighted, like this is all some private joke he’s been waiting to share. “Not that it matters. You’re so predictable. Hurt a little, crack a little, and then boom—straight to the drama.”

He twirls his finger in the air like he’s spinning a record. “You always did have a flair for the theatrical. Hmm, no that was Pokey wasn’t it?”

Wiggly doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t need to.

Wiley tilts his head, mockingly gentle now. “You really thought it’d fix something, didn’t you? That if you carved deep enough, maybe you’d cut the rest of me out too?”

He steps closer, slow and sure. “But here I am, Wiggly. Still with you. Like gum in your hair. Or rot in your ribs. Or maybe something closer.”

He taps his own chest, right over his heart.

Wiggly’s fingers twitch at his sides.

“Did it hurt?” Wiley asks suddenly, his tone almost curious. “When you did it? When the blade slid in? Or did you even feel it? I’ve seen enough mortals pass through their own hands—some scream, some beg, some just go quiet. But you… you looked angry.”

He smiles. “You’re always angry, aren’t you?”

Wiggly’s voice is low when he finally speaks. Rough. “Get out of my head.”

“Oh doll.” Wiley grins wider as he steps close enough to Wiggly that he can see the grain of static in his skin. “I’m not in your head.”

He leans in, whispering now, voice syrupy and awful:

“This is mine.”

He knocks his knuckles gently on Wiggly’s temple. “This little attic of misery? I moved in a long time ago. You invited me in when you gave up. You just didn’t notice.”

Wiggly’s fists curl again. “She’ll stop you.”

Wiley’s face stills for a moment.

Then he snorts. He snorts, hands going to his hips, pacing a short circle around Wiggly like he can’t believe what he just heard. “You mean Webby?”

He clicks his tongue.

“Oh, buddy.” He leans closer again. “Webby’s broken.”

Wiggly flinches—barely—but Wiley sees it.

“Oh yeah. Saw it myself. All cracked open like a dropped vase, just waiting to be swept up and thrown away. That sister of yours? She’s quieter than the grave. And it’s delicious.”

He hums, pleased with himself. “Took a while, but it was worth it.”

The air crackles around them. Wiggly’s skin buzzes with the static of Wiley’s presence. His breathing gets shallow again—like back in the kitchen. Like the world is closing in.

“Get out,” he growls, again.

Wiley pretends not to hear. “You’ll do something worse next time. I’m counting on it.”

He reaches out.

Taps Wiggly’s chest.

Right where the scar will be.

And suddenly the world snaps—the grain goes sharp, the sound cuts, and Wiggly’s knees give out again—
Only this time—

He wakes.

Gasping.

Pain spiking through him from every wire and tube and stitch.

But he’s awake.

And he’s still here.

Chapter 11

John hadn’t moved from the chair beside Wiggly’s hospital bed in hours. Maybe longer. The clock on the wall ticked in time with the monitor’s steady beeping, each second dragging like it had claws.

He kept Wiggly’s hand in his. Not tightly—just enough. Enough to remind them both that he was still here, that Wiggly was still alive, and that neither of them was alone in this goddamn sterile place.

Wiggly hadn’t stirred since they brought him out of surgery. He lay there, motionless beneath thin sheets, skin too pale against the IV tape and bruised gauze. The wound wasn’t visible—it was beneath the gown, stitched up clean by strangers in blue gloves—but John couldn’t stop seeing it anyway.

Wiggly had looked invincible once. Or maybe just too stubborn to break.

Now he looked like someone who had been cracked down the middle and barely glued back together.

John leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the bed, his eyes tracking the rise and fall of Wiggly’s chest. One beat at a time. One breath. Then another.
Steady now. For now.

He barely registered when his own grip tightened slightly, or when his thumb brushed along the knuckles again like muscle memory.

Then Wiggly stirred.

It was a flicker—his face tightening, breath catching. His fingers twitched inside John’s, and a second later, his eyes blinked open.

Bleary. Blinking hard against the light overhead. And then widening.

Panic hit first—pure, raw panic. He sucked in a breath too sharp for his healing chest and tried to sit up, but the tubes and weakness stopped him short. His breath caught halfway and crumpled into a hoarse, broken sound.

“Hey—hey,” John said quickly, rising halfway from his chair. “You’re okay. You’re safe. Just—don’t move too fast, alright?”

But Wiggly wasn’t listening.

His eyes locked on John’s. And then, like something inside him gave way all at once, he broke.

“I’m sorry—” he rasped, voice cracked and hoarse and completely wrecked. “I’m sorry—I’m—fuck, I didn’t mean—I didn’t—” His voice trembled as he repeated it again and again. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—John, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey, hey.” John moved in without thinking, gripping his shoulder with one hand and cupping the back of his head with the other. “Stop. Wiggly—stop. You don’t have to—”

“I didn’t mean to go that far,” Wiggly choked. “I thought I did but I didn’t—I didn’t think it’d—fuck, I’m so stupid, I just—I couldn’t—”

His whole body shook violently, like every nerve was misfiring under the weight of something too massive to carry anymore.

John pulled him in. Finding himself laying in the bed with his arms around him, solid and grounding.

Wiggly didn’t even resist. His head dropped against John’s shoulder like gravity finally won, and the sound that left him was somewhere between a sob and a breath he’d been holding for hours.

“I couldn’t make it stop,” he whispered, voice muffled in the fabric of John’s jacket. “She’s not talking. It’s like she’s not even in there anymore. And I—I saw her and I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t fucking fix it—”

“You’re not supposed to fix it,” John murmured, voice low and steady. “You’re not. You’re just supposed to stay here. That’s it. That’s all anyone’s asking you to do right now.”

Wiggly shook his head against him. “I didn’t think anyone would care.”

John tightened the hug. “Then you’re a goddamn idiot.”

That earned a sound—almost a laugh, almost another sob. Wiggly’s fingers curled weakly into the front of John’s shirt.

“I don’t know how to be in my head anymore,” he admitted. “It’s like it’s all crawling under my skin.”

“You’re not alone in there,” John said. “You’re not alone in any of this.”

Wiggly didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away either.

John hadn’t moved since Wiggly dropped his head against his shoulder. He could still feel the younger man’s heartbeat through the hospital gown, still hear the uneven hitch in his breathing. It was quieter now. The storm had passed, or maybe just shifted further out to sea.

Wiggly hadn’t let go. He hadn’t said anything in minutes. Just sat there, hands curled into John’s shirt like he was still anchoring himself to something—anything that didn’t float away with him.

John exhaled into his hair. “You’re not gonna lose everything,” he murmured. “No matter how it feels. You’re not as far gone as you think.”

The door clicked.

John stiffened slightly, turning just enough to glance over his shoulder.

Lex stood in the doorway first, her mouth pressed tight, her eyes rimmed red.

Behind her was Hannah, wide-eyed and wringing her hands.

And Webby.

She stood between them like she had barely remembered how. Her eyes were puffy and her lips trembled, and she clung to the doorframe like it was the only solid thing left. But she was upright. Awake. Present.

John didn’t say a word.

He didn’t need to.

Wiggly stirred in his arms. “Is someone—?”

His voice was hoarse from crying and hospital dehydration and everything else hell had thrown at him. He tried to sit back a little, and John let him go—slowly, cautiously, like he was afraid letting go too fast would break him again.

John glanced down at the tangled grip on his sleeve. He gently pried Wiggly’s hand away, murmuring, “I’m gonna give you a second, alright?” and stood up. The mattress creaked as his weight lifted. He stepped aside quietly and took the seat beside the bed, giving the room—and Wiggly—space.

Wiggly blinked blearily toward the doorway.

His eyes landed on her.

And he froze.

“…Webby?”

Her bottom lip wobbled. She made a soft, choked noise, then stepped fully into the room. “You dumb asshole,” she said, voice cracking down the middle. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

That shattered whatever was left of his composure.

Wiggly broke into a laugh. Sharp, wheezing, tear-wet. It was barely a laugh at all—more of a sob wearing a smile like a mask. He dragged his hand down his face, disbelieving.

“You’re—fuck. You’re here. You’re—you’re talking.”

“And you,” she snapped weakly through her own tears, “tried to die, you prick!”

He barked another cracked laugh and winced, one hand instinctively going to his chest. “Shit, don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

“Good!” she hiccuped, stepping toward him now, ignoring Lex’s soft warning behind her. “It should! God, Wiggly, you scared me. You scared everyone.”

He shook his head, watery-eyed. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to—but you weren’t there, Webby. You were breathing, but you weren’t there. And I didn’t know what to do.“

Webby reached his bedside. Her hands hovered in the air like she didn’t know where to place them. Then she gave up, let out a small sob, and gently climbed into the narrow bed beside him—not caring that she wasn’t supposed to, not caring about the wires or the tubes or the startled gasp from Hannah behind her.

She wrapped her arms around him carefully, cradling the side of his face with her palm.

Wiggly leaned into it like someone starved.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m here now, I promise.”

He closed his eyes. More tears spilled down.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said, quieter now.

“I know,” she whispered.

“I was gonna go with you.”

“I know that too.”

They didn’t speak after that—not for a long while. Just held each other. Lex had pulled Hannah into a hug, both of them quietly crying at the doorway. John hadn’t moved from his chair, but he lowered his head, shoulders tight, as if he was finally letting himself breathe again too.

Webby pulled back after a while, her thumb brushing under Wiggly’s eyes. “You ever do anything that fucking stupid again,” she said softly, “I’ll kill you myself. And I won’t be gentle.”

Wiggly coughed a laugh again, grimaced. “Fair enough.”

Webby sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve. “Also, you smell like antiseptic and blood and I still love you, but it’s really unpleasant.”

He gave a crooked, tired grin. “Still love me, huh?”

She shot him a look through watery eyes—part exasperated sister, part devastated soul. “You’re my brother, dumbass. You’re not allowed to break like that.”

Wiggly’s smile shook. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

Without asking, Webby leaned forward—not careful or delicate, just there, and hugged him. She pressed her forehead to the side of his and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, minding the tubes but not the moment. It wasn’t dainty. It was a sibling’s hold. The kind that said: I’ve got you. I still do.

Wiggly buried his face in her hair, jaw tight, breath hitched again.

“Don’t do that again,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Ever.”

“I won’t,” he said into her shoulder. “I swear I won’t.”

She sniffed again and rubbed his back, awkward and careful and all heart.

From the corner of the room, John stood slowly and turned away, wiping under his eyes like it was nothing.

Notes:

family reunion (minus the other lords bc i dont know how to implement them yet!)

Chapter 12

The hospital room was quiet, save for the occasional beeping from the monitors and the low hum of the heating vent overhead. The sun filtering through the blinds painted everything in soft gold. Wiggly lay propped slightly against the hospital bed’s incline, hands resting in his lap, his fingers tangled loosely in the blanket.

His body ached. Not just from the wound—though that throbbed with its own steady rhythm—but in a heavier, deeper way. Like something in him had cracked open and was still trying to remember how to close again.

But he didn’t feel trapped. Not in the same way he had before.

Webby was back.

That truth sat in his chest like a warm weight, fragile and immense all at once. It made his throat tighten just thinking about it. She was back. She’d spoken. She’d looked him in the eye. She’d cried with him. She’d held him.

And she was still here.

He turned his head slightly on the pillow. Webby sat by the window, legs pulled up into the chair, chin tucked against her knee. A book in her lap, mostly ignored. She looked out the window more than she looked at the pages, but Wiggly didn’t mind. Just her being here was enough.

John sat on the couch against the wall, half-asleep, arms crossed over his chest. He’d been in and out—getting coffee, talking with nurses, helping Lex and Hannah navigate the mess of logistics—but he always came back. And when he sat down, he never really let himself relax. He watched Wiggly the way someone watches a ticking clock after cutting the wrong wire. Like he couldn’t quite believe it hadn’t all gone off in flames.

Wiggly’s chest swelled with something sharp. Not pain. Not fear.

Gratitude.

It made him feel sick and stupid and human. It made his eyes sting again.

He sniffed quietly, glancing down at his hands. His knuckles were still red, still healing from where he’d clawed at himself that night. He hadn’t really looked at them until now. Didn’t like what they meant. What they said about where his head had gone.

He still didn’t understand what he’d been thinking. Or if he had been thinking. It had all felt like panic. Like drowning. Like pressure building up so hard and so fast he’d done the only thing he knew—burst.

And the worst part?

He still wasn’t sure if he’d done it because he wanted to die.

Or because some desperate, selfish part of him had wanted to make them come running.

Would Webby have come back if he hadn’t gone through with it?

Would she have spoken again?

Would that silence have cracked wide open into a scream too late?

Wiggly shut his eyes, biting down on the thought.

It made him feel disgusting.

Webby stirred from the window seat and padded over quietly. She perched on the edge of the hospital bed, mindful of the wires and tubes. Her hand landed on his ankle through the blanket—casual, grounding. Like she knew he was sinking again without needing to be told.

He opened his eyes.

“You okay?” she asked softly, her voice still a little rough around the edges but hers.

He nodded after a beat. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know.”

“You looked like you were thinking something really heavy,” she said, brows knitting. “I don’t wanna intrude, just… checking.”

A pause.

“I was,” he admitted. “I was thinking about how—how I didn’t know if you’d talk again. If I hadn’t…”

He couldn’t say it. Didn’t want to give the night a name.

Webby inhaled. Then let it out slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

“I wasn’t trying to—manipulate you,” he added quickly, guilt surging. “If it did bring you back, I didn’t mean for it to be like that.”

“I know,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t think that’s why I came back.”

Wiggly blinked at her. “Then why?”

She looked at him, really looked. Her voice didn’t waver. “Because you scared me.”

Wiggly looked away. Shame cracked through him like lightning.

“You always act like you’re indestructible,” Webby continued, “like the loudest, toughest, dumbest guy in the room. But you broke, Wigs. You actually broke. And it—it reminded me that we’re all kind of breakable. Even me.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. “It was never supposed to be you,” he murmured. “Not like that.”

“Well, it was. And then it wasn’t. I came back because I realized I didn’t want to miss this.” She reached down and gave his foot a small, affectionate nudge. “You. Us.”

He smiled tightly, eyes glassy. “You’re really here?”

“I’m really here.”

He coughed another weak laugh. “And John’s still snoring over there?”

“I’m awake,” John said immediately, cracking one eye open. “I just thought you two were having A Moment and I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Webby rolled her eyes affectionately. “You’ve been eavesdropping for like twenty minutes.”

“Not eavesdropping. Just… keeping watch.”

Wiggly looked at both of them, his heartbeat soft and steady for the first time in what felt like years.

“You’re both still here,” he said quietly.

Webby nodded. “Yeah. Not going anywhere.”

John stood up slowly, stretching a bit as he walked over. He set a cup of water on the bedside table and gave Wiggly’s shoulder a careful squeeze.

“You gave us a hell of a scare, Wiggly,” he said. “Don’t do that again.”

“I won’t,” Wiggly said, voice small. “I don’t want to.”

There was a long pause between the three of them. Warm and tired and quiet.

And then Webby leaned forward, rested her forehead briefly against Wiggly’s temple—not too tender, not weird. Just family.

“Okay,” she whispered. “We’ll figure it out.”
It was late afternoon when the nurses passed by the door.

They weren’t being particularly loud, just caught in their own casual gossip as they wheeled a cart down the corridor. John was helping Wiggly adjust his blanket—he refused to call it “tucking in,” despite Webby’s teasing—and Webby was flipping through the television channels, unimpressed by every option.

“…they’ve already got the yellow banners up near the town square,” one nurse said, her voice drifting in from the hallway. “It’s barely even spring and people are already buzzing about the Honey Festival.”

“Of course they are,” the other nurse chuckled. “You know how people get. Sweet tooth for the weird stuff.”

Wiggly sat up straighter.

Webby paused mid-channel.

The nurses’ voices faded as they moved down the hall, but the damage was done.

Wiggly turned to Webby slowly, and her expression already mirrored his. Not fear. Not concern.

Recognition.

“…It’s May already?” he asked, voice cautious.

“Soon,” Webby murmured. “Soon enough.”

John looked between them, clearly out of the loop. “Okay, clearly I missed something. What’s the Honey Festival?”

Wiggly huffed a quiet, uneven laugh. “Town tradition. Big seasonal celebration. Bee parades. Sugary everything. All leading up to the crowning of the Honey Queen.”

“Sounds… quaint?” John offered, confused.

Wiggly looked at Webby again, something sparking behind his eyes now.

She gave him a small nod.

“Yeah,” Wiggly said after a beat, voice dry. “Quaint. If you’re into secret blood rituals and unknowable forest gods.”

John blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Every year,” Webby said, standing slowly and stretching like a cat, “they crown a local girl Honey Queen. Everyone claps. There’s music. People dance and get drunk on fermented honey wine.”

Wiggly picked up from there, voice taking on a low, familiar rhythm—like he was reciting something known since birth. “And then, at the very end of the night, just after midnight, the Queen vanishes. Everyone assumes she sneaks off with her crown boyfriend or something. But she doesn’t come back. No one ever questions it.”

John was quiet now. Dead quiet.

“She’s taken into the forest,” Webby finished simply. “And left at the altar.”

Wiggly leaned his head back against the pillow, eyes distant but sharp. “For Nibbly.”

“…Nibbly,” John repeated flatly. “You’re telling me your brother eats a girl every year?”

“Well, he’s not our biological brother,” Wiggly said, waving a hand. “We’re gods. Lords in Black. We’re… kind of outside the usual family trees.”

“And society doesn’t know?” John asked.

“Of course not,” Webby said. “They think it’s a fairy tale. A missing persons case. They convince themselves she moved away or was unstable. No one ever sees what really happens.”

John leaned back in his chair, trying to process the sheer mythological horror of it all.

But Wiggly looked… hopeful.

Hopeful in a way John hadn’t seen in him since before the cabin.

“He’s still active,” Wiggly muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “He’s still taking the offering. That means he still has power.”

“Which means maybe,” Webby said, glancing over at him, “he could give power.”

They looked at each other for a long, loaded second. That ancient, unknowable tether of something bigger than blood thrumming quietly between them.

“We lost everything when Wiley locked us out,” Wiggly said, quieter now. “We’ve been stuck in these bodies, cut off from the rest of us. But Nibbly might still remember.”

Webby’s brows pulled together. “If we go to him—if we’re there the night of the offering—maybe he’ll see us. Maybe he’ll talk to us.”

“Maybe he’ll give us a way back,” Wiggly whispered.

John exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re both serious.”

“Yes,” they said in unison.

He stood, pacing slightly. “Wiggly, you’re barely out of surgery. You’re still bleeding under the damn bandages, and you’re talking about forest gods and reclaiming cosmic power.”

Wiggly shrugged, a ghost of his old grin returning. “Some things are bigger than stitches.”

Webby smirked slightly. “And besides… we’ve never really been mortal, MacNamara.”

John looked between them again. The room felt different now. Still warm, still grounded—but like something ancient had shifted beneath the floorboards.

He finally sighed, deeply. “Alright. But if you’re dragging me into some Lovecraftian Maypole sacrifice, I want hazard pay.”

Wiggly laughed—really laughed, weak and winded, but real.

For the first time in what felt like a thousand years, he wasn’t just surviving.

He had a plan.

Chapter 13

The air smelled like cotton candy and fried dough. It buzzed with warmth, laughter, and the occasional off-key trumpet from the brass band tent. Hatchetfield’s Honey Festival had always been a strange little local gem—half family reunion, half summer carnival, all wrapped in a sticky golden bow.

Lex had glitter on her face and a lemonade in one hand. Hannah had won her a plush bee the size of a toddler at a rigged ring toss. They walked arm-in-arm with Webby wedged between them, eyes bright as she took in everything like it was her first time seeing the world in color again.

Wiggly watched them from the foot of the hill, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable but soft.

John elbowed him gently. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I… yeah.”

“You sure?” John asked, quieter now.

Wiggly looked at him, then back toward the crowd. “I think I’m remembering how to be a person.”

John gave a crooked little smile. “Good. I liked that guy. Sarcastic asshole, but charming.”

Wiggly smirked. “Takes one to know one, soldier boy.”

The live band was warming up on the main stage just downhill. The thrum of tuning strings and the occasional bleat of mic feedback floated up into the festival night like smoke.

“We’re meeting back here at the Honey Fountain at midnight, yeah?” Webby called, looking over her shoulder.

“Yeah!” Wiggly shouted back. “Don’t be late—ritual sacrifice waits for no man.”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “You’re such a freak.”

Wiggly grinned, hand over his heart. “Thank you.”

They broke off from each other with easy waves, Webby sticking close to Lex and Hannah, drifting toward the food stalls and games. Wiggly lingered near the stage with John, who watched the crowd sway and swell beneath the lights.

“You hungry?” John asked.

“Had three candied apples already.”

“Jesus.”

“God, actually.”

John snorted. “Fair enough.”

The band struck up a jazzy rock rhythm. The crowd clapped. Some even danced. Wiggly grinned suddenly, devilish.

“You ever play in front of a crowd?”

John’s face darkened instantly. “What? No. Well—I mean, not like this.”

“You told me you learned guitar in the army,” Wiggly said innocently.

