Will you watch the petals shed from the flowers in bloom?

by harperose

Summary:

After his fight with The Grabber, Finney finds himself in a freezer.

And a part of him never leaves it.

Chapter 1: The Fight

Once again, the basement was filled with life.

Life that would soon be snuffed out.

(But maybe not by The Grabber.)

And, once again, the basement was filled with sound that would never reach outside ears thanks to the measures Albert took to perfect the chilly room.

But this time, the noise was different.

(The situation was different.)

And the sounds that consumed the basement was overpowering, somehow successfully sending a shiver down Albert’s spine in a way that fucking black phone that always had laughter seeping from its pores whenever Albert deigned to pick it up with a quivering hand never managed to achieve.

Or maybe it did? Albert wasn’t sure.

He wasn’t sure about a lot of things anymore…

Like Finney Blake.

Finney Blake who shouldn’t have lived to see another sunrise after he entered the basement. Finney Blake who never fought back against anyone– who let bullies walk over him and use him to release whatever anger (or need for violence that The Grabber knew all too well) had been pumping around their bodies.

The Grabber didn’t make it a secret to himself that he didn’t want Finney to fight back. After that Arellano boy, he wanted someone… easier.

Someone who wasn’t a fighter– someone who would cower instead of raising their fists as they spit out curses instead of sobs and pleas.

And someone who wouldn’t destroy his basement like that Hopper kid did.

(But it seemed that he had made a bad choice. A very, very bad choice… that may now cost him his pathetic life.)

And he really wanted to hear the boy scream and beg in a way he never heard when the bullies splattered his face with his blood, ribs with fractures and flesh with bruises.

For some reason, The Grabber knew that those screams and cries for mercy would have sounded better spilling from Finney’s split lips than the other boys he allowed to stay in his basement. Because, for someone so fucking weak, Finney really didn’t show his pain until he was forced to.

And The Grabber would have forced him to show him more than his pain.

The cord wrapped around his throat tightened, and The Grabber gasped and frowned.

Finney Blake shouldn’t have fought back– but he did.

(And now, the tables have turned.)

And, really, Albert should have known that Finney would be different than he first expected when the boy sliced his arm open. When the boy had first fought back in a major way.

The Grabber knew he should have descended the basement’s rickety staircase and snuffed out the light in the boy's eyes when Max insisted that he stay with him… and when everything became so fucked up.

He should have killed the boy when he refused to play The Grabber’s game that everyone played. He shouldn’t have waited for the boy to give in and creep up the stairs like the other boys. Because, when he eventually did, The Grabber wasn’t prepared.

He should have fucking killed him– he should have gutted him like a fucking pig and strangled the boy with his own intestines like he threatened that night. But he didn’t.

He really should have stuck a knife into the boy and ended his life when The Grabber first heard that lie leave his lips– when he first heard that spark of defiance he hadn’t expected. When Finney had first begun to earn the title of a naughty boy.

(Instead, all he did was let the tray clatter to the floor, show the boy proof of his lie and leave his displeasure hanging in the bloodied room… without punishment. Obviously, he was too soft on the boy then by not even giving him a taste of his belt. And now, he was paying the price for that foolish mistake.)

Or, as the makeshift noose tightened around his neck, Albert guessed that maybe he should have twisted the knife into the boy’s flesh and watched him gurgle his own blood when Finney didn’t give him even a hint of fear The Grabber had been anticipating and yearning for when he first woke up in the basement. Fear that the other boys had freely given him throughout their stay here.

The Grabber should have quickly disposed of the boy when he didn’t give him the fear he craved– when he didn’t give him what he needed to survive. But, of course, The Grabber was foolish.

Of course, he thought the reward – the twisted pleasure of finally breaking down the boy until his body twisted in blood curdling terror – would be worth it in the end.

(And, for a few seconds – if Albert pushed away the sorrow threatening to crash into him as he thought about who he needed to sacrifice to achieve it – it was worth it. The face he caught sight of as he plunged an axe into his brother’s head before he stumbled to the floor to the sounds of Finney’s screams was worth it. Until it wasn’t– until the tables turned.)

The phone cord coated in grime and dust tightened again, the boy letting out another grunt of exertion that Albert’s animalistic sounds of panic tried and (of course) failed to drown out.

The panic that made another thought spark to life in his mind– the realization that he should have known this boy was going to be a problem the moment he carved a jagged wound into his arm.

(Something that had never happened before— a boy fighting back and drawing that much blood from him.)

He shouldn’t have allowed the boy to stay in the living world after that. But, like an idiot, he did.

And now, he was paying the price for that foolish decision.

Because, during his time in the basement, Finney had fought back against him in subtle ways… with his lies, his defiance, his demands…

And now, with that fucking phone Albert should have ripped from the wall when he first saw Finney holding the receiver like he did many times before.

Normally, Finney chose his irritating words as his weapons. Now, he was using an actual weapon– a physical weapon that could cause more damage than his words ever could.

And he was using it well, The Grabber had to reluctantly admit as he struggled to suck much needed oxygen into his deprived lungs.

And he knew that Finney wasn’t to blame for this. Not completely, anyways.

After all, he knew who lurked on the other end of that black phone.

And, he had a slight inkling about who was responsible for planting this idea in Finney’s susceptible mind.

Robin. Robin fucking Arellano.

The second toughest kid in school until he wasn’t– until he became the second (or maybe now the third) toughest kid that The Grabber kept in this basement.

(The basement that was becoming more and more likely to be the place Albert’s life was snuffed out in, too.)

Robin was a fighter. Even now, as his breath and life was being tugged away from him, The Grabber found himself smiling at the memories of how well Robin fought. And how pitiful he looked when he lost.

Robin was a fighter, but not like Vance was.

Albert’s lips pulled downwards into an even deeper frown as he stared at the mirror and carefully moved the ice towards its target– the black eye. At work, he could easily cover it with his signature white face paint and almost pretend it wasn’t there. But Albert knew it was there– every time his lips twitched upwards into a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, Albert knew he would remember the painful mark the Hopper kid left on him.

(And then, as he remembered the marks he left on the boy, his practiced smile would finally reach his eyes. Just for a moment…. until he remembered the state of his basement, that is.)

Vance was fuelled by anger and sometimes the need to inflict pain. Robin wasn’t, but he tried to be.