“I did,” John said, warily.

Wiggly was already walking.

“Wait—wait no, what are you—Wiggly.”

Too late.

He was at the edge of the stage in a flash, whispering to the lead guitarist. Something about John and “talent” and “humble.” The next thing John knew, a mic was shoved into his hand.

And then a spotlight hit him.

“Oh hell no—” he started, but Wiggly was behind him, shoving.

“You got this!” Wiggly laughed, backing away.

John turned to glare—then lunged.

He grabbed Wiggly’s wrist and yanked.

“You don’t get to sit this out, smartass.”

Wiggly let out a yelp, stumbling forward onto the stage. “Oh my god.”

“Exactly,” John grinned, slinging a guitar strap over his shoulder. “We’re doing this together.”

The crowd hooted.

The music started—some loose, rolling swing rhythm that was half improvisation, half magic.

John began to sing.

No lyrics, just a melody—low and confident and warm like molasses. His voice wasn’t perfect, but it was raw in a good way, honest. And Wiggly?

He played along like he’d been born to it, dancing beside John in easy rhythm. When John twirled him mid-verse, Wiggly laughed—bright, breathless, real. The crowd cheered.

Then, mid-spin, John shot him a look.

“Follow me.”

“What—now?!”

But John was already moving—still playing, still singing, darting offstage behind the curtain. Wiggly followed without hesitation.

They weaved through food stalls, dipped past startled vendors, all without missing a beat of the song.

The music faded as they left the main lights behind, breath fogging in the cooler air near the lake. The moon shimmered on Hatchetfield’s dark waters, soft and endless.

They stopped at the edge of the dock, panting, laughing.

Wiggly bent over his knees, catching his breath. “You maniac.”

John grinned, setting the guitar down. “Didn’t want to share you with the crowd.”

Wiggly looked up at him. That grin. That little flutter in his chest.

He hadn’t felt it in… forever.

“You really that selfish?” he teased.

John stepped closer. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “When it counts.”

Wiggly swallowed.

They stood there a moment, moonlight painting them both in silver. The tension wasn’t heavy, just… warm. Electric.

The wind rustled the trees gently behind them. The lake was still. It could’ve been a dream. The good kind, not the kind where Wiley torments him endlessly.

The moonlight pooled on the dock in silver ribbons, soft and still as breath. The sounds of the festival had faded to distant echoes—clinking glasses, laughter, basslines muffled by trees. Out here, it was only the lake. Only the cold wooden planks beneath their shoes. Only them.

John and Wiggly stood close—too close to be casual now. They weren’t touching, but it felt like they had been. Or were about to. Their breath mingled in the space between them, and neither of them seemed ready to speak first.

Wiggly’s head tilted, eyes flickering over John’s face—searching, maybe.

John didn’t look away.

There were things he didn’t have words for. The way Wiggly had laughed on stage. The way he’d looked in the dark—alive, present, himself. And something in John wanted to protect that—guard it fiercely, maybe hold it.

Maybe… more than that.

They started to lean, inches shrinking.

And then—

“Wig?”

A familiar voice broke the quiet.

They both turned, startled. Webby stood a few yards away at the tree line, breath misting in the cool air, jacket half-zipped and hair bouncing as she jogged toward them.

Her eyes flicked between them briefly, noticing the space—or lack of it—but she didn’t comment.

“Sorry,” she said, already grabbing Wiggly’s wrist. “You gotta come see this. Some lunatic is selling bootleg Tickle-Me-Wiggly dolls at one of the booths.”

Wiggly blinked. “What the hell?”

“Right?” she laughed. “It’s awful. I think one’s got fangs.”

He looked to John, hesitating. Waiting for him to follow.

John gave a tired smile and a small shake of his head. “I’ll stay here for a minute.”

Wiggly lingered for a second longer, then nodded slowly and let Webby tug him back through the trees, muttering something about “unauthorized merchandise.”

John sat on the edge of the dock, elbows on his knees. He listened to their laughter fade into the festival. His heart was still pounding.

He wasn’t sure what had just almost happened. He was sure it mattered.

And he was almost sure he didn’t mind.

He exhaled, rubbed his hands over his face, and let the silence return.

But it didn’t last.

A rustle behind him. Then a presence—unmistakable and cold.

“Bit of a messy tangle, isn’t it?” a voice said. Smooth. Too smooth.

John stiffened, but didn’t look yet. “Wiley.”

The man stepped up beside him, hands in the pockets of a sleek coat like he owned the woods.

“You’re falling for him,” Wiley said, delighted. “Aren’t you?”

John clenched his jaw. “Get lost.”

Wiley just grinned. “Oh, don’t be like that. I know what it’s like. That thing he does—pulling you in without trying. Being all sharp edges and soft pieces when no one’s looking.”

John stood slowly.

“I know what it’s like,” Wiley repeated, quieter now. “Because he did it to me too.”

John’s eyes narrowed.

Wiley smiled wider. “It’s funny, really. A little closed loop. Wiggly had me. I had you. And now… you’re circling back. How poetic.”

“Back off,” John said again, more warning than request.

Wiley stepped forward once. “He’s not better, you know. Just smaller. Caged. But what’s inside him—what you think you’re saving? That’s still mine.”

John’s hands curled into fists.

Wiley’s eyes gleamed, cold and sharp as a blade in the dark. “You think you’re strong enough to protect him? To keep him safe from me?”

John took a step forward, the fire burning low but fierce inside him. “If you hurt him—”

Wiley’s smile twisted, amused and cruel. “Hurt him? Oh, I don’t have to hurt him, soldier boy. I can break him in ways you never dreamed of. Quietly. Slowly.”

That did it.

John lunged again, reckless, full of fury and nothing else. “Don’t talk about him!”

But—his arms sliced through smoke. Wiley’s form rippled, flickered, like a reflection shattered in broken glass. Just barely there.

Wiley tilted his head, his voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “That temper’s going to get you killed, you know. Or worse—him.”

John’s fists clenched tighter, rage snapping through his veins. “You can’t touch me.”

“You couldn’t before,” Wiley whispered, “and you can’t now.”

His eyes flicked toward the trees where Wiggly had disappeared, the soft glow of the festival lights still visible through the leaves.

“But I can touch him.”

John froze. The words hit harder than any blow could.

His breath, ragged and sharp, caught in his throat.

Wiley leaned in close, his breath a cold whisper against John’s ear—like a lover, like a nightmare. “And I will.”

Wiley’s whisper hung heavy in the air as his form began to ripple and fade, the edges of his silhouette dissolving like smoke caught in a breeze. Slowly, almost teasingly, he slid down through the gaps between the wooden planks of the dock, his shape stretching and warping as if he were liquid melting into the shadows beneath.

Then, with a final, ghostly shimmer, he vanished completely, leaving only the whisper of wind and the distant hum of the festival behind.

John didn’t move for a while.

The lake stretched out before him, still and dark, like a mirror turned to black glass. A chill crawled across his skin, not from the breeze but from the way Wiley’s voice had wrapped around him—silken, poisonous, promising.

His fists slowly unclenched, fingers aching from how tight he’d curled them. He stared at the spot where Wiley had disappeared between the slats of the dock, heart still pounding like he’d sprinted miles.

That temper’s going to get you killed… or worse—him.

John exhaled sharply through his nose and scrubbed a hand over his face. He felt raw. Angry. Exposed.

And afraid.

But not for himself.

He glanced down at his watch. Time had slipped through his fingers like Wiley’s shape through the dock. They were supposed to meet back up by now.

He drew a slow, steadying breath and turned. His boots echoed softly on the dock wood as he made his way back toward the glow of the festival lights—toward the laughter, the crowd, the booths and music—and toward Wiggly.

The spot where he’d last seen him.

He quickened his pace.

The festival lights burned brighter now, golden and flickering like fireflies caught in nets, casting long shadows over the fairgrounds. The air was thick with sugar and pollen, warm and too sweet, like the calm before a summer storm.

John pushed through the crowd until he saw them—Webby, Lex, Hannah, and Wiggly, all gathered near the edge of the crowd. Wiggly spotted him first and tilted his head in that familiar way, brows pinched just slightly like he knew something was off. John gave him a quick nod, falling into step beside him, wordless but present.

“Where were you?” Wiggly asked, not accusing—just low and quiet.

John shook his head. “Later,” he said, just as quiet. “Let’s get through this first.”

That seemed enough for now.

The group surged forward, pulled with the tide of people moving toward the main stage. The speakers let out a little pop of static—then a cheerful jingle played, saccharine and bright. Lights swirled up onto the small makeshift stage, flanked by overly ornate flower arrangements and honeycomb decorations painted in shimmering yellows and golds.

A man in a crisp tan suit and straw hat strode to the mic with all the smug flair of a local celebrity. His voice echoed across the festival grounds.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, “welcome to the seventy-fourth annual Honey Queen Pageant!”

Applause broke out all around. Children on shoulders cheered. The air itself seemed to buzz with excitement—more than just the crowd, more than just nerves.

Webby’s expression darkened, just a little. Wiggly’s smile thinned. He didn’t clap. Neither did she.

Because they knew what this actually was.

John looked between them. He could feel it too now—that tension, like static under the skin. Something under all of this wanted. Something beneath the glitter and honey-sweet music was waiting.

Wiggly leaned toward Webby. “You feel him, right?” he murmured.

Webby nodded, her voice barely audible over the cheer. “He’s here.”

John stiffened, glancing between them. “Nibbly?”

“Of course,” Wiggly said softly, eyes fixed on the stage. “He always shows up for the choosing.”

And above the stage, beyond the glow of fairy lights, the shadows near the trees shifted just slightly.

Watching. Waiting.

Chapter 14

The pageant ended in a flurry of flashing cameras and forced smiles. The crowd erupted as the winner—a beaming girl in gold, her sash sparkling under the lights—was crowned and handed an absurdly large bouquet. The runners-up clapped with rehearsed grace, but the tension between them practically hissed through their teeth. A bitter rivalry, dressed in lace and sugar.

Webby didn’t blink as the new Honey Queen was ushered offstage, toward the backstage tents that bordered the edge of the parking lot. The crowd was too distracted by fireworks and funnel cakes to notice the subtle shift—how the handlers weren’t quite pageant officials, how the girl looked more confused than victorious.

But the group noticed. Wiggly especially.

“That’s it,” he said under his breath, already moving. “This is the handoff.”

They slipped through the crowd, sticking to shadows, ducking behind concession stands and displays. John kept close, hand hovering near Wiggly’s back as if to ground him. Webby was sharp and focused, moving with the kind of quiet certainty that said she’d done this before—many times.

They watched from the edge of the lot as the Honey Queen was led toward a black SUV parked in the corner, the trees yawning open just past it. Wiggly’s eyes tracked the girl’s nervous movements—he could feel it now, the pull of something ancient and familiar. Something waking up.

“That’s our cue,” he murmured. “We follow, but not too close.”

John nodded. “Truck’s this way. Come on.”

They made their way to where John had parked, tucked along a dirt path just outside the main festival traffic. It was already dark beyond the edge of the lights, and the sudden quiet of the woods encroaching made everything feel sharper, like the night itself was holding its breath.

John climbed into the driver’s seat, opening the passenger door for Wiggly and Webby. “We’ll follow at a distance. Lex, Hannah—you two good riding in the back?”

Hannah climbed into the truck bed beside her. “Yeah, just… drive like a grandma, okay? I don’t wanna get flung out of the back if we hit a pothole.”

John cracked the faintest grin. “You have my word.”

The engine rumbled to life. Wiggly sat sandwiched between John and Webby, his knees awkwardly bent, his shoulder pressed into John’s arm. He didn’t mind. It felt grounding.

Webby glanced sideways. “You nervous?”

Wiggly exhaled slowly. “Kinda.”

“You sure this is the right move?”

“Nope,” he said, voice soft. “But if there’s a chance he can help us… I have to try.”

John didn’t say anything, but his hand reached across the bench seat and squeezed Wiggly’s knee once before returning to the wheel.

They rolled out slow, careful. The SUV ahead was already turning onto a barely-marked dirt road, swallowed by trees and mist. John kept his lights low and his eyes sharp, avoiding every rut and bump, mindful of the two girls huddled in the truck bed.

The woods loomed darker now. And ahead, the ritual was waiting.

They parked far from the winding path the black SUV had disappeared down, cutting the engine and leaving the truck tucked beneath a veil of trees and shadow. No one spoke as they climbed out. Even Lex, usually quick with a sarcastic jab, stayed silent.

The air had changed.

It was heavier here. Still. Even the cicadas had gone quiet.

They moved as one through the underbrush, feet careful over roots and damp soil, following the dim flicker of torches deeper into the woods. The glow up ahead was unnatural—orange and low and sickly, like firelight burning through thick fog.

Then they saw it.

The pageant winner was being dragged from the SUV by two figures in long black cloaks. Her voice was shrill as she screamed, ragged with fear, but it didn’t carry far—like the trees themselves were swallowing the sound.

Wiggly stiffened, eyes locked forward. Webby’s hand closed around his wrist. He didn’t flinch.

The girl was hauled to a stone platform nestled in the clearing, built into the ground like it had always been there—waiting. The altar was slick with something dark, dried and crusted in its grooves. The torches surrounding it flickered as the cloaked figures forced the girl down.

Then the shadows stirred.

And something moved in the dark beyond the flames.

At first, it looked like smoke curling from the trees. But then it grinned.

A mouth.

Vast and wide, too wide, its edges stretching far past what should be anatomically possible. There was no body. Just teeth. Glistening, ancient, and hungry.

The girl screamed louder. No one answered.

Behind the treeline, the group watched in frozen silence. Lex, breathing hard through her nose, instinctively reached across and covered Hannah’s eyes with one hand.

Hannah didn’t fight it.

“Oh my god,” Lex whispered. “Oh my god, they’re gonna feed her to it.”

John stood just behind them, his jaw locked, one hand on Wiggly’s back like he needed to keep him from running in. “Is that—”

“Nibbly,” Wiggly said. “Our brother.”

John blinked.

“That’s a mouth,” he said slowly. “That’s just… a mouth.”

“Yeah,” Webby murmured. “It’s kind of his whole thing.”

The mouth—impossibly wide, impossibly wrong—lurched closer to the girl.

Its jagged edges shimmered, the heat of it distorting the air. The cultists had stepped back, their heads bowed in reverence, waiting for the devouring.

The girl was still screaming.

And then—

WHOOSH.

A flash of green flame streaked across the clearing, searing the air just inches from the creature’s gaping maw. It didn’t hit—just missed—but that was enough. The mouth reeled back with a soundless roar, disoriented. Confused.

And then a second force—invisible but immense—slammed into it like a freight train.

The clearing shook. Leaves rattled. The torches nearly toppled.

The mouth collapsed in on itself, shrinking, twitching, contorting—and then it folded, flattened, reformed.

Where once there was nothing but teeth and void, now stood a figure. Tall. Pink. Smiling. His form shimmered like oil on water, cartoonishly vibrant, with long, bouncing pigtails and too many teeth packed into his grin. His eyes were black as pitch and full of mirth that shouldn’t be trusted.

Nibbly. In his human form. But he wasn’t human.

He stretched his arms overhead like he was waking from a nap.

“Ughhh,” he groaned. “Altars are so stiff on the joints, ya know?”

The cultists fled immediately, abandoning the whole ritual. The girl on the altar sat bolt upright, tears streaking her face, now confused more than terrified. “What the hell—?!” she whimpered.

Behind the trees, the group froze.

Wiggly’s eyes lit up. “That’s him,” he whispered. “That’s really him.”

John stood tense at his side, protective. “You sure he’s on our side?”

“I’m not sure he knows what sides are,” Webby muttered, equally in awe and concern.

Then—

“Well, well, well…”

A slick, oily voice poured out of the dark, dripping like poison from the roots of the trees.

Wiley.

He stepped into view, his denim suit spotless despite the forest floor, his presence warping the air like heat off pavement. That trademark smirk was plastered across his face, eyes gleaming with delighted cruelty.

“Did someone say family reunion?” he cooed.

The atmosphere shifted. Nibbly turned his head, slowly, the grin never leaving his face—but his energy cooled a few degrees. Like someone flipping a switch from chaos to calculation.

The girl on the altar blinked between the two in utter disbelief. “What is happening right now—?”

The group, still hidden, all tensed.

John whispered, “Do we move?”

“No,” Wiggly said, firm. “Not yet.”

Wiley’s eyes flicked—briefly—to the treeline.

And he knew.

He was smiling wider now. “Oh, come on out, little shadows,” he sang. “Let’s not keep your dear brother from his adoring fans.”

Nibbly rocked back on his heels like he hadn’t noticed Wiley at all—still halfway crouched by the altar, one clawed hand already resting on the girl’s shoulder. She was too terrified to scream again, eyes locked on the rows of teeth crowding out his far-too-wide smile.

“Hey, I’m just gonna—” Nibbly began, voice chipper, starting to pry her down against the stone.

“Do you mind?” Wiley cut in flatly.

Nibbly blinked. “Uh, yeah, I was in the middle of something? Been waiting literally all year for this—”

“I’m sure you have,” Wiley said, smiling politely, not even glancing at him.

Nibbly pouted, mumbling something about “uppity little theater majors” under his breath, but stepped back—barely.

And then—he moved.

Not in a way that made sense. Not with footsteps. Not with a blur.

One moment Wiley was standing at the altar, head tilted lazily toward Nibbly—

The next, he was there.

Right in front of the treeline.

Inches from Wiggly.

The group surged back on instinct. Webby let out a sharp gasp, and John reached out—arm across her chest, moving her behind him without a second thought. Lex grabbed Hannah, shielding her.

But Wiley didn’t touch anyone.

He didn’t even raise his voice.

He just… looked.

Right at Wiggly.

“You remember what happened,” he said softly. Almost kindly. As if he were explaining it to a child, or comforting a scared animal. “You remember what it felt like, don’t you? I know I do, I was there. Watched the whole thing. Ha, I bet you regret it now.” His eyes dart to Webby but return quickly back to Wiggly.

Wiggly stiffened.

His entire body went still.

His breath caught. Stopped.

John took a step forward, voice taut. “You need to back the hell up—”

Wiley didn’t even blink. “You don’t want to interrupt this part, Johnny. It’s just getting good.”

John stepped forward. “Get the hell away from him.”

Wiley finally turned toward him, eyes bright with amusement. “You’re so loud about your feelings, John. It’s adorable. Pathetic, but adorable.”

John’s hands curled into fists.

That did it.

John lunged, reckless and furious, all logic thrown out with the wind—

And this time—
he connected.

His fist collided with actual cloth, fingers bunching into the front of Wiley’s shirt. Wiley staggered, not much, but enough to show he wasn’t mist or memory this time. He was real. He was here.

And that meant—
“You’re here for him.” John spat, shoving him back a step, “You leave Wiggly the hell alone!”

Wiley blinked, brows lifting as if impressed that John got it wrong with such confidence. The amusement didn’t take long to slither back across his face.

“John,” he said sweetly, mockingly, “Oh, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.”
He reached up casually and patted John’s arm where it held his collar—like he was humoring a child. “You really think everything’s about your soft little boyfriend, don’t you?”

John gritted his teeth and shoved him again. Harder this time.

“I mean it. You touch him again—”

“Oh don’t worry, Johnny.” Wiley laughed, stepping back just enough to fix his shirt. “I’m not here for your little boy toy.”

John’s mouth opened—then stalled.

What?

Wiley’s eyes gleamed like a shark sensing blood. “I already did plenty of damage there, wouldn’t you say?” He gestured lazily behind him toward the woods. “You’ve seen it. The guilt. The quiet moments. The nightmares. I tore everything sharp and godlike out of him and left you with a broken little mess of a man who thinks he’s not even worth saving.”

John’s breath hitched. But Wiley was already looking away—toward the altar.

“You’re missing the real show.”

John followed his gaze just in time to see it:

Nibbly, in full colorful human form, stood crouched over the now-empty altar—chewing.

Chewing.

One of his inhumanly long arms hung lazily over his knee. The other was stuffing something into his mouth. Something soft. Pale.

The girl’s sash lay crumpled in the dirt like shed skin.

“Jesus Christ,” John whispered, sick rising in his throat.

Wiley shrugged with a soft “eh,” like this wasn’t even the worst part of his night.

“Should’ve waited to interrupt. He gets so cranky on an empty stomach.”

Nibbly, clearly unbothered, slurped down the last of what he’d caught like a human-size fruit snack. He stood, licking blood off his pinky finger, then flinched when he saw Wiley watching him with a grin that didn’t match his eyes.

“What,” Nibbly said, defensively, “I haven’t eaten in forever. She was barely a six outta ten.”

Wiley tsked once.

And then he took a step forward.
Not toward John.
Toward Nibbly.

“Don’t worry,” he said, voice shifting—heavier, deeper, colder. “I’m not here to lecture you.”

He smiled again.

“But I do need something from you.”

Nibbly blinked. “…What?”

“You’ve got power left. More than those other two combined. You’re untouched.”

Wiley kept walking, slow and steady across the dirt.

“You didn’t notice what I did to your siblings, did you?” Wiley tilted his head. “Didn’t care, maybe. But you’ve still got yours. You’re whole.”

Nibbly took a step back. “Wha—Hold on now. You’re not gonna—”

“I am.”

“You can’t! I’m the fun one! I’m not even—”

“You don’t matter,” Wiley said. “Not in the way I need you to.”

He raised a hand, slow and elegant, and Nibbly’s body locked. Like someone had pulled his strings taut and yanked them tight.

His half-chewed smile vanished.

John, frozen behind them, eyes wide, finally understood.

Wiley wasn’t here to taunt them.

He was here to do what he did to Wiggly and Webby—to strip Nibbly of everything godlike, to render him small and powerless and forgettable.

And Nibbly—had no clue.

John surged forward, fists clenched.
“Stop!” he barked.

But Wiley didn’t even turn.

He just smirked.

“Too late.”

The others froze behind the trees, breath caught in their throats as the scream tore through the night air—raw, desperate, filled with a pain that rattled their bones.

They could see it.

A glowing, swirling pink essence—vibrant, alive—rippled from Nibbly’s chest. It shimmered like liquid light, pulsing with a power that felt both ancient and fiercely untamed. Slowly, agonizingly, it began to slide down his body, tracing the contours of his skin like molten silk.

And then—it flowed off him.

Like a river spilling from a broken dam, the essence poured into Wiley. It clung to him, weaving through his shadowy form, filling the space where light and darkness tangled together.

Wiggly’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. Webby’s fingers twitched at her sides, powerless to stop it. Lex and Hannah exchanged grim looks—there was nothing they could do.

John’s fists balled tighter, trembling with fury and frustration. But Wiley’s grip on the stolen power only grew stronger, his smirk widening as the pink glow brightened in his hands.

Nibbly’s scream echoed, fading now to a hollow, defeated gasp—his shoulders sagging as the last of his strength slipped away.

Suddenly, the trees around them shuddered.

A hand—pale, long-fingered, and wrong—burst through the dark like a bullet, reaching straight for them.

Before anyone could react, Wiggly was yanked forward, dragged screaming into the clearing. His feet never touched the ground.

He flailed midair, Wiley’s hand clamped mercilessly around his throat, lifting him like a doll. His limbs kicked instinctively, fingers scratching at the iron grip. His face twisted in panic, and then—in pain. His breath caught in his throat, legs going stiff.

John’s heart stopped.

“Wiggly!” he roared, already breaking from the cover of the trees, lunging toward them. “I told you to fucking leave him alone!”

Wiley didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at John.

His attention stayed on Wiggly, his face calm—almost clinical—as he squeezed tighter. Wiggly’s eyes widened, veins straining beneath his skin. His face blued rapidly, mouth opening in a silent gasp.

And then, just as suddenly, Wiley let go.

Wiggly crashed down like a ragdoll—but John was already there. He caught him mid-fall, staggering back a step with the weight of him, holding him tightly. Wiggly’s whole frame trembled in his arms, a sick rasp tearing through his throat as air rushed back in.

Wiley smiled, a sickly-sweet thing.

“That’s enough fun for tonight,” he said, almost lightly. “Give him my love, will you?”

And with that—he dissolved, his form peeling back into mist, into shadows, into smoke. The last thing to fade was his smile.

And then he was gone.

John sank to the ground with Wiggly still in his arms, heart pounding like it was trying to break through his ribs.

“Hey. Hey—look at me,” he said hoarsely, gently patting Wiggly’s cheek. “You’re okay. You’re okay, breathe. Come on, breathe.”

Wiggly wheezed weakly, but he was alive. And John wrapped himself tighter around him, unwilling to let go.

Webby burst from the trees first, crashing through branches without hesitation, her shoes skidding in the dirt as she dropped to her knees beside John and Wiggly. Lex and Hannah followed close behind, slower but no less urgent, eyes wide, faces pale from the spectacle they’d just witnessed.

“Wiggly—!” Webby’s voice cracked as she reached out, grabbing for his hand, her grip tight and trembling. “Oh my god—are you okay?”

Wiggly’s throat rasped as he tried to answer, his voice no more than a croak, his lungs still trying to remember how to breathe. John kept one arm tight around him, the other still bracing his back.

“He’s breathing,” John said, voice rough and low, but steady. “He’s okay. I’ve got him.”

Webby’s eyes darted from Wiggly to where Wiley had stood—and then past that. To where Nibbly still slumped beside the now-empty altar, pink-glowing essence still faintly clinging to the air where it had been ripped from him.

Lex approached behind them, Hannah right beside her. The younger girl looked confused and scared—Lex had kept her eyes covered through most of it—but even without seeing it all, the weight of what had just happened was palpable.

Webby looked to the altar. To Nibbly.

And the bottom of her stomach dropped out.

“That was it,” she whispered. “That was our chance.”

Lex glanced toward her. “Chance for what?”

Wiggly stirred, his voice barely there. “Back. To what we were. What he—what Wiley took from us.”

John glanced between them, confused. “That’s what he was doing? He took something from Nibbly?”

Webby nodded slowly, eyes locked on their brother. Nibbly still sat slumped near the edge of the altar, human-shaped, breathing—but limp. Dazed. The bright cartoon-pink of his hair had dimmed. Dulled.

Their third.

Their link.

And now…

“It’s gone,” Wiggly muttered, voice hoarse and brittle. “All that power. Our way back. It’s gone.”

Webby looked like someone had sucker-punched her.

“That was our brother,” she whispered. “He didn’t even realize what was happening until it was too late.”

Lex crouched beside Hannah, who was still watching nervously, trying to piece together what any of this meant. “What did Wiley do to him?”

“He stripped him down,” Wiggly said, with a hollow, grim laugh. “Like he did to us. Took what made him us. Left him small. Human.”

For a long moment, the clearing was quiet. The wind shifted the trees gently. The firelight flickered around the altar. Nibbly didn’t move.

John glanced down at Wiggly, who was still trembling faintly, leaning against him. “Then we stop him before he does it again.”

Wiggly didn’t answer. Not right away. Webby moved first, pushing herself off her knees and toward Nibbly, her boots crunching softly over leaves and ash. He hadn’t moved. Still slumped, still breathing, his inhuman smile nowhere to be found.

“Nibs?” she said gently, crouching beside him. “Hey… come on. Look at me.”

Nibbly blinked slowly, his colorful lashes fluttering like he couldn’t quite focus. The pink of his pigtails looked muted now—like the saturation had been dialed back. His skin wasn’t glowing. Just pale. Cold.

But then his head tilted toward her, sluggish, like a puppet being reminded it had strings.

“I’m…” he rasped. His voice, once bouncy and high, came out cracked and faint. “I’m hungry.”

Webby’s heart clenched, her eyes burning. She reached out, brushing messy bangs out of his eyes.

“I know,” she said softly. “I know you are.”

He swayed a little as she helped him to his feet, her arm looping around his waist for support. He was light—too light. Like most of him really had been sucked away. His movements were clumsy, unfocused. The jagged grin wasn’t there. No teeth showing. Just… tired.

The rest of the group watched in a heavy silence.

Wiggly, still half-braced in John’s arms, stared—achingly aware of what they’d lost. Nibbly wasn’t just weak now. He was diminished. Hollow.

“What… do you want to eat?” Webby asked, voice careful. Like she wasn’t sure if it was still him in there.

Nibbly blinked at her again.

“I dunno,” he mumbled, resting his head heavily against her shoulder.

Webby let out a soft, broken breath. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll figure it out. But not here.”

John stood with Wiggly slowly, supporting his weight as he did, and gave Webby a nod. “Let’s get out of here.”

Lex glanced back toward the still-burning torches and the bloodstained altar. “Before someone notices this whole nightmare happened.”

As they started to move—John helping Wiggly walk, Webby carrying half of Nibbly’s weight—Hannah piped up quietly behind Lex.

“Is… is he gonna be okay?”

No one answered for a moment.

Then Wiggly, softly, without looking back, said:

“I don’t know.”

Chapter 15

The cabin welcomed them like an old, splintered memory—dark wood and dust-soft corners, the floor creaking with every step. It was cramped, far too small for all of them, but no one complained. After what they’d seen—after what happened—the idea of being alone was suddenly unbearable.

It was Wiggly who said it first, low and hoarse as they shuffled inside:

“…This is the only place that still feels real.”

John nodded. He didn’t say much, just set his hand on Wiggly’s back and guided him in. Webby lingered in the doorway until Nibbly finally stepped inside, pink pigtails drooping, that perpetual grin gone quiet but not dead.

“Okay,” John said, clapping his hands together as if trying to disperse the tension. “Not ideal, but we’ll make it work.”

“Definitely not enough beds,” Lex muttered, eyeing the narrow hallway and the tiny back bedroom.

“I’ll take the floor,” Webby offered immediately. “Or the bathtub. I’ve slept in worse.”

“Nope,” John said. “Nibbly can take the couch. Webby, you and the girls can figure something out with the air mattress—I think it’s still got one good lung left.”

Webby raised an eyebrow. “And you?”

John jerked his chin toward Wiggly, who was leaning tiredly against the counter, blinking slow and sluggish. “He can stay in my room. My bed.”

Wiggly looked up at him with a flicker of surprise—then something softer. “You sure?”

John nodded once. “Yeah. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“…Thanks,” Wiggly murmured.

Hannah had already claimed a pile of pillows and was dragging them toward the fireplace. “I’m making a fort,” she announced firmly. “For morale.”

Nibbly brightened at that, just slightly. “Oooh! Forts are fun.” His voice was raspy, thinner than usual, but his hands immediately joined the effort, stacking blankets like it was the most important mission in the world.

“He seems… fine?” Lex whispered to Webby as they pulled out the air mattress together.

Webby shook her head slowly. “He’s not. He’s just handling it different.”

“Different how?”

She paused, her fingers tightening around the fabric.

“He doesn’t think he lost anything. Because he still got to eat.” She said it like it tasted wrong in her mouth. “Me and Wiggly… we lost everything. Nibbly just thinks he’s on a weird diet.”

Lex grimaced. “That’s messed up.”

“Yeah,” Webby said, “but it’s him.”

Across the room, Nibbly was carefully balancing a throw pillow on his head and giggling.

Wiggly watched him for a long moment before finally leaning closer to John and murmuring, “He really doesn’t get it.”

“No,” John said quietly. “But he will.”

The fire crackled. Blankets were layered like armor. Nobody spoke of what had happened in the woods—not yet. Not tonight.

Tonight, they were safe. Huddled under one roof. Stitched together by exhaustion and something that might one day resemble hope.

And in the soft hush of the cabin, with the creaking floor and the muffled laughter from the pillow fort, John looked toward Wiggly and simply said:

“Come on. You should lie down.”

And Wiggly followed him. John’s room was small—bare walls, a scuffed dresser, a bed barely big enough for one. But it was warm, the sheets rumpled from restless sleep, and when the door clicked shut behind them, the rest of the cabin seemed to melt away.

Wiggly stood awkwardly near the edge of the bed, arms crossed loosely over his stomach. He looked pale, a little dizzy still, like he hadn’t quite caught up to being here again—alive, and still standing. John had already kicked off his boots and was settling on the far edge of the mattress, sitting with his back to the headboard, watching him.

“…I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up in that hospital room again,” Wiggly said quietly. “Or worse. Somewhere else.”

John tilted his head. “This feels real to me.”

Wiggly finally looked over. “That’s the problem. It is real.”

A long pause stretched between them. Quiet enough to hear the pillow fort creaking faintly in the other room, and Nibbly’s laugh—still high, still light—muffled by blankets.

“I really thought I was gone,” Wiggly said suddenly, his voice hoarse. “Like… not just dying. Like done. Like unmaking. Whatever was left of me, whatever Wiley didn’t take—I thought that was it.”

John looked down at his hands. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I scared myself,” Wiggly admitted.

“You don’t have to… go through that again. Not alone. I’m not leaving.”

Wiggly smiled, weakly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They sat with that for a beat. The silence wasn’t heavy this time—it just was. Wiggly shifted closer without thinking, shoulder brushing John’s. They both looked down at the contact, then at each other.

Wiggly’s voice dropped. “You were there when I woke up. You didn’t have to be.”

“I wanted to be,” John said. “You’re not just some guy I dragged out of the woods. You’re… you.”

Wiggly’s eyes flicked to his, searching. There was something deeply vulnerable in them now, cracked open in a way John hadn’t seen—hadn’t dared to see before. Not when Wiggly was keeping everything at arm’s length. Not when he was lost in grief and shame.

But now?

Now he was here. Changed, but still him.

And maybe—just maybe—this was okay.

They leaned in at the same time. Not fast. Not rushed. Just… cautiously. Like a question hanging in the space between them.

Their foreheads touched first. That was all. A gentle press, warm and tentative. Breath mingling.

John’s voice barely above a whisper: “Is this okay?”

Wiggly nodded, eyes slipping closed. “Yeah. I think so.”

Slowly, almost hesitantly, their lips met—a soft, tentative kiss that lingered like a whisper in the quiet room. It wasn’t urgent or desperate, just gentle, exploring. John’s hand lifted, fingers brushing lightly against Wiggly’s cheek, grounding them both in the moment.

Wiggly’s breath caught, then settled, his body easing against John’s. The kiss deepened slightly, a quiet reassurance exchanged between them, fragile but real.

When they finally pulled apart, neither hurried to break the closeness. Foreheads still touching, breaths mingling, they just stayed there—two souls leaning into something new, something healing.

John’s voice was low, steady: “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Wiggly’s smile was small but genuine. “Together.”

Chapter 16

Wiggly woke with a start, heart thudding like he’d been ripped out of some half-formed dream. The first thing he registered was the edge of the mattress digging into his hip, the second was the heavy weight draped over his waist—an arm. A whole John MacNamara attached to that arm. And he was practically half-slid off the bed, legs dangling, pinned there by the fact that John was wrapped around him like a living blanket.

And snoring. Loudly. Like a chainsaw chewing through drywall.

Wiggly squinted blearily at the ceiling, then down at the top of John’s head buried against his shoulder. This was new. John didn’t snore like this before. He sure as hell didn’t cling like this either.

A quiet, startled laugh broke out of him before he could stop it.

It was enough to stir John. The rumble of the snores hitched, then stopped with a soft snort. John blinked awake, eyes bleary and hair a mess. He seemed to register where—and how—they were a split second later. His eyes widened.

—and then a sound cut through the quiet of the cabin. A wet, miserable retching echo from somewhere past the bedroom door.

Wiggly’s brow furrowed. “What the hell—?”

John was already shifting upright, still trying to shake off sleep. The muffled gagging sound came again, followed by a low, pitiful groan.

“Oh no,” Wiggly breathed. “Nibbly.”

They scrambled out of bed—awkwardly, because the blanket was twisted around both their legs—stumbling down the narrow hallway toward the kitchen.

What they found made them both stop dead.

Nibbly was hunched over the tiny trash can by the fridge, bright hair a tangled mess around his shoulders. His arms were braced against the counter as he coughed up the last of what looked like—well. Eggs. Maybe butter. It was impossible to tell.

The fridge door hung open behind him, a bleak sight: every shelf barren except a single pickle jar rolling sadly on its side.

Webby, bleary-eyed, stood near the sink with a glass of water in her hand, looking equally grossed out and helpless.

When she spotted them, she gestured at the disaster like look at your idiot brother. “He ate everything,” she whispered, incredulous. “Like—everything. Raw eggs, butter, uncooked pasta—he said he missed the taste.”

Nibbly let out another groan, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I hate being human,” he mumbled, voice raw. “I hate it. It’s stupid.”

Wiggly crossed his arms, nose wrinkling. “You ate raw eggs, you freak.”

“I could eat people before!” Nibbly snapped, voice cracking mid-whine. “Why does this sack of meat care about salmonella?!”

John just ran a hand down his face, deadpan despite the chaos. “Okay. First, nobody’s eating people... anymore. Second, let’s get him to a shower. And third—” he pointed at the barren fridge— “one of you is explaining this to Hannah when she wakes up and can’t have breakfast.”

Nibbly made another weak gag noise. Webby patted his back half-heartedly. Wiggly just buried his face in his hands, muttering, “There are too many powerless gods in this house right now.”

Notes:

updates may or may not slow down now that artfight has started,,,,
shameless link to my af page
https://artfight.net/~ExtraLargeChips

Chapter 17

The grocery store’s fluorescent lights were already too bright for this circus of a morning.

John pushed the cart with one hand, the other buried in the pocket of his old army jacket, looking every bit the exhausted leader of this odd parade. Wiggly trailed beside him, eyes flicking back every few seconds to where Webby was wrangling Nibbly, Lex, and Hannah like rowdy kids on a school trip.

Nibbly—still a little green around the edges—kept glancing longingly at the breakfast pastries and then back at Webby like he might make a break for it at any second.

The cart already held cold medicine, a bulk pack of ginger ale, a box of plain crackers—everything the newly mortal stomach of a god might need to stop a repeat performance of the Great Fridge Massacre.

At least they’d managed to get food in them first. The McDonald’s stop had been chaotic enough, squeezed into a single booth like some off-brand sitcom family. Nibbly had demanded three hash browns and pancakes. John had lost track of who was drinking whose coffee halfway through.

Now, with the last of the fast food caffeine buzzing through his veins, John caught himself looking at a shiny used minivan parked out front through the store’s glass windows. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Thinking of trading in the truck for a soccer mom special?” Wiggly asked dryly, nudging him.

John huffed a laugh. “Might have to. There’s too many of you now. If Hannah or Lex bounce out of that truck bed on a pothole I’m never gonna forgive myself.”

Wiggly gave him a sidelong look—one of those half-amused, half-soft ones that still did things to John’s chest. But before he could say more, Webby cut through the aisle with Nibbly tugging at her wrist.

“Webby—Webby, I saw her!” Nibbly was practically vibrating, pointing down the produce section. “Linda Monroe. And her husband. She’s right there. She’s so—shiny. I want to say hi. I want to say hi so bad—”

Webby shot him a look that could’ve frozen fire. “No. We are not traumatizing the Monroe family in the middle of Kroger, Nibbly.” She yanked him back by the back of his tank top as he tried to surge forward again.

Nibbly whined, dragging his feet dramatically as Linda Monroe—poised, pristine, and pretending not to see them—glided past with Gerald. Gerald looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

John watched the scene with raised brows. “New plan: if we ever do this again, we split up.”

Wiggly chuckled, but it faded when he caught Webby’s eye. She raised her brows in silent we should talk. He got the message.

A few aisles later, they drifted aside—past shelves stacked with pancake mix and dusty canned goods. Wiggly’s voice dropped low. “About last night…”

Webby tugged her arms tighter around herself. “Yeah. We need to talk about it.”

She shot a look back at Nibbly, who was now half-heartedly poking cereal boxes while Lex distracted him with gossip about the Honey Festival aftermath.

“He’s not the only one,” Webby murmured. “Wiley took our powers. He’ll go after the rest too. Pokey, Tinky, Blinky—he won’t stop until there’s nothing left of any of us.”

Wiggly grimaced. “And we have no idea where the Black Book is.”

Webby’s eyes flicked up, sharp and searching. “We’ll find it. We have to. Before he does.”

Wiggly glanced back toward John at the end of the aisle—head tilted back to check a grocery list, blissfully oblivious to how deep this went.

“He’s gonna hate this,” Wiggly said quietly. “Being dragged into our mess.”

Webby nudged his shoulder. “He doesn’t hate you though, does he?”

Wiggly’s cheeks flushed warm. He didn’t answer.

Behind them, Nibbly’s voice rang out, bright and terribly loud: “WEBBY. I WANT THE FROSTED FLAKES. I DESERVE THE FROSTED FLAKES.”

Webby pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’re so doomed.”

Wiggly cracked a grin despite himself, grabbed the cereal box off the shelf, and lobbed it at Nibbly’s chest.

Chapter 18

The cabin was quiet in that in-between way—like the woods outside were holding their breath. Sunlight slanted through the dusty blinds, catching on motes in the air and turning the whole place gold for a moment too soft to last.

Wiggly stood in the kitchen, barefoot on the hard wood, staring down at the counter like it had offended him personally. His coffee had gone lukewarm in his hands. Behind him, the knife block sat exactly where it always did—plain, wooden, unassuming. He didn’t look at it directly. Didn’t need to. He could feel it like a phantom heartbeat at his back.

He shifted his weight, cleared his throat, and forced himself to sip the coffee. It tasted like burnt grounds and guilt. He put the mug down too hard, flinching when it clinked against the counter.

In the living room, the TV droned on low. Some local news anchor was talking about the Honey Festival clean-up effort—volunteers pulling down banners and sweeping up confetti in a town that never seemed to rest. Lex and Hannah were curled up in the blanket fort they’d turned the couch into, half-asleep on a nest of pillows and leftover snack bags.

Nibbly lay sprawled between them, head in Hannah’s lap like an overgrown cat. He’d devoured two bowls of Frosted Flakes, a sleeve of Oreos, and three apples since breakfast. Now he just looked content, belly full, mouth open in a quiet snore that rattled the candy wrappers on the floor.