The Grabber recalled one of the many fights he witnessed between Robin and one of the many other kids that made him mad… or unconvinced him in some way. He saw Robin’s anger… but it was all for show– for the audience that had gathered around the fight that always ended up with Robin's knuckled split and covered in his opponent's blood.

Robin’s anger and fury was real, not like Vance’s… not like The Grabber’s.

Robin is just a kid– a kid playing to pretend and trying to be someone he’s not. That only became obvious when The Grabber finally showed Robin his basement that he had to fix after Vance and that Yamada kid.

“A hole?” The Grabber’s voice dripped with a strange mixture of disbelief, anger and slight amusement as he stared down at the (kind of impressive) hole his latest boy had managed to dig.

Before, of course, he decided the best chance of gaining his freedom was leaving through the unlocked door The Grabber didn’t tell him he could leave by.

All mirth suddenly vanished from The Grabber’s voice, his eyes flashing with increasing fury as his attention snapped back towards the boy on the floor, almost like he was expecting an answer, “You dug… a  fucking  hole?”

But he wouldn’t get one– not from the bloodied and cooling body, anyways.

But, if he really wanted one, all he had to do was pick up the phone when it started to–

Ring

Dirt was cheaper than what he used to fix the damage Vance inflicted on the wall, so The Grabber figured he couldn’t be too mad at the Yamada boy.

Not like he was mad at Robin.

He wasn’t even mad at Vance like he was growing to become mad at Robin.

Because Vance was selfish. He only cared about himself at that pinball game someone would eventually beat the high score of and finally help rid their small town of Vance’s memory. Vance wouldn’t teach Finney those moves– he wouldn’t teach Finney to fight.

Not like Robin would.

Robin who seemed to have a soft spot for the boy who was everyone’s punching bag.

The Grabber had seen those moves before– he had thought he knew how this would end. After all, he knew Robin’s fate after trying that.

He knew Robin had tried to fight him with the same moves he must have taught his friend– and he failed.

And now, Finney had tried it… and succeeded.

(After, of course, adding a brand new action to ensure he truly finished off his opponent.)

Finney hadn’t succeeded yet. The Grabber had to remind himself of that fact, even as the cord around his neck tightened.

Robin wasn’t a fighter, not like Vance was. After all, Vance tore the basement apart when he realized he couldn’t fight The Grabber, Robin didn’t. Vance wasn’t foolish enough to believe he could fight The Grabber. But he was foolish enough to attempt to escape in the one way that would only cause The Grabber’s ire to ignite.

(Or maybe Vance didn’t destroy the basement to escape. Maybe he just did it to release his anger. Whatever the reason he did it, he did it. And it left him weak– more weak than the lack of proper food and hydration ever could have made him.)

Robin was foolish enough to believe he was strong rather than weak like his friend was.

Or well, weak like his friend should have been.

And maybe, without Robin’s disembodied voice that had lost the warmth his body used to possess when he was alive, Finney would have remained weak. Maybe if Robin didn’t… manipulate the boy who was weak and should have stayed weak, the pair of friends could have been together again.

After all, The Grabber wasn’t a fucking monster. He would have buried Finney right next to his friend. Or maybe, later, in the same grave if he collected a few more naughty boys over the years that made him need more space to put them to rest.

But now, that wasn’t an option. Because of Robin and the manipulation he used to sway his friend to be like him— naughty.

(But not dead… not yet, anyways.)

And it shouldn’t have worked, the lies Robin fed his friend should have been just that— lies. Lies that were created to give Finney hope— or maybe Robin just wanted his friend to anger The Grabber even more and cause Finney’s death to be as swift as Griffin’s was.

The Grabber didn’t know what words Robin used to make Finney pick up that phone… and set those traps, but he didn’t think he had to work very hard to convince Finney to believe him. After all, Finney was naïve— that was one thing he was still certain of.

Because he saw the flicker of hope that was snuffed out by dismay as The Grabber callously informed the boy he had the chance to leave the basement if he didn’t lie about his name.

The Grabber saw the flash of guilt in those wet, wide eyes as he placed the blame of Max’s demise on the boy and the boy alone. He saw that, for a second, Finney believed his words.

Before, of course, Max’s body stopped twitching, the boy’s survival instincts kicked in as fresh blood pooled under the man’s head, calling for Finney’s to join him. The boy had let out a stuttered claim that he wasn’t responsible, probably hoping it would save him from The Grabber’s axe.

(It would, eventually. But it would also probably make him wish for the axe he did everything to avoid.)

But The Grabber knew the truth. He knew who was responsible for the axe in his brother’s head.

Finney fucking Blake.

(And Max… and maybe The Grabber, too.)

Ring

The black receiver tightly clutched in the boy’s hand rang again, sending a vibration through The Grabber’s body as he gritted his teeth and felt his fingers go number and number.

And, of course, the cord wrapped around his neck only going tighter and tighter.

The Grabber’s eyes darted towards what was left of the phone mounted on the wall, almost like he was expecting to see something (or well, someone) standing there in its place. But there was nothing there. Nothing except the black phone with its eery ringing that Albert never quite believed was caused by the static, even as a young child.

Ring

Finney shifted behind him, probably looking at the same spot of the wall he was.

And then, the cord shifted, somehow tightening once again as The Grabber’s fingers stuck between the black corn as his frail neck turned an even more deadly shade of white.

“It’s for you,” Finney announced, voice cutting through the chilly air hovering around them.

And, for once, The Grabber didn’t know who the boy was directing his words at. Because, normally, it would just be The Grabber. Because there was only The Grabber to give his sole attention to. But now, it is different.

Or maybe it had always been different, and The Grabber foolishly hadn’t realized it until he was close to his demise.

“Welcome to the nightmare end of your pathetic, little life.”

Finney was different— he was special.

He didn’t realize how special he was (how different he was (and how much he was like The Grabber) until it was too late.

“You. Don’t. Have. Much. Time.”

Or, well, almost too late.

A boy’s cackles filled the basement, ripping through the static and ensuring The Grabber heard them loud and clear. And, The Grabber did. Just like Finney did.

But he wasn’t listening intently to the boys on the phone, not like Finney was. Not like Finney was probably thinking he was.

“Today’s the day, motherfucker!”

Now was the time to set things right.

“I can’t kill you—“

In the back of Albert’s mind, The Grabber smiled. And, subconsciously, even when his face was turning blue, Albert mirrored that smile.

And then, his body began moving. A new wave of determination, of calmness, flowing through his veins and replacing the alarm he hadn’t even realized had slipped away from him.

But one thing Albert did realize was that he needed oxygen, now. He needed to act now when the boys on the phone were distracting Finney with their taunts and promises meant for the monster that haunted them even in death.

He needed to act now, when Robin was promised him a death at his friend's hand. Because, when Robin’s voice began pouring out of the phone receiver, the phone corn around his neck loosened slightly.

But just enough for The Grabber to slip Albert’s fingers free from where they were propping open a narrow space between his neck and the black cord. After Albert’s fingers were once again free, blood rushing back into the numbed digits and making them tingle, Albert smiled.

But it wasn’t really his smile.

Just like it wasn’t really his body doing this— or about to do that. It was like his body was on autopilot, making decisions it needed to to to survive. Or like it was a puppet being controlled by someone else— someone who always knew what to do and was used to manipulating Albert’s body to achieve it.

And to achieve what Albert needed to do to stay alive, Albert needed his strength. And the element of surprise. Which would usually be hard to do when there were five extra pairs of eyes in the soundproofed basement— eyes that Albert couldn't see right now but could feel.

But, while the boys on the phone were giggling about a death Albert was certain he wouldn't receive anymore, they were distracted. They missed subtle movements.

Which led to missing much bigger movements.

“Finn’s arm is—“

It’s good, really good. But not as good as Albert’s.

And definitely not strong enough, or fast enough to stop an attack he didn’t see coming.

Finney cried out in surprise, a short sound that died nearly as soon as it came alive as The Grabber grabbed hold of whatever part of him he could. And that part was his hair.

His hair that was filled with layers and layers of grease that Finney was certain would have acted like a stick of slippery butter if someone tried to lay a finger on it again. But he was wrong.

When The Grabber reached out behind him, immediately finding a headful of hair to grasp onto, his fingers didn’t slide from the strands. Not one bit. Instead, they instantly found purchase, taking root in the boy’s hair— and pulling. Hard.

The Grabber let out a cry of what sounded like victory as the boy jerked backwards, towards him.

But, of course, Finney didn’t want The Grabber to have that victory that seemed to be written in the stars for him to claim. So, he gripped the receiver and the phone cord bundled together in his hands and tugged, even harder than before.

The Grabber jolted, giving an angry growl that Finney wasn’t sure if it came from the man’s or the dog’s lips.

And then, The Grabber directed the boy away from him— towards the wall.

And the boy couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t brace himself for impact. Because it all happened too quickly. And before Finney even registered that he was moving sideways— towards the wall of the narrow hallway, it was too late.

Darkness had claimed the boy.

Chapter 2: Escaping the Basement (Part One)

The Grabber wasn’t satisfied with that (almost too simple, too easy and too... kind) outcome. As always, he wanted more.

And, of course, who was Albert to deny The Grabber what he wanted– what he needed to fester and survive in this world he was making better with every naughty boy he took away from it?

Slowly, like he was reluctant to let go before he could inflict more damage onto the boy who was once filled with so much life (who really shouldn't have still be filled with life if everything went to plan), Albert released his grip on the boy’s raggedy hair that was coated with grime and dirt and whatever else had clung to those locks from his time in the basement.

As Finney’s body flopped uselessly to the ground like a ragdoll that a young girl had deemed herself too old to play with or even have in her possession anymore, Albert noticed something.

The cheering, the laughing and the fucking taunts had stopped breaking through the static of the black phone.

It was silent. The basement… was completely silent.

Even Samson’s rigorous barking had died down, seemingly noticing the invisible shift in the air. The solemn and dreadful shift Albert didn’t know if the dead boys could feel in their deteriorating souls– the feeling of experiencing The Grabber’s victory. Again.

And this time, they caused The Grabber to win by the skin of his cruel and too sharp teeth. Because of them, they hadn’t just failed themselves, they had failed Finney.

Because they called, because they distracted the boy… because they made him believe he had a chance to win against The Grabber.

(And he did. But he wouldn't… not anymore anyways.)

They had given Finney hope when he shouldn't have any. They had given him a lifeline to cling onto.

The Grabber didn’t like that. And he was certain that, soon, Finney would hate everything they did for him– what they tried to do for him.

And what they tried to turn him into– a boy that wasn’t what The Grabber wanted.

The black phone cord hung loosely around his neck like an almost pleasant scarf his mother used to knit for him and his brother.

It was never completely pleasant thanks to the itchy material his mother always favored to use to create new items of clothing after her sons had been particularly bad. And, as a child, Albert did a lot of things that would enact his mother’s subtle wrath he would have to wear until he outgrew it… or until he lost it.

But, of course, sometimes when he loses things… his mother would create a replica that was somehow more scratchy and unpleasant. But the scarfs his mother used to create for him– the scarfs Albert sometimes stole from his brother since he used to be better behaved than he was – kept the warmth from attacking his skin.

And the phone call from the boys kept Finney from completing his mission Albert knew he didn’t come up with by himself.

Because, like his mother, Finney had probably succumbed to the voices nobody else could hear. The voices telling him to do very bad things.

(But Albert wasn’t like that. After all, he only did good things. Things that would benefit the whole world.)

Slowly, Albert gave an experimental tug on the phone cord, a part of him still expecting it to suddenly draw taut. Almost like one of the dead boys that the world should be thanking Albert for removing from their society would suddenly pull the phone cord tight again and finish what Finney started… but couldn’t finish.

But, as the phone receiver shifted on his back and Albert received no resistance, he knew he was being a fool. Because the boys could only talk on the phone– prank call him and be a new kind of nuisance Albert didn’t predict could happen when he started this.

He also didn’t predict that somebody other than him would ever be able to hear the black phone mounted to the wall could let out a series of rings that sometimes sounded more like childish wails for attention.

Albert already knew that next time he catches one of his boys in the basement– when he sees them hover too close to the phone or even pick it up… he needs to dispose of them. Immediately. 

Because this… Albert couldn’t allow this to happen again. Never again. After all, once was more than enough.

(And he only had one brother… so this definitely couldn’t happen again.)