John sat at the battered dining table with his phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen. He’d pulled up the same name three times now: P.E.I.P. The contact glared at him from the cracked glass like an accusation. Five missed calls, all from the last day and a half.

He thought about calling back. He really did.
But his eyes flicked up—past the table, past the couch fort, to where Wiggly lingered alone in the kitchen doorway now, mug dangling from his fingers like an afterthought.
John’s thumb hovered over the call button. He pressed the lock screen instead. Shoved the phone face down against the table. One problem at a time.

“Hey.” His voice carried, soft but solid enough to break the static hush of the house. “You okay over there?”

Wiggly startled like he’d forgotten anyone else was even here. He gave a too-bright smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Just… coffee’s terrible.”

John snorted. “It’s not the coffee’s fault you made it wrong.”

“That’s fair.” Wiggly stepped out of the kitchen fully, shoulders dropping minutely once he passed the counter. He perched himself on the arm of John’s chair instead of taking one of the other empty seats—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off John’s arm. A small, selfish comfort.

He could feel John glance up at him, that quiet, careful weight of his attention settling in the space between them.

“You didn’t sleep much,” John murmured.

Wiggly made a noncommittal noise. “Neither did you.”

They didn’t say the rest. That they’d both been awake when the sun cracked the treeline. That they’d both pretended not to hear each other shifting and breathing too fast in the dark.

Wiggly felt John’s hand drift—just brushing his knee. A tiny anchor. No one else seemed to notice, and that was good. They could keep this soft thing hidden a little longer.

From the fort, Webby’s voice drifted out. “Nibbly. Stop trying to eat Hannah’s hair.”

A muffled whine. “But it smells like strawberries—”

“Nibbly.”

A giggle from Hannah, a resigned sigh from Lex. The cabin felt too small for so many bodies, but somehow it also felt less empty than it ever had.

Wiggly let himself lean just slightly, shoulder pressing into John’s. John didn’t move away. He just shifted enough to brace him there—like if he stayed still enough, quiet enough, none of this would break.

The TV kept humming, all static and half-truths and good morning Hatchetfield. The phone on the table buzzed once, a single vibration that made John’s jaw twitch. P.E.I.P again. Another unanswered question.

Wiggly didn’t ask. He didn’t have to. He just sat there, letting the warmth sink in, letting himself pretend the next fight wasn’t already curling somewhere out there in the trees.

There’d be time for the rest of it.
For Wiley.
For the missing Black Book.
For the pieces they’d have to glue back together when it all went to hell again.

But for now, there was this—bad coffee and cold cereal and a fortress of blankets that made them all feel, for a second, like kids with no monsters under the bed.

Wiggly exhaled, a small laugh under his breath when Nibbly’s snores hit a new octave. He felt John’s chuckle rumble through his arm.

Outside, the wind brushed through the pines. Waiting. Watching.

They didn’t notice it yet.
Not quite.

But they would.
Soon.

Notes:

time to play my favorite game of barely visible foreshadowing

Chapter 19

It started with a map.

A folded, sun-faded pamphlet, half-buried under junk mail on the old side table by the cabin door. Wiggly found it while hunting for the car keys—its glossy cover cracked down the middle but still bold in purple and yellow: “Welcome to WATCHER WORLD! Hatchetfield’s Favorite Family Fun Park!” The mascot’s giant cartoon eyes seemed to follow him wherever he turned it.

He felt something under his ribs tighten. A flicker of memory—too deep and too old for the body he wore now, but there all the same. A thousand blinking eyes in the dark. A low, familiar voice whispering things no mortal ear should ever hear.

Webby noticed the second he froze. She plucked the map from his hands with a sly flick of her fingers. “Watcher World,” she murmured. “Haven’t heard that name in a while.”

Wiggly flicked his eyes toward the living room. John was perched on the arm of the couch, bickering with Lex over mini-van prices on his phone while Hannah and Nibbly were watching some cheap cartoon rerun, giggling like they hadn’t just watched a god eat an entire fridge. The sound of it all felt…weirdly warm.

He leaned closer, voice low. “We should go.”

Webby’s grin flashed—sharp and bright. “Yeah. Blinky’s not stupid, but he’s a shut-in. He’ll listen if we get him in person.”

She flicked the edge of the map against his chest. “And if he doesn’t?”

He pressed his mouth into a thin line. “Then we make him listen.”

Webby slipped the map into her pocket, careful to hide it when Lex glanced over. John’s voice drifted in—“We can’t keep stuffing them in the truck bed, Lex. It’s illegal and they keep complaining about bugs—”

Webby tilted her head, lowering her voice even more. “We tell them we wanna blow off steam. That it’s just a fun day out. Cheap tickets, funnel cake, rides—what’s not to love?”

Wiggly forced a half-smile. “And when we’re inside?”

Her eyes gleamed. “Then we find Blinky. And we fix this.”

 

The plan fell together stupidly fast—John, reluctantly, agreed they did deserve something light. Normal. Even if “normal” was dragging a weirdly mismatched gang of six to an overstimulating theme park on the edge of Hatchetfield.

Lex fussed about the gas prices the whole drive. Hannah wouldn’t shut up about the Ferris wheel. Nibbly pressed his nose against the window like an overexcited Labrador, babbling about cotton candy in a voice that was just too chipper for someone who’d nearly been turned into cosmic jerky.

John glanced at Wiggly once as he steered around a pothole. “Hey. You good with this?”

Wiggly didn’t quite look at him. The map burned a hole in Webby’s pocket between them. “Yeah,” he said. “It’ll be good for everyone.”

Mostly.

 

They rolled into Watcher World’s cracked parking lot just before the noon rush. Purple banners flapped overhead, the blinking mascot painted on every ticket booth and snack stand, eyes wide and watching.

John barked out instructions—where to meet if they got split up, how to stick together, who held the cash. Lex rolled her eyes but agreed. Hannah was already dragging Nibbly toward the gate like he’d explode if she didn’t keep him anchored.

Wiggly caught Webby’s eye over the hood of the truck. She mouthed one word—soon. He gave the smallest nod back.

The whole group headed through the gates in a messy cluster, the bright jingle of the park’s theme song buzzing out of hidden speakers. Nobody noticed how Wiggly’s eyes flicked past the rides and candy stands, searching the shadows where the real Watcher waited.

John looped his arm around Wiggly’s shoulder, laughing when Nibbly shrieked at the sight of a giant walking eye mascot. For a second—just a second—Wiggly let himself lean into that warmth.

But his mind was already deeper in the park, past the blinking lights and sugar dust. Past the families and the squealing kids. Back where the real eyes were waiting—
—and blinking open.

They bought tickets from a bored teenager in a faded purple vest who barely looked up from his phone. The turnstiles clicked behind them, sealing the group inside.

Inside, Watcher World was a mess of bright colors and shrieking laughter. Animatronic eyes blinked from every corner—on signs, on trash cans, even on the spinning teacup ride that squealed out an off-key jingle every time it passed by.

Nibbly was the first to break loose—darting for the cotton candy stand with Hannah hot on his heels, her wallet already out. Lex followed, grumbling about the sugar crash that was definitely in their future.

John stuck close to Wiggly’s side, scanning the park like an off-duty soldier stuck babysitting a carnival tour. Wiggly felt the weight of that closeness—good weight. Familiar weight. Heavy in the best way.

Webby walked ahead, practically bouncing on her heels as she scouted the path deeper into the park. Every so often she’d toss Wiggly a glance over her shoulder—like a silent countdown neither of them had to speak aloud.

John tugged Wiggly gently to a stop near a pretzel stand. “Hey. You okay? You’ve been quiet since we got here.”

Wiggly fumbled for an answer. His eyes flicked past John’s shoulder to a massive statue of the Watcher’s mascot—ten feet tall, eyes wide and unblinking, pupils shimmering purple. It felt…aware. Watching him back.

He forced his gaze back to John. “Yeah. Just—soaking it in. It’s a lot, huh?”

John huffed a laugh, that rough, quiet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A lot’s an understatement.” He squeezed Wiggly’s arm, thumb brushing the skin just above his elbow. “Stay close, okay? I don’t trust this place. Feels like something’s gonna jump out and bite me in the ass.”

Wiggly’s mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

John gave him a look—half exasperation, half fondness—and was about to retort when Lex appeared at his other side, arms full of churros and neon slushies.

“Snack tax,” she said flatly, shoving a churro into John’s hand whether he wanted it or not. She flicked her eyes at Wiggly. “You’re eating too. You look like a strong breeze would kill you.”

Webby snorted somewhere behind them. Wiggly took the churro reluctantly, ignoring the way his fingers trembled as they brushed John’s again. The scent of fried dough and sugar was grounding—almost.

They regrouped by a giant map of the park, sticky fingers, slushie brain-freezes and all. Hannah had pink cotton candy stuck in her hair. Nibbly had suspicious blue stains around his mouth and a look of wide-eyed innocence that fooled nobody.

John wiped his sticky hand on his jeans and tapped the map. “Okay. What’s first? Ferris wheel? Haunted house? Anyone wanna get nauseous on the spinning eyes of doom?”

Webby perked up, slipping up to Wiggly’s side. She traced her finger along the faded path that looped around the center of the park. Her voice was casual, but her eyes flicked up to meet his with a sharp glint. “Why don’t we all check out the back half first? It’s quieter. Good place to see everything before it gets too crowded.”

Nibbly, mouth half-full of pink fluff, nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! Back half!” He didn’t care why—he just liked the sound of it.

Lex squinted. “Back half’s where all the weird old rides are, right? The stuff they don’t run at night? Kinda run-down?”

“Exactly,” Webby said sweetly. “Perfect place to catch our breath.”

John frowned a little—something in his gut telling him he was missing a piece of the puzzle. But Wiggly caught his eye then, forced a crooked, conspiratorial grin, and murmured, “Trust me. It’ll be fun.”

So they headed deeper in—past the ring toss and blinking mascots and families posing for photos they’d regret later. Past the smells of funnel cake and fake fog machines and carnival barkers hawking cheap prizes.

Past the noise. Toward something older. Quieter. Watching.

And somewhere beneath all the blinking eyes and neon smiles—something else blinked back.

Wiggly felt it—like a pulse in the base of his skull. Webby did too, glancing at him once, eyes bright and unafraid.

Soon.

They just had to slip away.
Just long enough to warn their brother—
—and maybe take something back that never should’ve been stolen.

They wound deeper through the forgotten back half of Watcher World — the screams and laughter of the main park dulled to a low hum behind them. Here, the path cracked underfoot. Old carnival booths leaned sideways under string lights that hadn’t worked in decades.

Wiggly stayed just behind Webby, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets, eyes darting to every animatronic eye painted on cracked fences, every flicker of purple neon half-buried in weeds. John and the others trudged behind them, bunched tight together, weighed down by the heavy hush of this part of the park.

They passed an old carousel frozen mid-spin — the horses’ hollow eyes painted yellow, teeth too sharp for a children’s ride. Beyond it, tucked under a leaning banner that read FIND YOUR FATE!, was a faded purple-and-gold tent.

Webby tugged at Wiggly’s sleeve, flicking her eyes at the tent’s flap. There.

Wiggly nodded, swallowing down the tight coil in his throat.

John stepped closer, scanning the creaking stalls around them. “What the hell is this place?”

“Old fortune teller,” Webby chirped, voice a little too light. “Probably just storage now. Hey — you guys keep looking around. Me and Wigs’ll catch up in a sec.”

Lex gave her a look. “What do you mean ‘catch up?’”

Wiggly stepped in smoothly, brushing John’s arm. “She wants me to help her look for—souvenirs. Creepy ones. You’d hate it.”

John’s brow furrowed. He didn’t buy it — not fully — but Wiggly’s thumb dragged just briefly along the inside of his wrist. A silent promise: It’s fine. Trust me.

John exhaled, glancing back at Lex, Hannah, and Nibbly — who was too busy licking the last of the cotton candy off his sleeve to care. “Five minutes,” John said finally. “Then I’m coming in there to drag you two weirdos out myself.”

Webby grinned wide. “Deal.”

And with that, she grabbed Wiggly’s wrist and yanked him through the moth-eaten flap.

Inside, the stale scent of old incense clung to the heavy curtains. Strings of tiny purple lights flickered overhead like fireflies about to die out. And in the middle — behind a cracked crystal ball and a faded sign that read BLINKY SEES ALL — was a figure.

Small. Hunched. Covered in a thick purple cloak.

Dozens of blinking eyes peeked through the folds of fabric, shifting and fluttering like lazy moths. Some purple. Some yellow. All watching.

Webby took a careful step forward. “Hey, Blinky.”

The figure stirred. A dozen eyes blinked shut, then open again — all focusing on the siblings at once.

A voice — raspy, syrupy, too close and far away all at once — drifted out from the cloak. “Wiggly. Webby. It’s been…some time.”

Wiggly’s pulse thundered in his throat. He stepped up beside his sister, chin tilted up, trying to look like the god he used to be — not a tired human with a scar he still felt burning in his chest.

“We need to talk,” he said, voice steady. “About Wiley. About you.”

Blinky’s dozens of eyes all blinked once — slow, amused, hungry.

“Oh, little siblings,” Blinky rasped. “I knew you’d come. Tell me — what will you trade for my attention?”

Webby crossed her arms. “How about your damn life, if you don’t listen? He’s coming for you too, Blink. He took us apart. He’ll do the same to you if you don’t listen.”

The eyes swiveled to Wiggly — a ripple of sound like a sigh or laughter or a hundred quiet whispers behind curtains.

“Tell me everything,” Blinky murmured, eyes glowing brighter. “Let’s watch him together, shall we?”

Wiggly swallowed — and stepped closer into the nest of shifting eyes, hoping there was still enough god in him to make this count.

Outside, the wind rattled the tent — and John MacNamara checked his watch for the third time, thumb hovering over the missed calls from P.E.I.P.

Inside the fortune teller’s tent, the air turned thick and sharp, buzzing at the edges of Wiggly’s teeth. A rumble of thunder rolled through the park outside — a low growl that made the strings of dying purple lights flicker overhead.

Blinky’s eyes flicked open and shut in rippling waves as the crystal ball on the table pulsed — cloudy at first, then swirling into clarity.

Inside its glassy depths: a shape. Sharp suit, sharp grin, too-white eyes. Wiley. Lounging in some forgotten hallway drenched in flickering fluorescent light. Watching someone — maybe Pokey, maybe no one at all. But then—

Wiley’s head snapped up.
His grin widened.
And his eyes locked straight through the crystal, past Blinky’s thousands of blinking pupils — and straight into Wiggly and Webby’s wide eyes.

Webby stumbled back, her shoulder brushing Wiggly’s. “No, no, no—”

Wiley’s voice dripped out of the ball — sweet as poison. “Well now. Look at you two. Playing with Blinky’s toys.”

Lightning cracked outside the tent, sending a flicker of harsh white through the walls. The wind picked up, rattling the flap so violently that dust and torn flyers swirled around their ankles.

Blinky’s eyes darted wildly, but his shape didn’t move. “This is not—he should not—”

Wiley leaned closer inside the ball — the warped glass stretching his face until his grin nearly split him in two. “Did you think you could warn him? Hide him from me? Oh, my sweet little Wiggly—my sweet little Webby—”

A cold sweat broke down Wiggly’s neck. He wanted to run — but his feet stuck to the floor, rooted by terror, by rage, by the crackle of something too familiar twisting in his gut.

Then Wiley did something impossible.

He pressed his palm to the inside of the crystal — and the glass breathed. It bowed outward, thin as paper, slick as oil. Wiley’s hand slipped through.

Webby screamed. Blinky hissed, all eyes snapping wide, the tent quaking on its poles.

“Time to watch closer, dears.” Wiley’s voice curled around them like a noose. His head slid through next — neck bending at a sickening angle, grin growing and growing as the glass split soundlessly around him.

Outside, the sky cracked open — wind howling, rain lashing sideways against the canvas. Thunder roared so close it rattled the lanterns from their hooks.

Wiggly grabbed Webby’s arm, shoving her behind him, even as Blinky’s eyes all squeezed shut in horrified ripples.

Wiley dragged the rest of himself through the crystal like smoke made flesh — landing silent on the velvet-draped table, crouched like an animal, grin too wide, eyes too hungry.

“Boo.”

Outside, John startled at the crack of thunder. He turned sharply toward the tent — just as the wind slammed into him like a shove, rattling the ancient metal frame.

He started running before he realized he’d moved, boots crunching the broken path, fingers curling tight around themselves.

Inside, Wiggly squared his shoulders — breath ragged, heart pounding. Wiley’s grin dripped like venom as the storm howled harder still.

Wiley’s grin widened as thunder punched the sky again, rattling the fortune teller’s tent so hard that the metal poles whined in protest. His body — if you could still call it that — shimmered and twitched, parts of him flickering out like bad reception. The edges of his suit blurred into oily shadows that slithered over the table and onto the floorboards.

Webby stumbled back, nearly tripping over a crooked stack of tarot cards as Wiggly put himself between her and Wiley’s crawling grin.

“Oh, come on,” Wiley crooned, voice warped, split in two — one tone high and syrupy, the other a deeper echo, wet and hungry. “Don’t be shy, little gods. Didn’t you miss me?”

He lunged.

Wiggly braced for the impact — but a blur of flannel and muscle slammed into Wiley first. John tackled him off the table with a shout that was half war cry, half raw desperation. They hit the ground hard — Wiley’s form bursting into flickers and static before it coalesced again under John’s fists.

Outside, the tent flap ripped open — Lex, Hannah, and even Nibbly tumbled in behind the driving wind and needles of rain. Hannah skidded on her knees beside Webby, hauling her back, shielding her with a hissed, “Stay down, stay down—!”

Wiley flickered like a bad TV channel under John’s grip — his grin never wavering, even as John slammed a fist across his face. It went through him in places — punching smoke and black static instead of bone. Wiley laughed, teeth shimmering too many and too sharp.

“Oh Johnny, so angry—”

A sudden sound — a low, rolling growl. The tent shadows shifted — and Blinky finally moved. His shape unraveled from the human rags he’d worn. Where he’d sat on his stool, there was now just a vast black smear on the canvas floor, dozens — hundreds — of eyes blinking open along the seams. They blinked up at Wiley, up at the storm, at the crackling chaos.

Then Blinky sank — a slick black ripple that soaked into the ground. And then the floor around Wiley opened. Eyes bloomed across the boards, staring up at him, blinking in eerie rhythm. An iris flicked open under Wiley’s foot — then another, and another.

Wiley froze mid-laugh, looking down. “Well, hello, Bliklotep—”

The eyes snapped shut — and the ground slammed upward like a trap, trying to crush him in a shifting cage of lids and blackness.

Lex dove at Nibbly, pulling him back as the wood shuddered and cracked under Blinky’s power. Wiggly grabbed Webby’s wrist, hauling her to her feet, heart hammering like a war drum.

But Wiley just smiled, bones cracking, jaw distending. His outline blurred into something worse — long and glistening, a ripple of black strings under half-real skin. He split in two — one shape slipping right through Blinky’s trap as the other howled with laughter.

Rain hammered the canvas above. Wind clawed at the ropes.

“Is this all you’ve got?” Wiley hissed, voice split and echoing through the tent. “You want your powers back? You want to be gods again? Then FIGHT—”

John swung a broken chair leg through Wiley’s flickering mass, Lex right behind him with a piece of iron pipe she’d grabbed outside. Hannah stayed pressed against Webby’s side, her hand tight around a snapped broom handle like it was a holy sword.

And in the middle of it all — Blinky watched. Eyes opened in the canvas walls, the poles, even the dirt floor. Each blink made Wiley hiss, made the shadows pull and twist around him.

But then—

The wind screamed. A sudden blast hit the canvas so hard the entire tent lifted. The ropes snapped like dry twigs. For one breathless moment, the tent hovered, suspended by the storm’s rage.

Blinky’s eyes widened all at once — hundreds flicking open in alarm. His body lost its grip, forced up out of the ground by the violent updraft. The eyes scattered into a flurry of loose black threads, spiraling into the whipping air.

Wiley shrieked with laughter — one hand pressed to his chest where Blinky’s trap had nicked something real. “UP WE GO!” he howled, voice shredding into the wind. “LET’S SEE WHO SURVIVES THE LANDING!”

The entire world pitched sideways — canvas tearing loose from its stakes, the floor tilting as ropes snapped and the poles bent inward. The swirling storm howled louder than any scream.

John grabbed Wiggly’s arm — Wiggly grabbed Webby — Lex lunged for Hannah — Nibbly howled in glee at the chaos, half-floating with the debris—

And Wiley’s grin glowed in the dark, flickering with lightning and hate as the world spun above the forest.

Blinky, forced up by the tearing gale, lost his hold — his swirling sea of eyes imploded inward, collapsing into a single, very human shape. He hit the ruined floor hard, knees buckling as orange hair plastered to his forehead, his human mouth gasping through rows of needle teeth. He staggered, tried to rise, eyes still flickering in the shadows behind him — but now only his two, and the ones tattooed up his neck.

Wiley didn’t even give him time to breathe. He swept forward through the whipping storm, his form a smear of oil and teeth and flickering static, three gods burning in him like sick stars.

Blinky stumbled back, hands lifted, eyes all over his arms snapping open. A dozen pupil-slits glowed — then lashed outward in a blast of searing purple light that hit Wiley square in the chest. For a second, it worked — Wiley’s grin cracked, his mass rippling and twitching under the onslaught.

But then Wiley laughed. He raised a hand — pale, monstrous fingers twisting — and the purple blast folded in on itself like paper, crumpling down to a single spark that fizzled in the rain.

“Nice trick,” Wiley sneered, voice reverberating like an echo in a cave. He surged forward, shadow arms splitting from his back like wings. “But I’ve got more tricks.”

He struck — Blinky blocked with a hiss, but the impact sent him flying into a half-shattered tent pole, splintering it with a sickening crack. Wiggly lunged to run for him — but John yanked him back just as Wiley’s next swipe shredded the air between them.

“You’re all so fragile now,” Wiley mocked, drifting closer, the storm howling at his back like an army. “How’s it feel, huh? To be so small?”

And then — crack. Something shifted behind Lex and Hannah — something more than thunder.

Lex spun around, eyes wide, to see her sister’s hands outstretched. Hannah — shaking, drenched, eyes wide and blazing — staring right at Wiley.

The air around her warped.

Wiley paused — his grin flickering. “Oh?”

Hannah’s breath trembled — but her voice cut through the wind like a blade. “Get. Away. From them.”

She snapped her hands forward — and Wiley jerked back as if punched by a truck. The entire air buckled around him, an invisible force hammering into his flickering form and driving him back across the broken floor. The wind bent away from her — as if the storm itself refused to touch her power.

Lex grabbed Hannah’s arm, half in shock, half in terror. “Hannah—”

But Hannah’s eyes stayed locked on Wiley, wide and brimming with a fire that had nothing to do with the storm.

Wiley slammed into a fallen pole, his grin split wide. “Oh, interesting.” He righted himself, bones snapping, eyes burning through the storm’s veil. “A little sleeper among the lambs.”

He lunged again — but this time, the swirling wind twisted, drawn by Hannah’s invisible pull. The air hit Wiley like a wall, flinging him back toward the tent’s shredded edge.

John shoved Wiggly behind him, wide-eyed — Wiggly’s hand clutched John’s sleeve tight, both of them staring at Hannah like she was something holy.

Blinky, still on his knees, coughed a laugh, blood on his lip. “About damn time…” he rasped, voice raw but defiant. He pushed himself up again, eyes flickering back to life, feeding on the surge of hope Hannah’s power brought.

Outside, the storm shrieked — but now, it wasn’t just Wiley’s storm. Hannah’s force bent the wind around them like a shield, pushing the swirling chaos back in pulses of invisible power that sparked through the broken tent like tiny stars.

For the first time, Wiley didn’t look amused. His grin twitched, flickered — replaced by something sharper.

“Oh, darling,” he crooned, voice echoing in the swirl of rain. “I’m going to love ripping that out of you.”

But Hannah just glared at him through the storm, her hands steady, power humming in the wind between her fingers.

The wind shrieked like a living thing — a cyclone of broken canvas and flashing eyes and Hannah’s power holding back the worst of it. But Wiley moved through it like a blade through water, coalescing into that shifting, half-human shape that split the shadows open around him.

Blinky made one last desperate stand. He lunged forward, battered and human but furious, his eyes blooming in the air behind him in a desperate swarm of purple irises. He hurled the force of them at Wiley — searing spears of sight and mind that sliced through the wind.

For a moment, they struck true — Wiley’s form buckled, cracked, the storm bending around him in a scream of wrong colors and bending space.

But then Wiley’s grin snapped back in place. He lifted his hand — and pulled.

The air rippled. The eyes flickered. Blinky screamed — a raw, animal sound that ripped through the tent louder than the thunder.

A soft, sickly glow poured from his chest and his eyes and the swirling shadows of his power — a yellow and purple essence that burned brighter than the storm around it. Wiley dragged it out like thread, wrapping it around his clawed hand. The swirling eyes winked out, sucked into the roiling mass gathering in Wiley’s palm.

Blinky fell forward onto his knees, gasping, human in the worst possible way — frail and pale and small. He tried to crawl after it, reaching with trembling fingers.

“Don’t feel too bad,” Wiley murmured, voice low and slick with false comfort. He leaned in, his form shimmering between monstrous and mockingly human. “You were always my favorite eyeball.”

And then he turned — his own eyes burning bright with stolen godhood, three powers now four swirling behind his teeth like a dying sun.

Hannah surged forward again, hands raised — but Wiley only smiled. He drifted back toward the crystal ball in the center of the wrecked tent — its swirling light flickering with storm.

“You’re too late,” he cooed at them all, eyes flicking to John’s fury, Wiggly’s raw horror, Webby’s shaking fists, Hannah’s blazing stare. “But I do love the effort.”

And then — with a single mocking bow — he stepped backward into the crystal ball’s swirling glass. The air around it fractured with a deafening crack, light shattering like fireworks.

And in the next heartbeat — the crystal sphere exploded, shards ripping outward like frozen rain, glass raining down over the ruined tent.

When the shards settled — Wiley was gone. The wind died as if snuffed out by a switch. The only sound left was the ragged panting of the group, the hammering of rain on splintered canvas, and Blinky’s soft, broken gasps where he knelt — just another fallen god in the dirt.

Blinky’s breaths came out ragged, each inhale a hitching, rattling sound, like someone trying to breathe through cloth. He was on all fours now in the wreckage of the tent, the swirling eyes gone — the thousand sights, the constant all-knowing gaze that had once wrapped the world in purple and yellow snuffed out in an instant.

He clawed at the dirt like he might find them buried there. “I can’t see,” he rasped. His voice cracked on it. “I can’t see — where is it—” He reached out, hands trembling, pupils blown wide and blind.

Webby dropped to her knees beside him, fingers ghosting over his shoulder. “Blinky, hey— hey, it’s okay—”

“It’s not okay!” he snapped, voice breaking as it rose. “You don’t understand— I saw everything— I was everything— now— now it’s dark—” He curled forward, arms over his head, shaking so violently his teeth chattered.

A few feet away, John’s voice cut through the chaos — low and furious. “Wiggly.”

Wiggly flinched, turning just in time to see John’s eyes blazing with betrayal and disbelief. The wind and rain spatters had plastered John’s hair to his forehead, and he looked ready to fight someone.

“You knew he was here, didn’t you?” John demanded. “You knew Blinky was here — you planned this.”

Wiggly opened his mouth, closed it again. Guilt slammed through his ribs like a blade. “John—”

“You used us.” John’s voice was sharp, the hurt so clear it made Webby’s breath hitch where she knelt by Blinky. “You lied to me— to all of us— you knew Wiley was hunting him too—”

“I didn’t—” Wiggly stammered. “I didn’t know when Wiley would come— we just— I thought— we needed to warn him, John— he’s our brother—”

“Yeah?” John snapped. “And what about us? You dragged all of us into this— you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth—”

Wiggly’s mouth moved but no words came out. John’s glare cut deeper than any blade Wiley ever held.

Behind them, Nibbly — slumped on an overturned crate, pink hair plastered to his cheeks — turned wide eyes to Hannah, who’d been standing frozen, arms still half-raised from when she’d thrown Wiley back.

“You—” Nibbly’s voice cracked, giddy and shocked all at once. “You did the floaty thing—”

Hannah shifted, suddenly small under everyone’s eyes. Lex stepped protectively closer, but Nibbly leaned forward, ignoring the tension.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were like us?” Nibbly asked, half-whining, half-awed. “That’s so cool, you’re like— a little baby god—”

Hannah winced, glancing at her sister for help. Lex’s jaw clenched.

“Hey—” Lex snapped. “Back off, Nibbly. She’s not like you. Don’t start putting ideas in her head—”

Hannah tugged at Lex’s sleeve, her voice small but steady. “I just… I just didn’t want people to be afraid of me.” She glanced at Webby, at Blinky curled up in the mud, at Wiggly and John standing a breath apart like a match waiting to catch. “I didn’t want to be like that.”

Silence settled in the wreckage — heavy, miserable, and punctuated only by Blinky’s ragged, broken sobs of I can’t see over and over again.

Outside, the rain poured harder, drumming against the ripped canvas like a cruel applause.

Chapter 20

The ride back was hellish in a way that made Wiggly wish Wiley had just torn him apart instead.

The old truck rattled down the back roads, its tires hissing on wet gravel, the night’s storm still spitting drizzle and thunder here and there like the sky couldn’t decide if it was done yet. The cab was too small, too suffocating. John’s knuckles were white around the steering wheel, eyes fixed so hard on the road ahead it looked like he was trying to burn a hole through the windshield.

He hadn’t looked at Wiggly once. Not when he’d climbed into the passenger seat, rain-soaked and shaking. Not when Webby slipped in beside him, pressing her knee against his like a lifeline. Not when Blinky, silent and glassy-eyed, was lifted half-limp into the truck bed by Nibbly, who kept humming tunelessly under his breath, like he couldn’t stand the quiet.

Lex sat in the back seat, an arm wrapped tight around Hannah’s shoulders. Every so often, Hannah’s eyes flicked to Wiggly’s reflection in the mirror. She didn’t say anything — but she didn’t look away, either.

Wiggly curled in on himself, shoulders hunched tight. He could feel it all, the sticky guilt clinging to his ribs like mold. John’s silence felt louder than Wiley’s laughter ever did. He could stand a knife. He could stand the dark. He could even stand Wiley’s voice coiling around his mind like a noose. But this? John MacNamara — stone-faced, eyes straight ahead, refusing to even see him?

It made Wiggly want to crawl out of his skin. Or into a hole. Or just stop being anything at all.

The truck jolted over a pothole. Wiggly flinched when John’s arm shifted on the wheel — just a small movement — but he still didn’t look. Not a glance. Not even to snap at him.

Beside him, Webby’s hand slid over his, squeezing tight. It helped — a little. Just enough to keep him from dissolving right there in the passenger seat.

In the truck bed, Blinky lay staring up at the sky, his eyes open wide, rain dotting his lashes. Nibbly kept humming — off-key, weirdly soft, like a lullaby for something that had never needed sleep before now.

The engine hummed along, old and tired.
Every mile home felt longer than the last.
And Wiggly couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have a home at all anymore.

When they made it back to the cabin, the storm seemed to have followed them — not in the sky, but in the walls, the air, the space between each word that wasn’t said.

John barely let the truck rattle to a stop before he was out, barking at everyone to get inside, now. The old cabin living room felt smaller than ever with all of them crowded together — Blinky curled up miserably on the couch with a blanket pulled over his shoulders, Nibbly cross-legged on the floor picking at the threads of the rug. Lex had one protective arm slung around Hannah, who hovered half behind her sister’s back, eyes flicking to John and then away again.

Wiggly stood near the back of the group, half in the doorway, dripping rain onto the floorboards. Webby stood by him, but her presence couldn’t stop the tremble in his hands, shoved deep into his pockets. He could feel John’s anger before he even opened his mouth — could feel it humming in the floorboards, crackling in the old lamp overhead, vibrating under his skin.

John didn’t waste time. He planted himself by the hearth, boots dripping mud, jaw set so tight it looked carved from stone.

“This—” He gestured broadly, almost wildly, to all of them. “This is done. Whatever this is — this mess, this reckless shit — it’s done. I’m calling PEIP.”

The room went still. Even Nibbly stopped picking at the rug.

Webby bristled, stepping forward. “John, you can’t—”

“Don’t.” He cut her off sharply, and his eyes — God, those eyes — flicked past her and pinned Wiggly like a knife through the chest. “I should’ve done this from the start. I knew better. I knew what you were — what he was —” His voice broke for half a second, then hardened again. “And I still let this happen.”

Wiggly’s chest burned. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t stand the way John wouldn’t even say his name now.

“Lex.” John turned to her next, softer but firm. “You and your sister — you’re going home. Tomorrow. I don’t care what it takes, I’ll get you on a bus myself. This is bigger than any of you kids should have to deal with.”

Lex started to protest — “MacNamara—” — but he raised a hand, and the way his voice cracked on it shut her up cold.

“It’s done.”
And that was it. The last word. He turned on his heel, already pulling his phone from his pocket, muttering something about signal and slinking into the back room.

The second the door clicked shut behind him, the world seemed to come back to life — Webby whispering sharply to Lex, Nibbly whining about being hungry again, Blinky staring at nothing with wide, empty eyes.

But Wiggly didn’t hear any of it. His lungs were burning. His chest felt too tight. He turned and bolted out the door before anyone could stop him — sneakers thudding down the steps, mud splashing up his jeans as he hit the treeline, branches whipping his face.

He didn’t stop until the cabin lights were gone — until the trees swallowed him whole — until he couldn’t hear anything but the sound of his own ragged breathing.

And then he did what he hadn’t done in a thousand years, or maybe ever — he fell to his knees in the wet leaves, pressed his hands over his mouth, and screamed. Screamed into his palms until his throat went raw, until the night swallowed the sound whole. He rocked forward, forehead against the dirt, shoulders shaking, a pathetic broken thing crumbling in on itself.

Of course — of course — he wasn’t alone.

A voice slid out of the dark like oil through water. “There he is,” Wiley crooned, stepping out from between the trees as if he’d always been there, as if the woods belonged to him — which maybe they did. His smile gleamed sharp in the dark. “There’s my favorite little meltdown.”

Wiggly flinched, curled tighter around himself. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to see. But Wiley crouched in front of him anyway, boots crunching on wet leaves.

“Did you really think he’d stay?” Wiley asked sweetly, tilting his head like a curious dog. “Good old John MacNamara, the brave soldier, the loyal puppy. Your soldier. Did you really think he wouldn’t turn on you the second you slipped up?”

Wiggly squeezed his eyes shut. His breath hitched in his chest. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

“Oh, come on,” Wiley whispered, voice dripping like venom, soft and mock-kind. He leaned in, close enough that Wiggly could feel the chill on his cheek. “Did you really think a man like him would ever love something like you?”

Wiggly’s hands curled in the dirt. His chest ached like an open wound.

Wiley’s grin widened. “Face it, sweetheart — he’s going to call them. And when he does? They’ll put you in a box. Or a lab. Or maybe a hole in the ground. And him?” Wiley chuckled, breath warm against Wiggly’s ear. “He’ll sleep better for it. He’ll thank himself for doing it.”

A branch cracked high above — wind or storm or maybe just Wiley’s laughter echoing off the trunks.

“Go on then,” Wiley murmured. “Cry about it. Scream some more. He can’t hear you now.”

And in the wet, dark woods, Wiggly’s quiet, broken sobs were the only answer he had left.

John didn’t even remember who told him — maybe Webby, maybe Hannah’s small voice echoing through the half-shut door — just he ran.

He ran through the rain-slick trees with only the faintest flashlight beam bouncing off the trunks, his boots slipping on roots and wet pine needles. He called Wiggly’s name once — twice — but the storm swallowed it.

And when he found him — a break in the trees, a smear of moonlight on wet leaves — he saw the shape of him first, crumpled small at the base of an old oak, shoulders hunched like a kicked dog. And he saw him — Wiley — crouched there like a phantom.

John didn’t even think — his breath left him in a sharp snarl as he barreled forward, the flashlight clattering to the ground. He grabbed at the dark, but Wiley dissolved like mist before his fingers could close. A laugh echoed through the branches — a whisper on the wind — gone.

And there was Wiggly, shivering in the mud, eyes wet and wild and lost. John’s chest tightened so hard it ached. He was furious. Not at Wiggly — not really. At himself. At the world. At all of it.

“Goddammit,” he breathed, voice hoarse. He dropped to one knee in the leaves, hands hovering because he didn’t know where to put them — didn’t know if he deserved to touch him. “What the hell were you thinking? Running out here alone — after everything—”

Wiggly flinched but didn’t look away this time. There was dirt smeared on his cheek, rain dripping from his hair. He looked so small. So mortal.

“I’m sorry—” Wiggly’s voice cracked like glass. “I didn’t— I couldn’t—”

John’s chest twisted. He wanted to shake him — wanted to yell — but what came out instead was just broken.

“You could’ve been killed,” he snapped. “You could’ve been killed, you stupid—” His breath hitched. He grabbed Wiggly’s shoulders, held him steady because if he didn’t his hands would shake. “You think I’d forgive myself for that? After—”

He saw the flicker in Wiggly’s eyes. The knife. The memory slammed into both of them at once.

John swallowed hard, voice dropping. Softer now. Raw. “I can’t— I won’t watch that happen again. I won’t.”

Wiggly’s lips parted like he wanted to speak but nothing came out. He just stared at John, wide-eyed, rainwater dripping from his lashes.

John pulled him closer, forehead pressing to his. He could feel the tremble in Wiggly’s shoulders. Could feel the storm crackling somewhere behind them.

“I’m angry because I care,” John whispered, voice cracking. “I’m angry because I don’t know how to protect you from all of this. Because you don’t let me. Because you—” He swallowed, breath stuttering. “Because I can’t lose you.”

Wiggly made a soft, broken sound. His hands curled in the front of John’s jacket, holding tight like if he let go, the world would end.

They stayed like that — kneeling in the mud, the storm howling above, the world too big and too dangerous and too close — but for a moment, just a moment, John let himself hope maybe that was enough to keep him here.

They stumbled back through the trees, wet and shivering, John’s hand pressed firm to the small of Wiggly’s back like he was scared he’d slip away if he let go for even a second. The porch light from the cabin cut through the darkness, warm and yellow and safe — or as safe as anything felt anymore.

Inside, the others were gathered in the living room, all half-dried from the rain, blankets draped around shoulders, the air heavy with worry and the stale heat of too many bodies in one cramped place. The second the door slammed shut behind them, everyone turned.

John didn’t let Wiggly go right away. He squeezed his shoulder once — a silent I’m not mad anymore — then stepped forward, hands braced on his hips. His hair was dripping onto the floorboards but he didn’t care.

“Alright,” he rasped, voice rough but steady. “We’re done with this. No more running off, no more secrets, no more half-baked plans that get people killed. If we’re gonna stop Wiley — really stop him — we do it together.”

Webby sat curled up on the couch next to Nibbly, who looked like a sad wet cat in one of Hannah’s oversized sweaters. Hannah and Lex leaned together on the armrest, their hands linked. Blinky sat cross-legged on the rug, looking hollow-eyed and exhausted, fingers twitching like he was trying to see something that wasn’t there anymore.

“Together,” Webby echoed, voice soft but fierce.

“Together,” Lex agreed.

Hannah squeezed her sister’s hand tighter. “I don’t want to hide anymore.”

Nibbly just raised a limp hand, waving vaguely. “Do I still get snacks?”

John barked a humorless laugh through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yes, Nibbly, you’ll get your damn snacks.” He looked at all of them in turn, eyes lingering on Wiggly at the end. “We all talk. We all plan. No more blind spots. No more surprises.”

Chapter 21

The house was buzzing in that strange, cozy chaos that didn’t fit at all with the cold dread still humming beneath everyone’s skin. It was late enough that the windows were black mirrors, the kitchen lights too bright and harsh for how tired everyone looked — but no one was going to bed yet. Not while there was planning to do.

Webby had claimed the coffee table as her command center. She sat cross-legged, a thick old notebook balanced on her knees, pages of scribbles and frantic half-formed plans covering every inch of it. John had dragged out an old box from the attic — a mess of crumbling paperbacks, dog-eared local history books, even a few maps so old they smelled like mildew. He thumped the box down next to Webby.

“Here,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Most of it’s Hatchetfield folklore, local shit — urban legends, ghost stories, old church records. Maybe something helps.” He pulled a folded map from the box, smoothing it out next to her notebook.

Webby looked up at him, her eyes soft with gratitude under the lamp’s glow. “Thanks, John.”

Wiggly stood nearby, a piece of printer paper pressed against the wall as he carefully drew the symbol — the old pentagram, the bottom point longer than the others like a blade stabbing down. He finished it, stared at it for a heartbeat, then handed it to Lex.

She angled it into the lamplight, snapped a photo, and tapped out a quick post on FaceBook. She fired it off into the void and dropped her phone on the armrest with a sigh.

John perched on the arm of the couch, arms crossed over his chest. “The church — that was the Starry Children, right?”

Webby flipped a page in her notebook, nodding. “Yeah. Agatha and Mathias Waylon. They started it — used the Lords’ power to run Hatchetfield for centuries. Every ritual, every sacrifice… all of it.”

Across the room, Blinky — still pale and squinting at every shadow like he could almost see more than he did — made a soft, disgruntled noise and curled tighter under his blanket fort. Nibbly was halfway inside it too, legs sticking out as he gnawed the last crumbs from a sleeve of crackers.

The attic door creaked open from down the hall — Hannah emerged, dust streaking her forehead. “There’s space up there now. We can toss some sleeping bags around. Better than everyone on the floor.”

John nodded. “Good. And the van?” He shot Lex a pointed look.

She shrugged. “Not my fault your truck’s basically an old tin can. We can check the listings tomorrow.”

John raised an eyebrow — then his nose wrinkled. “Lex. Are you smoking?”