Albert gave a much harsher, much more firm tug to the cord. And, almost like it was born to do, it swiftly fell away from his neck, the receiver dragging along his shoulder until it tumbled over the edge and fell uselessly into his hole he was stuck in.

Quickly, Albert released the phone cord from his clutches, not bothering to watch as it slumped downwards to join the receiver at the bottom of the dark put where Albert’s feet and something else already lurked down there.

Albert didn’t know what that something was– but he knew what it did. What it helped Finney do.

Break his fucking ankle.

A grimace broke free from Albert’s face– the remembrance of the injury and the adrenalin dying down ensuring the pain finally registered tenfold in his mind. And as the unmerciful pain somehow managed to increase as he shifted his uninjured ankle, he knew something. 

Albert knew that, if he was donning that mask, that grimace probably would have seeped through one of the many cracks that were embedded in the mask and somehow willed the grim expression to twist to match the face lurking underneath.

But Albert wasn’t wearing that mask, not anymore. And, for some reason, he wasn’t crying out in distraught panic and desperately trying to cover his face with his hands anymore.

Maybe because he could feel it near him.

(Maybe because he could feel him near him.)

And maybe because he knew he could easily reach downwards and grab it from where it lay near the edge of the (quite impressive) pit Finney managed to dig.

But he didn’t do that. And he didn’t quite know why.

But he did know something. One very important thing.

He needed to get out of this hole. Quickly, before Finney woke up from the reluctant slumber Albert forced on him.

(He needed to do a lot of things. But he didn’t need to do all of them before Finney woke up.)

Albert sent a disdainful glance towards the boy still slumped on the floor, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest for a moment to ensure he was still truly unconscious. And, when Albert was certain he was – when he put all his knowledge of what Finney looked like when he was really asleep to use – he planted his two calloused hands against the solid floor.

And then, after gathering all of the strength he could muster (the strength he normally only used on young boys) he began heaving himself upwards, out of the hole.

He didn’t keep his mouth tightly pressed shut. Instead, his lips were pulled back into an almost animalistic snarl as he let shouts, groans and curses fly from his mouth and into the chilly air that would probably only grow more and more cold as the winter slowly crept towards the small town.

Samson barked in solidarity to his owner’s struggle. Albert liked to think he was throwing encouragement at him. Encouragement that fuelled him and made him continue pushing and clawing his way free from the hole even when his arms started to shake, his mind screamed at him to stop because it hurt worse than anything Albert had experienced before and black spots decided to begin dancing across his vision and try to lure him to unconsciousness.

But he didn’t fall into unconsciousness like Finney. But he did allow the black spots to cloud his vision, he had no choice but to. But that was okay, he didn’t need to see where he was going– he knew he just needed to go forwards.

And so he did. Even as his snapped ankle scraped and bumped against the slides of the pit, the exposed bone torturously dragging along some of the most uneven mounts of earth, he didn’t stop.

He just kept going, heaving more and more of his body out of that pit even at the expense of The Grabber’s mask. The mask that he really should have moved to prevent it from being crushed by his weight and scraped against the floor as he dragged himself free from the hole he was both irritated and impressed by its existence.

Albert only stopped when most of his body was on solid ground… and one ankle more than the other was limply hanging over the opening of the hole.

Albert didn’t kiss the ground when his mission was accomplished. But maybe if he wasn’t certain there were five pairs of dead eyes watching him from the shadows they liked to lurk, he probably would have.

But what he did to was, almost reluctantly, glance over his shoulder to assess the damage of–

“Fuck,” Albert breathed out, a hiss of astonishment and disbelief filling his voice as his narrowed dark eyes gawked at what was supposed to be his ankle.

But he didn’t look like an ankle.

It almost looked like an animal bone he got for Samson. But only after Samson ravaged it and buried it in the yard with an expertise he must have inherited from his owner.

But, thankfully, Albert’s… ankle still had meat attached to it. Even if one of those clumps of meat had come away from the others and was limply dangling from the snapped bone like it was waiting for permission to let go and fall to its doom. But Albert wouldn’t give it permission.

He wouldn’t allow any of his flesh or bones to fall into the pit where it would never be seen again. Even if his ankle was snapped in two like a fucking twig and the flesh that was once securely wrapped around the bone was destroyed (and in one instance close to letting go of everything it once knew) and coated with so much dirt it looked like Albert had just dug it up from the basement across the street– Albert wouldn’t let them go.

That wasn’t something Albert did– ever.

(And he definitely wouldn't start doing it now.)

Painstakingly slowly, Albert forced his body to maneuver until he was kneeing onto the floor. He tried to prevent his dangling, injured ankle from moving too much as he got into position, but he failed.

But, eventually, he was kneeling on the floor as his feet were hovering over a pit of nothingness.

Well, there wasn’t nothing in that hole. Albert knew about the phone in there… but he would have to see what else was in there later. But not now.

Because now, he needed help.

He needed someone very special to help him. And, of course, they weren't in this basement.

Albert cast a glance over his shoulder, growing when he caught sight of his brother’s body. His brother, even if he was alive, wouldn’t be able to help him.

Because Max wasn’t a doctor– he didn’t even work at a hospital anymore because of his sometimes small (but one time too large) raids on the drugs that whatever hospital he sweet talked his way into working for possessed.

And, anyways, even if Max was a doctor, he wouldn’t be the type of doctor Albert needed. Because Max (even after Nam and the horrors he saw, heard about and experienced first-hand there) was still squeamish like a little girl.

(A little girl that their father always tried to transform into something akin to a man. But, obviously, he failed.)

He wouldn’t be able to handle looking at his brother’s ankle when it was like this.

And if Max was floating into the shadows and watching him, with horrified but still somehow so fond eyes… Albert knew he would be looking at his face. Or any other part of his body that wasn’t trying to detach itself from the rest.

(Max would probably be trying to find flickers of the brother he thought he knew so well in this stranger’s face. And, eventually, he would come to the conclusion that this… this was his brother. And he didn't know him at all. Until now, of course.)

Slowly, Albert tugged his gaze away from his brother’s body that would still be warm. But it probably wouldn’t possess the warmth that could allow Albert the delusion that his brother was still alive.

And then he gritted his teeth, gathered the courage to move his uninjured ankle until it was on solid ground and began to push himself from the floor; he would probably have slipped underneath if Finney had his way.

The wall was a great support for Albert as he rose to his feet… well, foot. And he almost found himself smiling– almost.