She froze, wide-eyed. The butt she’d hidden behind her ear slipped out and hit the floor. “I— Maybe.”

“Knock it off. You’re gonna set my whole damn house on fire.”

Lex flipped him off good-naturedly, but stashed the cigarette in her back pocket all the same. Hannah giggled beside her.

Then, as the noise settled for a heartbeat, all eyes drifted to Hannah. She hugged her knees under Lex’s arm, a little tense.

Webby leaned forward. “Hannah. The thing at the tent — you’ve always been able to do that?”

Hannah looked down, picking at her sock. “…Since I was little. Lex told me to keep it secret. Said people wouldn’t understand.”

Lex frowned but didn’t deny it — just squeezed her sister’s shoulder protectively.

“Well,” Wiggly said, trying to ease the heaviness in his voice, “maybe secrets aren’t so helpful anymore. Not now.”

From the couch, Nibbly piped up with a mouthful of crackers. “Pokey and Tinky are next, huh? Bet they’re all scared.” He sounded amused. A bit sad, too. “Like a spider pulling legs off a fly…”

The conversation spun on — loose, worried, bouncing from sleeping bag arrangements to grocery lists to who was on watch tonight.

Eventually, when the kitchen had cleared and John stood alone rinsing a mug at the sink, he felt a presence hover in the doorway. He didn’t look back right away — he just let the water run over his knuckles.

Then:
“Hey.”

Wiggly’s voice — small. Honest.

John set the mug down. Turned, arms crossed. Wiggly stood there, head ducked, wringing his hands.

“I shouldn’t have kept it from you,” Wiggly murmured. “I thought — I thought I could handle it, that I’d be useful, but all I did was mess everything up. Again.”

John watched him for a long, quiet moment. Then he stepped forward, closing that space the way he always did. One big hand landed on the side of Wiggly’s neck, warm and grounding.

“You scared the hell out of me, you know that?” John said, voice low but not cold. “Don’t do that to me again.”

Wiggly’s throat bobbed. He nodded, eyes wet but stubbornly holding his gaze. “I won’t.”

John’s thumb brushed just under his ear, a fleeting softness. “Good.”

In the living room behind them, the others were laughing about something — Nibbly’s cackle sharp and bright through the thin cabin walls.

They’d make it work. They had to.

Chapter 22

It was John’s idea, though he’d never admit it if pressed. The house was too full, the walls too thin, the air inside too heavy with plans and dread and half-spoken arguments. So he tossed his truck keys on the table, pointed a thumb at the door, and said: “Everyone. Get in. We’re leaving for a few hours.”

No one really argued. They needed it — all of them. Needed something that didn’t feel like watching their world collapse in slow motion.

So they ended up at Hatchetfield Lake. It wasn’t fancy — just a stretch of rocky shore and a battered dock warped by years of rain. The old picnic tables were damp but serviceable, and the sky above was stubbornly clear for once, as if the storm that haunted them had decided to hold its breath too.

Nibbly was the first to break from the group, running right for the water with his shoes still on. He splashed around the shallows like an overgrown kid, squealing every time a fish darted past his ankles. Blinky watched him from a safe distance, arms wrapped around his knees, wide-eyed and blinking too often — maybe still hoping to see more than he did now.

Webby sat on the dock with Hannah, helping her skip stones. Or trying to — Webby’s skips flopped with a sad plunk every time, but Hannah laughed anyway. Lex had sprawled out on a bench, sunglasses on despite the dusk, scrolling her phone and muttering half-threats at Facebook commenters who thought her post about the symbol was some prank.

John stood by the grill pit, poking at a few sad hot dogs with a stick. He hadn’t planned for food, but he’d grabbed whatever the gas station had left — stale buns, cheap chips, a handful of plastic cups. It was enough. For now, enough was good.

Wiggly lingered at the treeline at first. He didn’t like the shadows there — the old pines creaked and whispered in the breeze, too much like a memory that made his stomach twist. Eventually, though, he drifted closer to John, drawn by the warmth of the little fire that sputtered in the pit.

John glanced up as Wiggly hovered close. “Hungry?”

Wiggly huffed a laugh. “After last night? Not really.” He nudged John’s arm anyway, a quiet gesture. “Thank you. For this. They needed it.”

You needed it too, John almost said, but he didn’t. He just nodded, flipping the hot dog with more care than it deserved.

Behind them, Webby squealed as Hannah nailed three skips in a row. Nibbly bounded up the shore dripping wet, plopping down next to Blinky to chatter about how weird fish tasted when you tried to eat them raw. Lex flicked her ashes into a cup, pretending she didn’t smile when Hannah offered her a rock for “good luck.”

It wasn’t normal — it never would be. But it was almost something close. A bubble carved out of the storm. A promise that maybe, when this was over, they’d get more moments like this.

Eventually, John wandered off to grab drinks from the truck. Wiggly lingered by the fire, staring into the embers, the flicker painting him in a soft red glow. He still got tense every time someone passed behind him — his eyes darting to the knife John had used to cut the buns, left half-buried in the dirt. He wouldn’t touch it. Couldn’t.

When John came back, Wiggly looked up. They didn’t say much — they didn’t need to. John handed him a lukewarm soda and nudged his shoulder with a quiet grunt that meant I’m here, you’re here, that’s enough right now.

Behind them, the lake lapped against the dock, gentle as a heartbeat. Nibbly climbed onto the picnic table, arms stretched wide, hollering some nonsense about being “King of Hatchetfield Lake.” Blinky cracked a smile for the first since he’d been brought here. Lex snapped a blurry photo of Hannah giggling, hair blown wild by the wind.

A moment. That’s all it was.

A breath between storms.

By the time the sun dipped low behind the trees, the lake air had turned chilly enough to drive everyone back toward the truck — or what was left of it.

Nibbly was the last to pile in, wrapped in a threadbare blanket someone had found under the back seat. Blinky clung to the dry end of that same blanket, letting himself be tugged along like a sad, half-awake barnacle.

John stood at the driver’s side door, rubbing his temple with the flat of his hand as he looked at the scene: six people, all muddy or dripping, half of them gods — or what used to be gods — squashed into a truck that could barely fit four on a good day. Lex sat cross-legged in the bed with Hannah tucked under her arm, muttering about how they’d lose a head to a low bridge if they weren’t careful.

Wiggly lingered by the passenger door, arms folded tight around himself. He didn’t look at John yet, but he stayed close.

“This is stupid,” John said finally, voice rough but steady. “We can’t keep doing this.”

Lex peeked her head over the side of the truck bed. “What, the lake? Or the truck?”

“The truck.” He gestured at it — the rust spots, the dented bumper, the squeaky doors that barely sealed shut anymore. “This. Us. Like this. It’s— It’s not safe. Not when there’s this many of us.”

Nibbly perked up, poking his head through the back window with a grin. “Can we get one with TVs? And cup holders? Ooh! Ooh! And can we get one of those fuzzy dice thingies?”

John shot him a look through the mirror but didn’t argue. He just sighed. “We’re stopping on the way home. There’s a used lot near the highway. We’ll get something… bigger.”

Wiggly finally looked at him, something small and warm flickering under his ribs when John met his eye — like maybe this wasn’t just about safety. Maybe it was about keeping them together. Keeping him safe.

The lot wasn’t impressive — a stretch of cracked pavement and flickering neon signs, a line of battered minivans and SUVs that looked just as tired as John felt. But it didn’t take long.

Lex argued with the salesman. Nibbly bounced around the back seats of every single van, inspecting cup holders with dramatic gasps. Blinky sat on the curb, mumbling about how many hidden eyes he used to see in places like this — how they’d blink and watch people sign their lives away.

In the end, John settled on a gray minivan that smelled faintly of stale fries but had working heat and seats that folded flat. It felt wrong to put his name on the paperwork — John MacNamara, Family Vehicle — but he did it anyway.

When the keys dropped into his palm, he caught Wiggly staring again. This time Wiggly didn’t look away — he just smiled, small and crooked, as if he wanted to say thank you but didn’t quite know how.

Back at the cabin, the new van sat in the drive like some quiet promise: We stay together. We keep moving. There’s room for all of us.

Inside, Lex and Hannah dragged sleeping bags up to the attic they’d half-cleaned out the day before — an extra patch of space for when the living room got too cramped. Blinky trailed after them with an old pillow hugged to his chest. Nibbly flopped onto the couch, humming about how maybe tomorrow they could go anywhere now — anywhere they needed.

John stood in the doorway, keys in his pocket, watching it all. He didn’t say anything when Wiggly slipped up beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

They didn’t need to.

They had a van. They had a plan — or the scraps of one. They had each other, for better or worse.

And tomorrow, they’d keep going. Together.

Chapter 23

It started with Lex’s phone buzzing while they all sat cross-legged on the floor of the attic, the new van’s keys still glinting on the windowsill like a promise they hadn’t even gotten to enjoy yet.

Nibbly was draped over a sleeping bag, chewing stale popcorn. Wiggly and Webby sat shoulder to shoulder, heads bent over John’s mess of old books and half-torn maps of Hatchetfield. Hannah scribbled symbols on a scrap of paper, practicing the pentagram over and over until the lines blurred.

Lex’s phone vibrated again. She frowned at the blank icon — no name, no profile pic, just a bubble with three words:

I have it.

Her breath caught. She tapped it open. Another message came through immediately:

Meet me here.

An address. Pinebrook, where the rich people built houses so big they looked like they should crumble under their own history.

Lex cleared her throat. “Hey. Um. Guys?”

 

The van bumped up the long, winding drive just as dusk turned the mansion’s windows black and the forest around it hissed with crickets.

It looked abandoned at first — tall and grand and just wrong. A few lights glowed behind heavy drapes, but no car sat out front. The only thing waiting for them was a man-shaped silhouette at the front door.

When they stepped out, the door swung open before John could even knock.

The figure was… tall. Too tall. Skin the color of dirty marble, stretched tight over angular features. He wore an immaculate butler’s suit, but the edges of it seemed to ripple if you looked too long. He bowed so low his back cracked audibly.

“Welcome,” he rasped. His voice sounded wet. “Master Young has been expecting you.”

John shot Wiggly a look. Wiggly just shrugged, unease crawling up his spine like cold fingers.

Inside, the air smelled of cedar and something sweet, rotting under the perfume. Velvet curtains swallowed the light, and oil portraits of people with too many teeth lined the hall.

Sherman Young was waiting in the sitting room. Balding, squat, with watery eyes that seemed to bulge slightly in the firelight. He wore a grey smoking jacket and stroked the head of a Tickle-Me-Wiggly doll perched on the arm of his chair.

“Ahhh, the honored guests!” Sherman rose and spread his arms wide, voice sticky with too much warmth. “The last little pieces of our dear Lords. It’s so rare to have you all in my humble home.” He glanced between the group. “Ah, I see not all of the Lords have been turned yet… no matter!”

Wiggly bristled. John stepped closer, subtly blocking him from Sherman’s path.

“You said you had the book,” Lex said, forcing her voice not to shake.

“Of course! Of course…” Sherman gestured for them to follow, leading them through dark halls lined with glass cases. Inside: dolls, masks, scraps of old robes, handwritten sigils, dusty vials filled with cloudy liquid. Memorabilia — relics of worship and fear. Every Lord in Black, captured in plastic and porcelain.

As Sherman droned on about “the honor of preservation,” Lex’s phone buzzed again. She fished it out, hidden behind her sleeve.

Another blank account.

I have it. Don’t trust him.

Lex froze. She looked at Wiggly, at John. She mouthed It’s not here.

Sherman’s grin split wider than his face should allow. He stopped beside a cabinet of tiny glass Blinky eyes and turned to them slowly.

“You didn’t think I’d let you all leave with it, did you?” He snapped his fingers.

The butler creaked forward, limbs bending too far back before snapping straight — grey skin bubbling and shifting as if something crawled beneath it.

“It’d be much more fun,” Sherman purred, stepping backward, “to have the real deal than these silly dolls.”

The butler lunged.

 

It was chaos. Lex shrieked. John shoved Hannah behind a shelf. Blinky shrank from a broken glass case as the butler’s clawed hands slashed at the air where his head had been seconds before.

Nibbly bit the butler. Bit him. The butler barely flinched.

“Out! Now!” John barked. He grabbed Wiggly’s wrist, dragging him through the hall as Webby grabbed Lex by the back of her hoodie.

Glass shattered behind them. Dolls toppled. The hallway seemed to stretch, but they ran until the door slammed open — night air pouring over them like a promise of freedom.

They didn’t look back. They didn’t want to see if Sherman was watching from the window, clutching his precious dolls.

They just piled into the van — all of them, breathless, alive, and empty-handed.

The book was still out there. And now someone else claims to have it.

Chapter 24

Notes:

Sorry for the short hiatus(??)
I kinda got lost on what to do with the plot for a little bit but anyway
chapters here so were fine
ao3 curse hasn’t gotten to me… yet…

It was Webby who noticed first, while Lex furiously scrolled through the DM thread, trying to trace the origin of the second anonymous message. The van had just pulled off the road to refuel, everyone still shaken from the escape at Sherman Young’s mansion. The neon lights of the gas station cast a sickly hue over their exhausted faces. Lex didn’t see it before, the escapade at Sherman’s mansion happening all too quickly.

Webby leaned over Lex’s shoulder. “Wait. Go back. That phrasing—scroll up.”

Lex flicked back through the messages. Webby pointed to the last one:

Don’t trust him. I have the book. Matthew 7:15.

Lex blinked. “That’s… from the Bible, right?”

“Yeah,” Webby muttered. “That’s the one about wolves in sheep’s clothing.”

Wiggly groaned softly, rubbing his temple. “No.”

John narrowed his eyes. “No what?”

“I know who this is,” Wiggly muttered. “Of course it’s her.”

Lex raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

Wiggly sighed heavily. “Grace Chasity.”

There was a collective pause.

“That… Christian girl?” Hannah asked. “From Hatchetfield High?”

“Yeah, that one,” Wiggly muttered. “She was already hanging on by a thread before the ghost stuff. After she gave up her chastity to get rid of that jock? She unraveled.”

“I liked her,” Blinky said flatly, unblinking. “She was always screaming about judgment and wrath.”

“Grace is unwell,” Nibbly added, half-curled in his seat and picking at the last remains of a McMuffin. “But I thought she liked us. She worshipped us.”

“She did,” Wiggly muttered. “She worshipped power. And we gave it to her.”

Lex squinted at her screen. “She sent a location. The old Waylon place.”

Webby froze. “Seriously? That’s where the jock died, right? The one that started the whole ghost thing?”

Wiggly gave a bitter little smile. “Yeah. Grace has a flair for the dramatic.”

 

The van pulled up the long, cracked driveway of the Waylon place. The decaying house hunched in the fog like a waiting animal—overgrown with ivy, windows crusted over with years of dust and bad memories. The air around it felt still. Heavy.

The front door creaked open on its own.

They stepped inside slowly. The foyer was dark but intact. Candles flickered along the hallway walls, leading them like breadcrumbs deeper into the house.

Grace stood waiting in the center of the grand room, underneath a shattered stained-glass skylight depicting the Starry Children’s old crest, her back facing the group.

“Hello, Wiggly,” she said. Her voice was sweet and sharp as a blade.

He smiled uncertainly. “Grace. Long time.”

“I was wondering when you’d come crawling back.”

John stepped slightly in front of Hannah. Webby moved beside Wiggly. Lex hung back near Nibbly and Blinky, who looked increasingly unsure.

“We heard you had the book,” Webby said.

Grace’s fingers tightened around a book. The book. “I do.”

A beat of silence.

“We came to ask for your help,” Wiggly continued. “There’s someone out there—Wiley. He’s taking powers from the Lords in Black. He already got Webby and me, and Nibbly. He just took Blinky’s.”

“We think he’s going after the rest next,” Webby said. “We need the Black Book to find him. Or stop him. Or—something. Please.”

Grace blinked. “Wiley.”

“He’s dangerous,” Wiggly said.

She tilted her head, expression unreadable. Then she smiled.

“Oh, I know.”

John frowned. “What?”

“I’ve spoken to him,” Grace said brightly. “He opened my eyes.”

Blinky let out a flat noise. “…Shit.”

Grace opened the book. The symbols inside began to move. The air shifted. Like breath sucked from the room. Like judgment coming.

She paused.

And then, slowly, she turned to face them fully.

Her eyes—no longer the pale blue they once were—glowed with an electric, unnatural green. Striking. Alive. Like something looking through her.

A chill ran down Wiggly’s spine.

“Shit!” Blinky repeated with more urgency.

Wiggly stumbled back a step, heart hammering.

She smiled, eerie and sweet. “You want the book?”

The green in her eyes pulsed.

“Come and take it.”

The candles flared.

The door slammed shut behind them.

And the house began to scream.

Chapter 25

“Grace—” Wiggly’s voice cracked over the roar of the wind inside the house. “You don’t have to do this.”

She tilted her head. Her green eyes pulsed again, bright as neon signs in the dark. “I think I do.”

“No,” he said, stepping forward despite the swirl of power building around her. “You don’t. You think you’re guarding the world from evil, right? From us.”

“I know I am,” she spat. “You corrupted me. You made me give it up. Everything I stood for—everything I believed in—gone.” Her voice trembled now, fury warping into something more wounded. “You think I don’t remember what you did?”

“We do,” Wiggly said quietly. “All of us do.”

Blinky stepped beside him. “We were monsters, Grace. That’s the truth. There’s no pretending otherwise.”

Wiggly turned back to Grace. “I don’t expect you to forgive us. But you need to understand—Wiley is the villain here, not us. We’re on your side now, Grace.”

She laughed. Bitter, sharp. “My side?” Her hands curled tighter around the book. “The only side I’ve ever been on is His.”

“Wiley is lying to you,” Wiggly snapped. “He’s using you to do his dirty work.”

Grace’s smile was serene. “He told me you’d say that.”

A pulse of energy rolled out from her body, knocking them back a step. The walls groaned. Candles blew out and relit, flickering blue-green.

“I’m not your pawn anymore, Wiggly,” she said. “I’m his soldier.”

And then the floor beneath them cracked open like glass.
They all fell into darkness.
The fall wasn’t clean.

It was endless and sharp and wrong, a plummet that twisted gravity in on itself. John hit the floor hard, rolled once, then groaned. A second thud followed—Wiggly—collapsing against the ground beside him.

“Fuck,” John coughed, bracing himself upright on shaking elbows. “Wiggly?”

“I’m okay,” came the rasp, though he sounded anything but. “I think. Mostly. You?”

“I’ve had worse.”

As they pushed themselves up, the light finally sank in. Or rather—the color.
Everything was yellow. Sickly, mustardy, fluorescing like the hum of a supermarket freezer. The walls, the floor, the air itself. All yellow. Every surface glowed faintly, casting long stretching shadows that twitched when they shouldn’t.

“…Where the hell are we?” John muttered.

Wiggly’s face tightened. He looked around and his expression darkened with dawning horror.
“Oh, no.”

“Oh no what.”

“This is—this is Tinky’s Bastard Box.”

John blinked. “His what?”

Wiggly groaned, standing up fully now. “It’s—okay, long story short: Tinky created this place for fun. A maze for his favorite human plaything. Kind of a… running gag with him.”

John’s jaw clenched. “And who exactly is his ‘favorite’?”

As if on cue, a high, nasally voice echoed from around the corner of the hall.

“Jesus CHRIST, this place sucks!”

John and Wiggly turned sharply.

A man rounded the bend, disheveled, greasy hair matted to his forehead, button-up shirt sweat-stained and partially unbuttoned. He stopped when he saw them.

“…You guys lost too?” he asked.

Chapter 26

“…You guys lost too?” the man asked.

Wiggly’s shoulders stiffened.

John glanced sideways at him. “Friend of yours?”

“No,” Wiggly muttered, eyes narrowing. “But this is who I was talking about.”

The man scratched the back of his neck. “Okay, weird answer, but sure.”

John gave the guy a once-over. “And you are?”

“Ted. Spankoffski. You?”

John’s brow twitched. “…John.”

“Cool.” Ted nodded, as if that covered everything. Then his eyes flicked to Wiggly. He gave him a slow, lingering look. “And you?”

“…Wiggly,” he said flatly.

Ted raised a brow and grinned. “Nice name. Kinda cute. You single?”

Wiggly stared at him.

John didn’t.

He stepped forward instead, just enough to stand squarely between them, the tension rolling off him in low, simmering heat. He didn’t say anything, but the noise that came out of him—a low, instinctive growl, just at the back of his throat—spoke volumes.

Ted blinked. “Whoa, okay. Sorry, didn’t know there was a thing goin’ on.”

“There isn’t,” Wiggly snapped, ears tinged red. “There’s not.”

“Sure,” Ted said, clearly unconvinced, clearly not caring. He leaned back on one heel and gave a shrug. “Didn’t mean to step on any toes. Just figured—lotta weird stuff goin’ on, we’re trapped in a fuckin’ neon pissbox, might as well try my luck. No shame in a little companionship.”

John glared.

Wiggly cleared his throat, turning slightly away. He could still feel the heat crawling up the back of his neck, and gods help him, it wasn’t just embarrassment. It was the way John had reacted. The growl. The way he stepped between them like—

Like he’d do something about it.