Until, of course, he once again found something to frown about. Like the wall, next to the toilet Albert had kindly installed for the boys he kept and never truly let go again.

The wall that was… destroyed.

Albert was hit with a wave of sudden deja vu as he noticed where the hole in the wall was.

“You nearly made it,” The Grabber taunted the blond haired boy who was glaring at him even when he was crumpled to the ground with blood gushing out of the stab wound to his flesh, “You really did,” he easily lied.

After all,  nobody  made it.  Nobody  was even close to making it.

(Until he was.)

The black spots had vanished when he was lying on the floor, giving an less than impressive imitation of a corpse. But now, as he stared at the hole in the wall that would cost so much money to repair, the darkness that overtook his vision was clouded with vengeance.

A vengeance Albert had to tamper down right now.

(But soon, he wouldn’t. He promised himself he wouldn't.)

A groan sounded– a groan that didn’t come from Albert. And, suddenly, Albert’s vision cleared before his eyes snapped towards– towards the naughtiest boy Albert had ever welcomed into his basement.

Something akin to panic began bubbling up inside of him as he watched the boy’s breathing begin the change. Finney was waking up…

And Albert was still in the basement.

Albert’s eyes darted towards the door (pointedly skipping over the other man’s body Albert no longer knew so well) and gulped. He hoped he could make it towards the exit before Finney woke up and demanded a rematch.

(Or forced The Grabber to end a new game he was just beginning to form in his mind.)

Before this happened, The Grabber was certain he would win whatever game anybody (or, well, maybe just the boys in his basement) threw at him. But now, he wasn’t certain he could. And he really wasn’t certain he could go a second round with Finney now. Not like this.

Not when Albert’s body was injured and the boy’s hopeful determination and desperation for victory would only increase when he became aware of how much the injury would give him an upper hand.

And it would, The Grabber knew it would.

(He just hoped that, if Finney woke up before Albert managed to exit the basement, his hopefully wounded head would leave him too dazed to try to slip past his captor and gain his freedom he craved more than anything in the world.)

Albert forced his eyes away from the hole, trying not to think about how much that would cost to fix (again). After all, thinking about it would only make The Grabber want to drain the life from the boy’s body now. And that couldn’t happen… not yet, anyways. Not when Finney wouldn’t even be completely aware of what was happening– or able to put up much of a fight to stop it.

Albert’s eyes tried to stray back towards the hole in the wall where a few various sizes of clumps of (once frozen but now probably nearly thawed and mushy) meat had slipped free at one point and began littering the area of the floor beneath the hole.

That meat… that fucking spoiled meat was going to cost a lot more money to replace compared to the wall because of–

Albert sucked in a quick, deep breath, trying to snuff out the growing itch that had festered under his skin since he was a child. It didn’t work, not completely. But it worked long enough for Albert to direct his mind to more pressing matters.

Exiting the basement. Something he always struggled to do as a child. But now, as a grown man, he knew he was going to struggle to exit this hellish room in a different way.

Albert planted a calloused hand against one wall, and his other hand on the other narrow wall and took a deep breath.

And then, before he could give himself the chance to change his mind, he hopped.

And instantly regretted it when his broken ankle hit the side of the pit with a dull thud.

A series of curses flew past Albert’s lips, face contorting into a grimace filled with agony as a small avalanche of dirt plummeted into the hole, some of it using the split ankle as a stepping stone to its final destination.

Its destination that Albert vowed not to be his own, too.

But it might… if Albert didn’t get out of here soon.

Because the boy was waking up, clawing his way to consciousness faster than Albert had dragged himself from that pit and much faster than Albert was stumbling out of this basement.

And Albert had just made another mistake– he had forgotten his predicament.

His ankle that was somehow attached to the lopsided foot that had shot upwards, floppily jumping higher than what shouldn’t have been possible.

But, over the years, Albert had learned that everything was possible.

Ring

But maybe, some things should have stayed impossible.

Chapter 3: Samson

They were calling again, trying to draw his attention towards them while their comrade gained consciousness and attacked. But Albert wasn’t Finney– he wouldn’t fall for that.

Albert pointedly ignored the phone, resisting the urge to open his mouth and childishly declare that he couldn't hear anything. A lie that everyone in this basement knew was false. But it was something that Albert hoped that, one day, would be true.

(If Albert lived to see another day, that is.)

Another groan slipped past Finney’s lips, body shifted slightly and ignoring a renewed fire inside of Albert. A fire that suddenly fuelled the unexpected movement Albert’s mind hadn’t even begun to think about signalling his body to obey.

Albert’s leg flexed, tugging his ankle and the dangling foot higher. And then, he hopped again, using the two walls as crutches to support himself as he bravely moved away from the pit, hoping that he had lifted his leg high enough–

Ring

He had.

Albert let out a deep sign, his face twisted into a permanent grimace even after relief began swimming around his body as he realized that he hadn’t made another mistake.

His body hadn’t failed him like his foolish mind had.

He would make it out of this basement, one hop at a time, while his brother began to rot while he was waiting for his return. That is, if he returned.

He would, deep down Albert knew he would. But would he return before Finney’s body began decomposing?

(The Grabber knew the answer to that. And deep down, Albert knew it was the answer he craved too.)

Albert’s fingers gripped the wall that had many small rigid intents that were hidden from the eye until they were this close to it and many large but not too deep tentrails running across the walls– some of them probably older than Albert. But some of them were newer and as fresh as the bodies decomposing in the basement across the street.

(And some still had some splatters of blood stuck inside their rocky crevices… something Albert still hadn’t found within himself to scrub away.)

with one foot as flat as Max claimed the earth was, he hopped. And he continued hopping until he had successfully twirled around, now facing–

“You look funny when you do that.”

“Do what?” Albert asked, arching a brow as he pretended not to know what his brother was talking about.

Max gave him a fond look, taking a quick glance towards the few patrons dancing in the middle of the room, “You know what,” he uttered like a fact they both knew was true.

But the fact that Max didn’t like that it was true. After all, it was much more amusing when Albert didn’t know  why  Max wore that smile whenever he saw his brother dance. Or well try to dance. Max always thought his brother looked like a hippo giving a poor imitation of whatever dance style he decided to try to replicate.

But Albert… Albert always looked like he enjoyed it.