Wiggly bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t think about that.

Did not think about that.

Ted, blissfully unaware of the internal crisis he’d caused, glanced around. “So, what’s the deal with this place anyway? Been walking in circles for like two hours. No doors. No exits. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m not a fan.”

“This place is the Bastard Box,” Wiggly said. “Tinky made it. A Lord in Black. He uses it to torment people for fun. And Ted here is his… pet project. His ‘favorite human.’”

Ted blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Tinky’s obsessed with you.” Wiggly added, folding his arms.

Ted looked horrified and a little impressed. “That is deeply disturbing.”

“You have no idea,” Wiggly muttered.

John’s expression was grim. “Is there a way out?”

“Sort of. It shifts. There are doors sometimes—if you’re fast. If you’re lucky.”

Ted groaned. “Great. Awesome. I love death mazes. My cardio’s trash but sure, let’s run through the evil Ikea.”

John ignored him, looking back at Wiggly, who was still a little flushed and very pointedly not making eye contact.

They had to find the others. They had to get out.

And John… John would deal with whatever the hell that reaction was later.

If Wiggly didn’t melt into the floor first.

They moved through the maze slowly at first, one hallway at a time, the fluorescent yellow hum buzzing louder than it had any right to.

Ted kept talking, mostly to himself, mostly to no one. “I mean, I was just trying to get to the break room. Next thing I know, bam, the floor melts, and I’m knee-deep in trauma-colored tile. Like what the hell even is this—”

“Shh,” John hissed, raising a hand. “You hear that?”

Footsteps. Heavy ones. Running. Then:

“John?!”

Hannah.

They turned a corner and there she was, mud-streaked and wide-eyed, with Nibbly floating nervously behind her like a humming balloon. Wiggly sighed in relief.

Hannah grabbed John in a hug before pulling back. “This place sucks. We lost track of everyone—Blinky went one way, Webby disapeared, Lex somehow got stuck in a mirror for a bit—”

“She’s out now?” John asked.

“I think so.”

More winding halls. They found Lex first—muttering about the mirrors showing her middle school outfits—and then Blinky and Webby

One by one, the group reformed, weaving their way through the maze until finally—

Everything got quiet.

Too quiet.

“Okay,” Ted said, glancing around. “I’ve seen a ton of horror movies. This is usually when the killer shows up.”

He was right.

With a horrible crack, reality peeled sideways, and Wiley stepped through.

Hair slicked. Eyes blazing. Three gods’ worth of power flickering beneath his skin like static lightning.

“Well, this looks cozy,” he drawled.

“Run,” Wiggly said.

They did.

They ran.

Wiley didn’t move at first. He smiled—slow, too slow—and then lunged forward with an unnatural jerk.

The maze reacted.

A wall slammed up between him and the group, nearly catching his coat.

Wiley snarled. For a moment, just a moment, the Bastard Box rejected him.

Then, just as quickly, it reconfigured.

And Wiley was running again.

Yellow walls blurred past. Every hallway seemed to flicker into another. Lex shouted directions that made no sense—“Take the one that smells like popcorn! Not the one with hands on the floor!”—while Ted yelled about “how this feels like every HR meeting I’ve ever suffered through.”

They skidded into a wide open atrium, and—

A goat stood there.

A bright, sickly yellow goat, chewing on something invisible. It blinked at them.

John lifted a brow. “That’s new.”

The goat grinned.

“Oh Teddy-bear!” it bleated, just before it twisted—skin folding like origami—and snapped into the form of a man.

Or something shaped like one.

Unreal bright hair. An electric yellow leather jacket with an orange shirt underneath. A grin that took up most of his face.

“TINKY,” Wiggly spat.

“Long time no see,” Tinky said cheerfully, spinning once like a demented game show host. He finger-gunned Ted. “Missed ya, Teddy.”

Ted blinked. “Nope. Nope. No thank you.”

“Hey now,” Tinky said. “Is that any way to talk to your number one fan? I’ve been dying to meetcha—”

“Tinky—” Wiggly’s voice was sharp. “You need to listen.”

But Tinky was still talking, clapping his hands together like this was all a bit of entertainment.

And then the lights dimmed.

Too late.

Wiley stepped into the room.

Tinky turned lazily. “Oop! Hello, stranger danger.”

“Hello, nuisance,” Wiley said.

Wiggly’s breath caught. “Tinky—LOOK OUT—!”

But it was too late.

Wiley raised one hand. It pulsed — a violent thrum of black-red energy that cracked the very air.

Tinky barely turned before the blast hit him square in the chest. There was no explosion, just disassembly — his body lit up like a yellow neon sign short-circuiting, brightness flaring and screaming as the power inside him was ripped away.

“AGH—!” Tinky staggered back, his limbs twitching as yellow bled into dull gray. His hair dimmed, that unholy glow snuffed out like a dying filament. His eyes, once burning with manic glee, went wide with something unfamiliar.

Fear.

“What the fuck—” he wheezed, clutching his chest.

Wiley smiled without humor. “Huh, how dissapointing. I expected more of a fight with you.”

He stepped forward, raising his hand again.

“HEY!” John shouted, planting himself between Wiley and Tinky.

Wiley paused. Just a second. But it was enough.

The maze groaned.

Cracks split through the walls. The floor shifted under their feet. A scream tore through the architecture itself — the sound of a space rejecting its own structure.

“You broke it!” Wiggly yelled.

Wiley turned to him with quiet disdain. “No. He broke it by being unworthy.”

“You’re calling TINKY unworthy?” Wiggly snapped. “You’re just a fraud with a god complex—”

Wiley moved.

Faster than gravity.

He was on them in an instant, swiping his hand toward Wiggly’s head—only for John to grab Wiggly by the collar and yank him backward, just missing the blow.

“RUN!” John barked.

The group bolted.

Behind them, Wiley’s fury cracked into the walls. Every step he took turned the floor to sludge, space warping around him as the maze collapsed room by room. A wall tried to rise in front of him again — the Box still resisting — and he screamed in frustration, slamming it apart with a blast that echoed like thunder.

They raced through the imploding halls, light flickering, exits blinking in and out like a dying signal.

“I SEE YOU,” Wiley growled behind them. “YOU CAN’T HIDE AND I—”

The Bastard Box rejected him one final time.

A massive rupture opened beneath his feet.

The last thing they saw was Wiley falling into black nothingness, roaring in fury as the maze consumed itself.

Then—

CRACK.

They landed hard.

Dirt. Leaves. Cold.

Trees towered overhead. The forest, quiet but real. Night air filled their lungs like they hadn’t breathed properly in hours.

John groaned from where he’d landed face-down in moss. “Is everyone—fuck—everyone okay?”

Grunts. Coughs. Moans of pain. Slowly, one by one, they sat up.

Lex cradled a twisted ankle. Hannah had a bloody nose. Blinky looked like he’d been shoved through a woodchipper and was somehow bored about it. Ted lay spread-eagle, muttering “I hate this town” over and over again like a mantra.

Tinky coughed.

The group turned.

He was still alive — human now, clearly. The yellow in his eyes was gone, replaced by a dull blue haze. His ridiculous coat hung heavy on his shoulders, like it weighed more than he did. He looked… frail.

But then he looked at Ted.

His eyes lit up.

“Teddy-bear,” he rasped, crawling to his knees. “You’re okay. You’re here. I saved this all for you, you know.”

Ted blinked, still flat on his back. “Uh.”

Tinky scooted closer, then practically latched onto his arm. “This whole maze? Every trial? Every corridor of torment? Was a gift to you! Oh it’s all destroyed now…”

“Okay, yeah, this is—this is bordering on harassment now,” Ted muttered, trying to peel him off.

“No,” Tinky said sweetly, pressing his cheek to Ted’s shoulder. “It’s love.”

Ted glanced at the others for help, but they were too busy catching their breath or pretending not to see.

“…Is it weird I feel kind of flattered?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lex groaned.

“Deeply,” Webby added.

But no one had the energy to argue. Bruised and bleeding, they helped each other to their feet. Ted begrudgingly dragged Tinky along.

No one spoke much on the walk back.

Even Wiggly, for once, was quiet. Staring at the stars through the trees like they might offer answers.

And far behind them, in a space that didn’t technically exist anymore, the Bastard Box was gone.

But Wiley?

He wasn’t.

Chapter 27

By the time the group stumbled out of the trees and onto the dirt path leading to the cabin, it felt like they’d survived a war. Clothes torn, limbs sore, hearts pounding. The familiar slant of the roof and the weathered porch lights flickering in the dark were the closest thing to comfort they’d had in hours.

Everyone filed in slowly, collapsing onto couches, throwing themselves onto sleeping bags, leaning against walls just to stay standing.

Ted, still clinging to the edge of sanity, looked around at the chaos. “Sooo… this is a cult house or like, summer camp for freaks?”

Wiggly sighed heavily. He was sitting on a crate in the corner, arms crossed, a fresh bruise blooming along his jaw. Tinky was still half-hugging Ted from the side, his goatish form now reduced to something oddly human, but no less unsettling.

Ted stared at them like they were performance art.

“Alright,” Wiggly grunted. “You wanna know what’s going on? Here’s the short version.”

He waved a hand like he was pointing at a chalkboard that didn’t exist.

“Me? Lord in Black. Was evil. Got turned into a mortal. Long story. Found this guy—” he nodded at John “—bonded. Still figuring it out. That freakshow with the glowing eyes? Wiley. Not a Lord. Previously my right-hand. Still evil. Super powerful. Trying to kill us. Got it so far?”

Ted blinked. “…Kinda?”

“Tinky here,” Wiggly said through gritted teeth, “is another Lord. He just got turned human. And also he’s very obsessed with you for some reason.”

Tinky nuzzled closer, humming. “Obsessed is a strong word. I prefer… soulbound.”

Ted stared down at the goat man fused to his side. “…Right.”

“We’ve got a cult, a bunch of possessed dolls, and half the town is definitely cursed. I mean it is Hatchetfield, people go missing everyday.”

There was a pause. Ted processed.

“…Cool,” he finally said. “So. I’m gonna head out.”

“What?” Wiggly deadpanned.

“I mean, like, I get it. You guys got your whole world-ending thing going on, and it sounds super intense and I wish you all the best, truly. But I’ve got work tomorrow. So…”

He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. “Calling an Uber.”

“You think an Uber is gonna come out this far?” Hannah asked, raising a brow.

Ted looked smug. “Actually, yeah. I tipped in advance.”

Fifteen minutes later, headlights beamed through the trees.

Ted stood outside the cabin with a battered duffel bag he’d found in the corner. “Well. This has been… wild. Good luck not dying. Uh—bye.”

He made it halfway to the car before—

“TEDDY-BEAR!!”

Tinky bolted from the porch at full speed, arms flailing, jacket flying behind him like a cape.

“NO—NO, DON’T GO—WE SHARED A MAZE!”

The Uber didn’t even stop fully; Ted yanked the door open and dove in as the tires kicked up gravel. Tinky chased after it on all fours like the feral little man he is, yelling like his heart was breaking.

“WE COULD’VE BEEN THE NEXT WILL THEY/WON’T THEY!!”

The car sped off.

Tinky kept sprinting until his legs gave out and he collapsed in the middle of the dirt road, clutching his chest like a wounded Victorian widow.

The group watched from the porch in varying degrees of exhaustion and disbelief.

“…That was deeply uncomfortable,” Lex muttered.

“He’ll get over it,” Wiggly sighed, rubbing his temple.

From the road, Tinky wailed, “HE TOUCHED MY ARM—!”

John patted Wiggly’s back. “Want me to lock the door?”

“Please.”

And inside, the cabin settled back into its now-chaotic normal.

Chapter 28

Notes:

biiiig fluff chapter
i do nooooot care
they deserve to be happy for a little while because shit is about to go down

The cabin had gone quiet.

Tinky’s dramatic sobs had finally stopped echoing from outside. Most of the others had passed out wherever they’d dropped. The only light came from the flickering lamp on the bedside table, warm and low.

John sat at the edge of the bed in the small back room, fingers curled around a half-used roll of gauze. Wiggly stood in front of him, shirt already halfway off, a line of dried blood crusted along his ribs.

“You’re lucky you didn’t break anything,” John muttered, dabbing gently at a scrape. “Could’ve landed on your neck with the way we fell.”

Wiggly winced, but not from the sting. “I don’t get why you’re fussing. I’m not fragile.”

“You kind of are,” John said. “You bruise like a peach.“

Wiggly rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

As John worked the cloth over his side, the shirt finally dropped to the floor, and for a second, everything stilled.

John’s gaze caught on the long, pale scar carved deep through Wiggly’s chest—jagged and uneven, like it had torn through more than just flesh. A grim memory, stitched with pain.

John didn’t say anything at first. He just reached out, brushing his fingers over the scar lightly. A barely-there touch.

Wiggly flinched. Not from pain. From being seen.

“Sorry,” John murmured.

“Don’t be,” Wiggly muttered, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t think about it. Doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” John’s voice was quiet. “It matters to me.”

Wiggly shifted his weight, eyes flicking toward the window. “I don’t need pity.”

“It’s not pity.”

His hand stayed, fingers resting gently over the scar. His thumb moved in a slow arc, and when Wiggly finally looked at him, John was watching him with something soft in his eyes. Unreadable. Steady.

“You’re still beautiful, you know.”

Wiggly’s breath caught like someone had knocked the wind out of him.

“I—shut up,” he said automatically, ears going pink again. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

“It’s true.”

“No, it’s—” Wiggly broke off, looking somewhere past John’s shoulder.

John tilted his head. “Want me to stop?”

A beat. Wiggly looked at him then, really looked at him. His guard dropped—just a crack. Just enough.

“…No,” he said, quietly.

Neither of them moved for a long second. The air between them hung thick with something unspoken but undeniable.

Then John leaned in, slow, hesitant at first. Giving Wiggly every chance to pull away.

He didn’t.

Their lips met—tentative, warm, grounding. It wasn’t sharp or urgent like battles or arguments or death mazes. It was soft. Real. And when Wiggly kissed him back, his hands found John’s shoulders like they didn’t know where else to go.

When they finally pulled apart, they stayed close, foreheads nearly touching.

John whispered, “Still think there’s not a thing going on?”

Wiggly huffed, breath catching on something almost like a laugh.

“…Shut up.”

But he didn’t move away.

Wiggly shifted awkwardly on the edge of the mattress, clearly unsure how close he was allowed to be. John, with a quiet shake of his head, nudged him over just enough to make space, guiding him down until they were both sitting against the headboard. The blanket pooled over their laps, warm and familiar, the faint scent of cedar from the cabin walls wrapping around them. Neither spoke, but the air between them felt softer now—less sharp, more tentative.

Wiggly let out a long sigh, the kind that sounded like he’d been holding it for hours. His arm brushed lightly against John’s.

“…I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“That’s dangerous,” John muttered, but his voice was soft.

Wiggly snorted, elbowing him lightly. “Seriously.”

John turned his head toward him, waiting.

“I kinda want a last name. I feel like ‘Wrath’ doesn’t really count as one,” Wiggly said, staring up at the ceiling.

John was quiet for a beat, then said, “So pick something else.”

“I’ve thought about it. Just don’t know what. I want something… I don’t know. Nicer. Normal.”

John hummed. “What, like… Kevin?”

Wiggly made a face. “God, no. I still have some dignity. Also that’s not a last name.”

They both chuckled quietly, the kind of laugh you don’t need to think about.

Then John said, almost too casually, “How about MacNamara?”

Wiggly blinked. He turned his head to look at him.

A pause. Not awkward. Just full.

Wiggly looked back up at the ceiling, but his voice was softer now.

“…MacNamara, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“I could get used to that.”

John glanced at him sideways. “Really?”

Wiggly gave the faintest smile. “Yeah. I mean… don’t get ahead of yourself. But… it’s nice.”

Wiggly didn’t say anything else.

Just shifted a little closer, the mattress creaking softly beneath them. He hesitated, then tucked himself in gently under John’s arm, burying his face into the curve of John’s neck and shoulder like it was the only place he’d ever felt safe. His breath warmed the fabric of John’s shirt, slow and steady.

John didn’t move at first—then let out a small sigh and wrapped his arm around him, thumb brushing over Wiggly’s arm in small, absent circles. Protective. Thoughtful.

Neither of them commented on it.

No teasing, no sarcasm.

Just quiet.

Outside, the wind rustled the trees. The floor creaked again. Somewhere in the living room, someone muttered in their sleep.

And in the hush of it all, Wiggly drifted off first.

John followed not long after.

Chapter 29

The knock at the door came sharp and steady, breaking the quiet morning like a crack through glass.

John froze halfway through rinsing out his coffee mug, eyes flicking toward the window over the sink. Through the pale curtain, he caught the glint of black paint and government plates—an unmarked van pulled right up to the tree line. His pulse jumped.

“Shit.”

The mug clattered back into the basin. He spun, voice low but urgent. “Everyone. Upstairs. Now.”

The kitchen filled with instant movement—Webby grabbing Hannah’s wrist, Lex shoving her phone into her pocket, Wiggly and Nibbly exchanging a panicked look before scrambling toward the attic ladder. Blinky lingered just long enough to mutter, “This feels like a trap,” before disappearing up the rungs with the rest. Even Tinky—grumbling and still in last night’s pajamas—stumbled after them when John fixed him with a glare.

Within seconds, the cabin was silent again. John took a breath, set his jaw, and opened the door.

On the stoop stood two agents in plain clothes: Schaffer—sharp-eyed, with her hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun—and Xander Lee, equally stern looking. Both wore that PEIP look, the one that said they’d seen plenty of horrors beyond human comprehension in their time.

“General MacNamara,” Schaffer greeted crisply. “We need to talk.”

John stepped aside. “Come in.”

They didn’t bother with small talk. At the kitchen table, Schaffer laid out a manila folder thick with photographs. The glossy prints showed Hatchetfield in chaos: buildings warped into grotesque angles, the water tower bent like soft clay, patches of ground riddled with what looked like bite marks large enough to swallow a car. In one photo, a flock of birds hung frozen in the sky, wings outstretched but utterly still, as though time itself had cracked.

Xander leaned forward, tapping a picture of Main Street, where the pavement seemed to buckle upward into jagged teeth. “None of this is happening outside of Hatchetfield. Not in Clivesdale, not even in the next county over. It’s like… apocalypse in a snow globe.”

“Localized phenomenon,” Schaffer added. “Completely contained to the island. Whatever’s happening, it’s big. And it’s getting worse.”

John’s stomach twisted. His mind leapt instantly to Pokey—the last untouched Lord—and to Wiley, collecting powers like pieces on a board. If PEIP didn’t know yet…

He swallowed. “You don’t have any leads?”

Schaffer’s mouth thinned. “We’ve ruled out nuclear testing, chemical leaks, electromagnetic pulses. Nothing man-made explains this. Which leaves…” She hesitated, then said it flatly: “Supernatural interference.”

Xander muttered, “Hatchetfield’s had stranger things.”

John rubbed at the back of his neck. He could feel his pulse in his temples. Upstairs, the floorboards creaked faintly—someone shifting, probably trying to listen. He prayed the agents wouldn’t notice.

“…What if I told you,” John began slowly, carefully, “that I know what’s causing it?”

Schaffer’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and assessing. “Then I’d tell you to start talking.”

John hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to protect the others—Wiggly, Blinky, Nibbly, even Tinky, useless as he could be. If PEIP learned they were under his roof, they might not listen long enough to understand the difference between a monster and someone trying not to be one.

But on the other hand… if things kept escalating, they wouldn’t stand a chance without backup. And John couldn’t keep this fight contained to just their little cabin forever.

He drew a steadying breath. “It’s not man-made. You were right about that. It’s… old. Older than Hatchetfield. Older than any of us.” His voice lowered. “The Lords in Black.”

Xander blinked. Schaffer stayed very still, her expression unreadable.

“I thought they were myths,” she said finally.

“They’re real,” John said. “And one of them—Pokotho—is still out there. The last one. The others… something’s happened to them.” His throat worked as he forced himself to keep steady. “They’re not what they used to be. They’re human now. Mortal. And the one responsible—Wiley—is trying to take their powers for himself.”

Xander barked a laugh, cut it off when Schaffer shot him a look. “Wait, you’re serious?”

John’s gaze didn’t waver. “Dead serious.”

For a long moment, only the hum of the refrigerator filled the silence. Then Schaffer leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, studying him with narrowed eyes.

“If what you’re saying is true, MacNamara, then we’re already standing at the edge of something catastrophic. Because if this Wiley gets all that power…”

John finished it for her, voice grim. “Hatchetfield won’t just be a snow globe. It’ll be gone.”

Schaffer nodded once. “Then you’d better start from the beginning. All of it.”

John exhaled slowly. Upstairs, the faintest shuffle of movement echoed again. He ignored it.

This was the moment. If they could get PEIP on their side—if he could convince them not to see the Lords as enemies—then maybe, just maybe, they had a chance.

Chapter 30

Notes:

ao3 curse got me
say bye bye to my wisdom teeth because next month theyll be gone

The silence stretched. Schaffer and Xander exchanged a look—half disbelief, half dawning unease. John could almost hear the doubt rattling in their heads.