And Max guessed that was good enough, right?

Albert quickly tugged his eyes away from the body on the floor surrounded by cooling blood that if the temperature outside continued to drop, and Albert allowed the coldness to seep into this room, that liquid would freeze. Albert didn’t want to know if it would be easier to clean that blood off the floor when it had turned into a solid object that was fragile and so breakable in anyone’s hands, not just Albert’s.

He didn’t want to know if Max knew why everything suddenly turned back.

(He didn’t want to know if that darkness soon slipped away as Max found himself in the basement he hadn’t stepped foot in since he was a child. A basement that now held a body– his body. But now, maybe, his spirit– and their spirits.)

He didn’t want to know if Max knew who plunged the axe into his cranium and snuffed out the life in those erratic eyes.

(If they light reignited in the afterlife, but much more dull and filled with too many emotions and accusations Albert really didn’t want to think about.)

He didn’t want to know what Max thought when he discovered who had killed him– had betrayed him even after everything they’ve been through. After every promise and pact filled with saliva (and sometimes blood) they made…

But Albert didn’t betray Max. Not really, anyways.

If anything, Max was the one who tried to betray Albert’s trust by disobeying his warning to not enter the basement. Max was the one who betrayed Albert with promises of freedom and help to that boy. It was Max who wanted to send him away and then leave him to rot in a jail cell… all alone without his boys or his beloved brother who promised to stay and get better even when their parents couldn’t.

But now, his brother would rot, just like his naughty boys would.

The Grabber forced a smile onto his lips despite the pain.

But he still didn’t allow his eyes to stray towards the man on the floor, even as he got closer and closer towards one of the obstacles to freedom.

But first, he had to overcome this obstacle to his freedom.

And, once again, Finney had to make things difficult with his existence. Because there he was on the floor, next to the hole he had managed to beat Bruce’s record for how far he could dig with just his hands, and being an inconvenience to Albert.

Because he was in the way. His body was still crumpled on the ground– taking up the valuable space Albert needed to hop along to break free from this narrow hallway. Albert’s brow furrowed with something, for once, other than pain. Because something was different, wasn’t it?

Finney’s body couldn’t have been precariously balancing on the edge of the pit like that before, could it?

He couldn’t have been so dangerously close to slipping off solid ground, over the edge of the hole and into the pit all this time, could he?

Albert wasn’t sure.

And Albert didn’t care.

Albert turned his gaze away from Finney occupying one of the slithers of space on solid ground on their side of the hole and towards the other, much smaller, line of tiles that hadn’t been tugged up to expand the pit.

Albert didn’t need to think twice before hopping closer towards that strip of grimy tiles.

(But he did need to think twice if he could afford to shove Finney into that hole. He decided against it, knowing that there was a chance the merciless pit could do what he couldn’t all those days ago– snap his neck as he plummeted towards the bottom of the hole.)

He continued hopping, pushing himself closer towards the wall until he was pressed so close to the rough structure he was certain he could taste the years of death and decay it must have been clutching onto after all these years.

As Albert hopped over the slither of tiles, his dangling ankle jolted up and down… and side to side when he wobbled and nearly lost his balance.

“I’ve never seen a hippo on a tightrope," Max mumbled under his breath as he watched his brother try (and hopefully fail) to walk across the makeshift tightrope.

“Well you’re about to see it,” Albert frowned before he belatedly ordered his brother with a harshness he hadn't mastered yet, “And don’t call me a hippo,” he uttered like he was unsure of his own words.

Something that would become a distant memory for Max soon.

Because when that kid that shared an age with Albert died, Albert changed. Which was strange… because Max didn’t even know they knew each other. So why was he so affected by his death?

Albert wasn’t a child trying to walk across a length of rope anymore.

But now, with one foot useless to help him and the other trying to balance the weight of his flesh in a way it wasn’t used to, it was like that day that Albert vowed never to repeat again after he had a taste of his father’s belt again. As a child attempting to walk across that rope, he was trying so hard not to fall– to remain upright and not flop uselessly to the ground like a failure.

Now, it was the same. But also different. Because if he fell off this solid ground and toppled sideways– if he gave into the darkness that tried so hard to claim his vision and consciousness – he would fall. He would be a failure. But he would be something else.

Doomed. Or maybe even dead.

And Albert couldn’t allow that to happen. Not when The Grabber had so much left to give to the world– left to take from the world, anyways.

But Albert didn’t plummet into the hole again. He didn’t fail again.

And maybe, that was a sign.

Albert didn't have to force a smile onto his lips this time. Instead, it slipped onto his features effortlessly as he took a short glance upwards at the ceiling that had a few clusters of blood spittle, gratitude shining in his dark eyes.

And, suddenly, as the light flickered, the pain didn’t feel too much anymore. It felt like something he could handle– something that he knew would soon stop after he gets his hands on a doctor and some pills that Max would be jealous of.

Albert’s smile dimmed slightly. But the feelings inside of him propelling him forwards– towards that creaky door didn’t.

So, Albert continued.

He continued hopping, the black spots in his vision disappearing with every burst of movement he forced his body to make. He continued hopping until he didn’t need to press himself so tightly against the wall.

He continued hopping… until his eyes caught on something.

And, this time, it wasn’t his fallen brother.

It was something else. Something unfamiliar until The Grabber vowed to become familiar with it in the future.

The axe.

The axe that wasn’t embedded into the ground from the power of The Grabber’s swing. Instead, it was just laying on the floor, above the dirt and old blood stains Albert never completely washed away.

(Because maybe he wanted to warn the boys of their destiny, if they disobeyed. If they were truly naughty like The Grabber seemed to think they were.)

Albert gazed at the axe, at the few droplets of blood sitting underneath the blade trying to make a home with the dirt coating the floor, and then over his shoulder– at the boy.

The boy who…

Albert’s face scrunched up, the smile completely disappearing from his face. Could the boy pick that axe up and use it in a way Albert couldn’t.

No, Albert shook his head, dismissing the thought. After all, if The Grabber couldn't do that… how could the boy do it?

Ring

Albert’s eyes darted towards the pit where that haunting ringing ricocheted against the walls and tried to claw its way out of the hole.

But it wouldn't. Maybe it never would.

Albert’s eyes once again wandered towards the boy who still hadn’t grabbed a hold of consciousness, hoping that he never would.