And then the ceiling betrayed him.

A sharp creak, followed by the muffled thump of someone stumbling against a beam. Then another. Then the unmistakable groan of the attic ladder sliding down a notch.

Schaffer’s hand went to her sidearm instantly. Xander jolted in his chair.

“Shit,” John hissed, spinning toward the noise. “Wait!”

Too late. The hatch swung down and, one by one, they filed out: Webby first, biting her lip; Hannah and Lex behind her; Wiggly and Blinky looking like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Nibbly slunk down after them, eyes wide and darting. Even Tinky clambered clumsily down the ladder, hair sticking up in every direction.

The room froze.

“Christ almighty,” Xander whispered. “What the hell…”

Schaffer’s gun remained steady, aimed squarely at the group. Her gaze was razor-sharp, reading every twitch, every inhuman flicker.

John raised his hands. “Don’t. Just—don’t.” He stepped forward, voice low but firm. “They’re not here to hurt anyone. Not anymore. The world you’re seeing out there?” He gestured to the photos on the table. “It’s because of Wiley. Not them.”

Schaffer’s eyes flicked from John to Wiggly, then to Blinky’s unblinking stare. Her grip tightened. “You’re telling me these are the Lords in Black?”

“Were,” John corrected. His voice carried a weight that silenced even the attic escapees. “They were. Now they’re just as mortal as you or me. And if we don’t work together—if we don’t stop Wiley before he finishes what he’s started—Hatchetfield is done.”

For a long, tense moment, nobody moved.

Then Schaffer lowered her weapon. Slowly. Carefully.

“You better hope you’re right, General,” she said. “Because if you’re wrong…” Her gaze swept over the Lords, cold as steel. “…we’re not in the business of second chances.”

John gave a sharp nod. “Then don’t waste time here. We’ll come with you. To headquarters.”

Xander blinked. “Wait—you’re bringing them to PEIP?”

John’s tone left no room for argument. “They’re our best shot at understanding what Wiley wants. And last I checked, I still have clearance.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge. Schaffer studied him one more time, then holstered her weapon and snapped the folder shut.

“Fine,” she said. “But if this blows up in our faces, MacNamara… it’s on you.”

John’s shoulders were already squared. “I’ll take that.”

Behind him, the group shifted uneasily—humanized Lords trying not to look like cornered animals, Webby and Lex exchanging nervous glances, Tinky muttering something to Ted about how romantic this all was.

John turned back to them, his voice clipped but steady. “Pack up. We’re heading to PEIP.”

For the first time since Hatchetfield began to fracture, there was direction. A plan. Fragile, maybe. Dangerous, definitely. But a plan nonetheless.

And as they filed out into the daylight toward the waiting van, John felt the weight of what came next press down like a stone.

Chapter 31

The van rumbled over the last stretch of road, tires crunching gravel. John drove with a taut grip, eyes darting between the rearview mirror and the road ahead. The Lords—humanized, mortals for now—huddled together in the back, still jittery.

When they pulled up to PEIP headquarters—a building that somehow managed to look both bureaucratic and ominous—John didn’t need to ask if they were expected. A woman was already there, standing in the open doorway.

Red hair tumbled down her back like a firefall, catching the early dawn light in every strand. Her denim jacket, slightly frayed, gave off a a vibe that didn’t match anything else in the sterile-looking compound. She had her hands tucked into the jacket pockets, weight shifted casually on one hip.

John exhaled through his nose. “You guys… know her?”

The Lords exchanged quick, tense looks. Blinky’s lips pressed into a thin line. Wiggly’s shoulders stiffened. Tinky gave a low, almost reverent hum.

“Of course they know her,” Wiggly muttered under his breath, leaning toward John. “They all do. Everyone in Hatchetfield who’s seen the… unexplainable, knows her name.”

The woman tilted her head slightly, like she’d been watching the van’s progress all along. Then her eyes flicked over to John. “You’ve brought them,” she said, voice calm but commanding, each word deliberate. “Good. That wasn’t guaranteed.”

John narrowed his eyes. “How did you know we were coming?”

Miss Holloway’s grin was subtle but sharp. “I have ways. Let’s just say, time and space aren’t as strict as you think. And someone told me a lot of things were about to go very wrong if you didn’t show up.”

Lex whispered under her breath, eyes wide. “She’s… some kind of witch, right?”

Wiggly snorted softly. “She’s more than that.”

Holloway gestured toward the entrance. “Come in. Quickly. We don’t have time for introductions.”

As they stepped inside, the air changed. The smell of ozone, faint incense, and something metallic met them. Strange glyphs flickered on the walls, faintly glowing, and a portal-like shimmer hovered near one corner, humming softly.

“You all need to understand something,” Holloway said, leading them through a hallway lined with both mundane PEIP offices and chambers that seemed impossibly large for the space they occupied. “Hatchetfield isn’t just cursed. It’s a nexus. A node. The weirdness you’ve seen—it’s spilling out because the balance is broken. I can contain some of it. Control a bit. But not indefinitely. And certainly not if the Lords in Black—or their remnants—are under threat.”

John glanced at the group behind him. Wiggly’s hands flexed at his sides. Webby and Lex exchanged wary glances.

“And you,” Holloway said, turning toward them, red hair catching every flicker of the portal, “are going to help me stop it.”

The group fell silent, each processing the weight of the statement. Then Holloway stepped toward a small table near the portal. Her fingers moved with precise, practiced gestures, weaving threads of light and shadow, tracing sigils that glimmered like tiny suns. The air hummed with energy.

“This charm,” she said, holding it up, a small, intricately carved talisman glowing faintly, “has enough power for only one. Whoever carries it will regain some of their former abilities—enough to confront Wiley directly. But it must be someone who can handle it. It would make more sense to have a Lord take it… Sorry John.”

John looked sheepish seeing as he was ready to do whatever it takes to get Wiley out of power.

A tense pause filled the room. Then Wiggly stepped forward, short in stature but standing straighter than he had in years.

“I’ll do it,” he said quietly, voice firm but calm. “I… I want to try. To make up for everything I’ve done. To fix what I can. If I have a chance, I’ll take it.”

Holloway’s lips curved into a small, approving smile, the first sign of warmth she had shown. “I can see it in you,” she said softly. “You’re genuinely changed. That’s rare.”

The others exchanged glances, some skeptical, some silently cheering him on. John’s eyes narrowed, unreadable, but his jaw tightened.

Holloway placed the charm carefully in Wiggly’s hands. “This will restore a portion of your old powers, enough to fight Wiley. But hear me well—if the charm is damaged in any way, the magic will vanish entirely. You’ll be mortal again, completely, with no backup.”

Wiggly nodded, staring at the small glowing talisman. “I understand.”

John stepped forward, reaching for him. Without thinking, he wrapped Wiggly in a strong hug, holding him tight. “Be careful,” he murmured into his ear. “I—look, I don’t care what’s waiting for you in there. Just… promise me you’ll come back. Promise me you won’t let him…” John breathed, unable to finish the sentece, “You’re more than what you were, Wiggly. You’re not just powers. You’re… you. And that’s enough.”

Wiggly’s chest tightened, feeling the sincerity in John’s voice. “I… I’ll try,” he whispered, leaning into the embrace.

Holloway stepped forward, holding a thick, sturdy rope. “We’ll tether you. Safety measure. If something goes wrong, we can pull you back.” She tied it securely around Wiggly’s waist, her movements precise.

John pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “I’ll be waiting,” he said, voice low but firm. “No matter what happens.”

Wiggly nodded again, swallowing hard, and turned toward the glowing portal. With one last glance over his shoulder at John, at the cabin that had been their temporary sanctuary, he stepped forward. The rope tautened, and the air shimmered around him as the portal’s black-and-white swirls began to pull him in.

The room held its breath, silent except for the hum of energy. And then, with a flash, Wiggly disappeared into the swirling chaos, leaving the others staring at the empty space where he had stood, hearts tight with hope and fear.

Chapter 32

The Black and White pressed in on all sides, airless and suffocating. Wiggly staggered forward, clutching the charm until his knuckles whitened, every step swallowed by a silence so thick it felt alive. The void stretched infinitely—no sky, no ground, just a smothering in-between. His heart thudded too loud in his chest, and still the emptiness devoured the sound.

Then—

A voice, smooth and jagged all at once, slithered out of the dark.
“Looking for me?”

Wiggly froze, head snapping upward.

There he was. Wiley, perched impossibly upside down on an invisible ceiling, his long limbs sprawled with casual menace. His eyes glowed like fractured neon, smile cutting wide across his face, teeth too sharp to belong to anything human. He drummed his claws idly against the nothing beneath him, watching Wiggly the way a cat might watch a cornered mouse.

Wiggly’s stomach twisted. “Wiley.”

With a lazy roll of his shoulders, Wiley hopped down, landing in a crouch that made no sound. The void bent strangely around him, like it didn’t want him there but couldn’t force him out. He straightened slowly, towering, grin still stretched ear to ear.

“Cute little leash they gave you,” Wiley sneered, eyes flicking toward the rope tied around Wiggly’s waist then to Wiggly’s clenched fist where the charm resided. His tongue darted out, tasting the air. “Mmm. Holloway’s handiwork, right? Oh, I can smell it on you. Magic, mercy, second chances…” His grin sharpened. “Pathetic.”

Wiggly gritted his teeth, lifting his chin. “You wouldn’t be mocking it if you weren’t scared.”

Wiley laughed. The sound warped, echoing wrong against the walls of the Black and White, doubling back on itself until it was less a laugh and more a scream. He stepped closer, claws tracing lazy arcs in the air, leaving trails of white static that fizzled and snapped.

“Scared?” he purred, leaning in close enough that Wiggly could see the hunger twitching behind his eyes. “Oh, Wiggly… You’ve forgotten what fear really is.”

The charm in Wiggly’s hand thrummed, almost burning against his skin. He forced his stance wider, bracing himself.

Wiley tilted his head, grin twitching wider. “Good. Fight back. I want to break you again.”

The void quaked with every clash. Sparks of raw power ripped through the air, lighting the Black and White in jagged flashes. Wiggly ducked under Wiley’s clawed swipe, the charm pulsing hot in his palm, feeding him strength he hadn’t felt in ages.

With a roar, he thrust his hand forward—lightning arced from his fingertips, wild and blinding, slamming into Wiley with a crack that shook the invisible ground. Wiley staggered back, a scream twisting out of him, sharp and inhuman. When the flash died, a fresh gash burned across his left eye, oozing light instead of blood.

Wiley touched it with two fingers, hissed, then laughed. “Ohhh, you bastard—you’re gonna pay for that.” His grin was feral, jagged teeth gleaming in the dark.

Wiggly panted, shoulders heaving, the charm glowing brighter than ever. For a moment, he thought—maybe, just maybe—he could win this.

But Wiley was already moving. He lunged, claws out, faster than Wiggly could brace. The impact sent him crashing into the unseen ground, the charm skittering from his grip. Wiley’s heel came down hard.

CRACK.

The sound tore through the void. The charm shattered into a hundred sparks of light, vanishing into the dark as if swallowed whole.

“No—!” Wiggly reached for it, but it was gone. The power drained from him instantly, leaving his limbs heavy, his chest hollow.

Wiley’s shadow fell over him, long and jagged, twisting in ways it shouldn’t. He crouched low, his ruined eye dripping with that sick, burning light, the other glaring down like a predator sighting its kill. His smile was wide, sharp, wrong.

“Pathetic,” he drawled, voice rumbling low, like something alive and coiled beneath the floor of the void. “They sent you back into my world with borrowed tricks and thought you stood a chance? You’ve forgotten what you are, Wrath.”

Wiggly strained against the unseen weight pinning him down, but his limbs were sluggish, useless. Wiley leaned closer, close enough that Wiggly could feel the heat radiating from his ruined eye.

“You think tasting humanity makes you better than me?” Wiley’s grin twitched, jagged. “No. It makes you weak. Soft.” His claws pressed to Wiggly’s chest, right over the old scar. “And soft things don’t survive here.”

Shadows coiled tighter, sliding around Wiggly’s throat, wrists, ankles, locking him in place. He gasped, but the air was thin, choked out of him by the living void. Wiley traced one claw along Wiggly’s jaw—not touching, just close enough that Wiggly could feel the air buzzing.

“I’d love nothing more than to sit here and watch you rot. To see how long it takes before the silence eats you alive and you finally admit what you are.” His voice was low, velvet stretched over knives. “But, unfortunately, I’ve got… one last thing to cross off my list.”

He didn’t say it, but Wiggly knew. The way Wiley’s grin sharpened when he glanced upward, the way his tone shifted with hungry reverence—there was only one power left for him to devour. Pokey.

Wiggly’s stomach sank, bile rising in his throat. “Don’t you—”

But Wiley was already stepping back, already fading into the folds of the void like smoke dissipating into nothingness.

“Be good while I’m gone.” His final words slithered out before he vanished completely, leaving Wiggly alone in the crushing dark.

And then there was nothing.

Time became meaningless. The Black and White pressed harder with each passing breath, suffocating silence eating away at his resolve. Wiggly sat, trapped in his own mind, replaying every mistake, every horror, every moment where he’d failed—human, Lord, or otherwise. The charm’s absence was a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding, his chest aching with hollow emptiness.

Maybe this was the plan. Maybe Wiley wanted him broken before the end came.

But then—

The world shuddered.

A sharp crack rang through the void, followed by another, until the air itself fractured like glass. Streaks of color bled in from nowhere—reds, blues, purples, all clashing and tearing against the yellow-white static. The ground twisted, folded in on itself, and the void screamed.

It wasn’t just breaking. It was colliding.

Two realms, incompatible, smashing together—earth and the black and white, raw magic clawing its way into the mortal plane.

Wiggly stumbled to his feet, chest heaving, and for the first time in what felt like eternity, he wasn’t just alone. The world itself was alive, chaotic, unraveling. And in that chaos, the prison around him cracked.

Wiggly clenched his fists, teeth bared, and shoved against the breaking walls of reality. With a roar, he forced himself through the shattering gap—out of the suffocating dark and into the cataclysm beyond.

Free.

But at what cost?

Chapter 33

The sky was bleeding. Neon streaks—unnatural greens and sickly purples—split across the heavens like veins, jagged cracks of the Black and White spilling through, dripping shadows into Hatchetfield. Buildings crumbled like sand, streets bent inward, and the air was thick with screams and static.

Wiggly stumbled through the wreckage, lungs raw, every breath tasting like ash and ozone. His bare feet hit pavement, then grass, then pavement again as the world rearranged itself beneath him. Through the chaos, one sound cut through the din—steel clashing against chitin.

He followed it.

And there—through a haze of dust and fire—was John.

He was fighting a Sniggle. A huge one, its claws snapping and its too-wide grin gleaming with saliva. John swung a sword—a sword?—wild but steady, each strike deflecting the creature’s lunges. He looked exhausted, drenched in sweat and dirt, but his stance never faltered.

“John!”

The shout ripped out of Wiggly before he could stop it.

John’s head whipped around. For a heartbeat, disbelief crossed his face. Then relief—raw, overwhelming. The Sniggle lunged, and John turned back just in time, driving the blade into its chest. The thing shrieked, convulsed, and collapsed into nothingness, dissipating like smoke.

The sword clattered from John’s hand.

And then he was running.

Wiggly met him halfway, colliding in a desperate, bone-crushing embrace. John’s arms wrapped around him like he was afraid to ever let go, his body trembling. Wiggly buried his face in John’s chest, sobbing raggedly. The sound tore out of him, years of rage and emptiness unraveling in one helpless flood.

“Thought I lost you,” John choked, voice breaking. “God, Wiggly, I thought—”

“I’m here,” Wiggly gasped, clutching fistfuls of John’s shirt. “I’m here.”

Their foreheads knocked together, breaths mingling, and then John kissed him. Hard, trembling, a kiss that tasted like salt and desperation and life. Wiggly kissed back, clinging like he’d fall apart if he let go. Tears streaked down both their cheeks, smearing into the mess of it.

When they finally pulled apart, it wasn’t far—just enough to breathe, to see the other’s face, to know this was real.

“Wiggly!”

Webby’s voice cut through, sharp and teary. She stumbled through the rubble, Lex and Hannah close behind, and without hesitation she threw herself at her brother. Wiggly barely had time to open his arms before she slammed into him, hugging him tight enough to bruise.

He hugged her back just as fiercely, burying his face in her shoulder. She was shaking. He was shaking. But for the first time in forever, he didn’t feel hollow.

Though, that peace never lasts quite long.

More sniggles burst from the cracks in the ruined street, slick bodies writhing under the unnatural neon glow. Their teeth clicked in perfect rhythm, an insect chorus building toward frenzy. John tightened his grip on his sword—he still didn’t know where the hell it had come from, but it had been the only thing standing between him and being devoured. “Too many,” John gasped. “We can’t keep this up.”

Webby grabbed Wiggly’s sleeve and dragged him closer to John. Her voice was sharp and urgent: “Running is the only way we can survive this.”

So they ran.

Through burning neighborhoods, past corpses of houses gutted by the apocalypse, they sprinted under the watch of that fractured neon sky. The world stank of ozone and rot. John’s lungs burned, but the thought of losing Wiggly again shoved him forward. The sniggles hissed behind them, but eventually their voices thinned, drowned by distance.

They finally reached the iron gates of an estate—a sprawling mansion crouched on a hill, its windows lit like defiant eyes. The gates swung open just enough for them to squeeze through, and guards—makeshift, terrified stragglers with baseball bats and nailed boards—slammed them shut again.

Inside, the survivors were gathered. Paul Matthews sat cross-legged with Emma Perkins, their shoulders brushing, as if keeping each other upright was the only thing keeping them sane. Bill Woodward stood protectively with Alice behind him, his arm out like a shield. Ted Spankoffski was off to the side, Tinky sprinting toward him with a cry of relief as the two collided horribly with Ted grimacing. Becky Barnes sat stiffly on a broken couch, Tom Houston nearby with his boy Tim clinging to his leg. And another group of teens in the corner.

The mansion itself looked less like a home and more like a bunker. Stockpiled cans lined the dining room, blackout curtains smothered every window, and biology texts lay stacked in neat rows. An older man appeared at the top of the stairs, hands folded like a conductor about to raise his baton.

His eyes landed immediately on Wiggly.

“So,” The man drawled, descending with deliberate, echoing steps, “you’re the punk who started this whole mess.”

The room went silent. Every breath seemed to hitch in unison. Survivors who had seen things no human should see—who had lost friends, families, whole lives—turned on the spot, their glares sharpening like knives. Wiggly felt all of it pressing down on him. Their suspicion, their fear, their hatred.

John instinctively moved in front of him. “Back off, Hidgens. He’s not—”

“Not what?” Hidgens interrupted smoothly, with a disdainful scowl. “Not the cosmic parasite who burrowed his way into Hatchetfield’s veins? Not the reason our world is bleeding neon and black?” He reached the bottom of the stairs, his presence commanding even without a weapon. “I’ve been watching. I know who you are, Mr. Wiggly.”

Wiggly’s mouth opened, but no words came. It didn’t matter—every set of eyes was already drilling into him.

John’s jaw clenched. He stepped forward, shoulders squared. “He’s not a Lord in Black anymore. None of them are. He’s here, fighting with us.”

A ripple of unease spread through the room, the survivors exchanging wary glances. Hidgens looked unconvinced, lips pursed in thin amusement.

But before he could speak again, Webby’s voice cut cleanly through the tension.

“If anything,” she said, stepping into the center of the room, “the blame should fall on me.” Her eyes swept across the gathered faces, sharp and unflinching. “If I hadn’t banished Wiggly in the first place, Wiley never would’ve had the chance to twist the cracks of reality open. This apocalypse isn’t his doing—it’s mine.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before. Paul blinked, uncertain, his hand tightening on Emma’s.

Hidgens tilted his head, studying Webby as if she were a specimen pinned beneath glass. “How noble,” he said, voice dripping with mockery. “But noble intentions don’t undo the wreckage around us.” He gestured toward the shattered world beyond the boarded windows. “Banished or not, your brother remains what he is. A Lord. And chaos is in their blood.”

Wiggly flinched, shoulders hunching as his gaze darted toward Webby, silently pleading for her to take back her words, to let him shoulder the blame alone. But she didn’t. She stood straighter, chin lifted, unwavering.

“You want someone to hate?” Webby said evenly. “Hate me. But if we waste our time tearing each other apart, Wiley wins. And I won’t let that happen.”

A murmur ran through the survivors. Becky’s gaze lingered on Wiggly, softer than the others, a flicker of sympathy she didn’t dare voice. Bill still looked unconvinced, his arm tightening around Alice’s shoulders.

Hidgens narrowed his eyes, but the grimace on his face didn’t falter. “Perhaps,” he said at last, his tone carrying the sharp edge of amusement, “we’ll see whether your conviction holds when tested. For now… welcome to the resistance.”

John glanced back at Wiggly, his face caught between pride and worry. Wiggly didn’t meet his eyes. He stared down at the floor instead, jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful, his hands curling into fists at his sides as if to hold himself together.