With one last longing look thrown towards the axe, wishing things were different and that he could take it with him.

Samson barked, probably trying to tell him that he could take the axe with him. But Albert couldn’t. After all, it would be too hard clambering up the stairs with one foot and with an axe whose weight made The Grabber stumble and nearly fall to the ground when he used it before.

Albert would have to leave the axe down here, with the boy who was hopefully too weak to use it on The Grabber when (or if).

(The boy who, hopefully, wasn’t smart enough to use its sharp bladed edge on himself and save himself from The Grabber like he should have done before.)

But Albert couldn’t leave Samson down here with Finney. After all, the boy already killed his brother… why wouldn’t he kill his dog, too?

By the time Albert reached Samson, his legs were screaming in agony and exhaustion. But Albert couldn’t listen to their pleas and stop. Not yet, anyways.

Not when he was still in this basement.

Not when Finney was still a threat that hadn’t been properly naturalized yet.

And he would be naturalized, Albert vowed he would be. But not yet.

“Let’s get out of here, Samson,” Albert mumbled under his breath as his dog gazed up at him with a question in his devilish eyes, “It's not his time…” Albert trailed off as he retracted one hand from the wall and lowered it, reaching out for Samson who dutifully moved closer., lowered his head slightly and offered the top of his scalp for a welcomed pat, “Yet,” Albert added, just to see the dog’s tail wag with excitement his promise brought him.

Or maybe it wasn’t Albert's promise that made him excited. Maybe it was what Samson saw when he dipped his head low.

Maybe it was Albert's ankle… that looked like the meatiest bone Samson had ever seen. The meatiest bone… that Samson had the chance to gnaw on.

And how could he pass up this opportunity and miss his chance like his owner did? He couldn’t.

So, he didn’t.

And Albert only realized when it was too late. When he was distracted by untethering the chain leash from the wall and–

Albert wailed like an wile animal as Samson slipped to the side, darting forwards before his owner had the chance to realize what was going on and–

“Samson!” Albert shouted the name to the heavens, his voice as twisted as his face as the dog’s teeth latched onto his ankle.

And promised to never let go.

“Stop!”

But Samson didn’t stop.

And, suddenly, Albert had some idea how the naughty boys in his basement felt when they pleaded and cried out for The Grabber to stop. How it felt when The Grabber didn’t.

How it must have felt when they thought The Grabber was just ignoring them– and when they realized The Grabber wasn’t ignoring them. He was listening– he heard them like Samson heard him. Those wails, those tears and those world shattering screams only seemed to fuel him. They made him want more.

And as Albert tried to move his let away, as he felt the ligaments pull taunt and threaten to snap… he realized something those boys must have too.

Samson wouldn’t stop.

He didn’t care if he was hurting Albert– his wonder and the hand that fed him. Because he had a goal in mind. He wanted something– and he would do whatever it took to get it.

Because he wanted it– and, in that moment, it was all that mattered.

And to Albert, in this moment, there was now only one thing that mattered.

To get Samson to stop before he ripped the floppy foot from the rest of his leg. Before destroying a part of Albert that he was certain was the only thing about him that could be fixed.

“Please, stop!” Albert echoed the words that The Grabber had heard so many times before.

And, like Samson’s other owner, he didn’t stop. He just continued hurting the only person who truly cared about him. The only person who loved him.

The person who–

“Ah!”

Albert was suddenly tugged to the ground, having no choice but to follow the harsh and joyous tug Samson gave his foot as he continued trying to wrestle his foot free.

Which would hopefully be easier now that they were both on a similar level.

But it wasn’t.

In fact… it was harder.

Because Samson had him right where he wanted him– he had that foot right where he wanted it. On the ground… and ready for him to break it free from the restraints it still clung to like a fool.

And Albert… Albert couldn’t allow that to happen.

He couldn’t give that to Samson. And that’s all that mattered.

Albert knew Samson would understand.

And he knew that Max, if he was still here, would take really good care of Samson.

And maybe, just maybe, if it was Samson’s disembodied barks pouring through the static… maybe Albert would pick up the phone more often.

“Sorry, bud,” was all Albert said as his hand reached out for the axe.

And all Samson said when the axe’s vicious blade slammed into him, chopping into his flesh with an intensity that wasn’t there when The Grabber killed Max…

All Samson did was whine, whimper or cry.

Albert didn’t know what to classify the sounds his best friend made.

But he knew one thing… he was getting good with this axe.

(Maybe too good.)

Albert stared down at his best friend, a part of him still believing he would see the soft rise and fall of his body as he greedily sucked in breath after breath while slobbering over Albert’s possessions.

But he didn’t.

And the only liquid that came out of Samson’s cracked and disfigured jaw wasn’t saliva. It was blood. So much blood.

(But not as much blood that seeped out of Max’s body. Albert didn’t think there would ever be someone or something that could produce that much blood ever again.)

Albert stared at what remained of the mashed up face of his friend, one of his hands dropping slightly, tentatively sliding down the handle of the axe. And, almost cautiously, like he wasn’t sure if his touch would be welcome again, his hand glided over the fur coated flesh that would soon deteriorate until his hand found purchase on a part of Samson’s cranium that was the least damaged.

But still, his fingers hanged over the edge of a shallow, almost reluctant, crevice as he gave the head beneath his hand a weak pat and gently reprimanded, “Naughty boy,” he murmured, eyes raking over the severed flesh, the gashes… and the frozen look of confusion and betrayal in one of Samson’s eyes that hadn’t popped under the force of the axe’s blade, “You were a naughty boy, Samson,” Albert told the dog– but it was almost like he was telling himself… and justifying to himself why he just did that.

Or, maybe, why The Grabber did that.

“And you know what he does to naughty boys,” Albert muttered, giving a tense shrug of his shoulders that failed to look casual as he forced his head to shake in disappointment.

But then, he froze, face shattering the carefully crafted mask he was trying to pull up to shield himself from prying eyes… and the responsibility of his actions.

Slowly, Albert’s gaze drifted over his shoulder, catching on the opening of the hallway where he guessed Finney still laid, “I’ll show you what happens to really naughty boys,” he uttered like a promise he would help someone else keep.

(A promise he refused to admit he was the one making.)

Chapter 4: Escaping the Basement (Part Two)

Albert gave the dog one last pat to his crumpled head before he placed his hand back onto the axe’s handle. And then, he began tugging it free from the space where Samson’s head connected to the rest of his body.

But now, like Albert’s leg and foot, it was separated… but not completely detached. Samson’s head twitched slightly at the movement before Albert successfully jerked the axe free from where it was stuck, and probed up, by whatever bones were nestled there.

(Bones that Samson would’ve probably loved to sink his teeth into.)

The axe clattered to the ground when Albert’s almost grip became lax. And it remained there, almost like it was forgotten, as Albert pushed and shoved Samson’s body until not one single particle of fur was touching him.

Albert rose upwards. The agonies of losing his brother and best friend must have clouded his mind. Because he rose to his two feet.

Which was one too many.

Something he quickly remembered when his foot folded underneath him, sending him crashing back towards the floor. And, thankfully, his best friend was there to cushion his fall.

Albert panted, cursing out every word that would have made his mother wash his mouth out with soap while his father prepared something more vicious than the belt…

And then he stopped. He simply stopped.

Because he realized something.

He couldn’t feel his foot.

His foot that should have been crying out in an agony Albert didn’t think was possible– it should have skidded slightly across the floor before it began tugging at the flesh and other pieces of itself that connected it to the rest of Albert’s body. But it didn’t.

And Albert was almost afraid to find out why.

But he did, eventually. Because he knew he had to.

(But he wished he didn’t. Just like he wished he didn’t have to do a lot of the things he was forced to do.)

He risked a glance downwards– at his foot. And found something that, deep down, he had been expecting since he first saw the damage Finney managed to inflict on him.

The damage that Samson managed to increase before his… death.

His foot was disconnected– completely disconnected from his leg. The only thing it was attached to was his shoe. And the once white sock that no longer had any flesh to mould itself to, so it just uselessly flopped to the side, into the warm blood that coated the floor.

The blood that Albert’s had been unwillingly coaxed to join and mix with.

And now, that blood of Samson’s… of Max’s that was probably tainted with the naughty boys Albert liked to play with had claimed something more than just his blood. It had taken his foot. Which, considering what he could have lost in this basement today, was the better option. Because he could live without a foot. But he couldn’t live without a life– not in a way he really wanted to and the way he was accustomed to, anyways.

For another moment, Albert’s gaze lingered on his foot that didn’t really feel like his anymore as his trousers that covered the fresh stump at the bottom of his leg somehow managed to darken further as more, fresher flood oozed from the flesh and seeped into material.

And then, as his leg pulsated with a pain – with a reminder of what was no longer there – he tugged his eyes away from what he had lost. What he had sacrificed to the basement to gain his freedom from its clutches.

Albert rose. And this time, he didn’t try to plant two feet onto the ground. He only planted one, because that was all he had left. Placing one hand on the wall for a new kind of stability he knew he would need more of in the future, he began hopping towards the open door of the basement– to a freedom he had almost forgotten what it tasted like.

(Finney would forget what freedom tasted like, The Grabber would ensure he would. And The Grabber… well he would ensure that all he knew was freedom. A freedom he would only achieve if he made no more mistakes– if he chose the right boys… and ensured the wrong boy was the only wrong boy that would ever grace this basement.)

Finally Albert had reached the door, grabbing hold of it and the doorframe for stability as he forced his body through the doorway, when he heard a sound.

When he heard a ring that burst through the air with a dull intensity.

And then, after the single ring, he heard another sound.

A soft, almost questioning, grunt of acknowledgement.

The boys had called Finney. And Finney… he had answered.

Albert cast a narrowed (almost fearful) look over his shoulder, a part of him expecting to see the boy he really should have killed days ago slumped against the wall as he hoped it would prop him up long enough to end the man who took his best (and probably only) friend from him.

But he didn’t see Finney. He didn’t see anything– or anyone.

He definitely didn’t see Finney clawing his way towards him, desperate to put up a fight that The Grabber cursed Robin for igniting within him in the end. And he definitely didn’t see anything in the shadows lurking in the room that looked like bloodied faces twisted with display, anger or just nothingness.

Albert didn’t spare his brother a single glance as his eyes pointedly flew away from the direction of the narrow hallway and back towards the dark staircase that loomed before him.

And, as he hopped over the threshold of the basement– as he then began to close the door, he definitely didn’t hear Samson call out to him.

He didn’t hear anything except the ringing that echoed through his mind and drowned out everything else. And he only stopped hearing that irritating and haunting ringing when he closed the door with a large thud and ensured the lock was clicked into place.

Then he began his climb up the rickety staircase, allowing the wooden handrail to support his weight as he hopped up each step and prayed the handrail or his body wouldn’t give in and collapse.

Albert tightened his shaky grip on the handrail, his knuckles a ghastly white color as he flicked his eyes upwards– towards the dim light pouring through the open door in the kitchen and sliding down the staircase to greet him. Or give him hope– a motivation that he was nearly there. That he had nearly made it, so he must not let go of that handrail and tumble down the staircase like Billy had.

Well, Billy didn’t tumble down the staircase. He mostly flew past the first few steps at the top of the staircase (thanks to the help of The Grabber) and then he began tumbling down the staircase when gravity claimed him again, hitting every step and scraping against the wall as he fell to his doom. Towards the room that wouldn’t be his final resting place, but would be the place his soul would be condemned in.

But Albert refused to meet the same fate. As he gazed up at the almost heavenly light beckoning him towards it – to safety and freedom – he knew his fate wasn’t the grimy floor of the basement.

Because he wasn’t naughty like they were. And he didn’t deserve that, not like they did.

Albert smiled up at the light that was dimming thanks to the dark of the night slowly crawling into the sky and pushing away the gloomy clouds the sky only partially managed to break through today. And then, he continued his journey.

Well he did, until he noticed something.

A thudding sound. A thudding sound that was… following him with every hop he took.

The hairs on the back of Albert’s neck instantly stood to attention when he realized that he might not be alone.

(Well in a different way than he usually was.)

Slowly, like he was reluctant to actually do what needed to be done.

(Like he was scared of what – or who – he would find stumbling after him, chasing him, to his freedom.)

But, when Albert risked a wavering gaze coated with simmering terror and fury over his shoulder…

He knew he shouldn’t feel that rush of relief when he found nothing lurking behind him. After all, he knew he wasn’t alone.

And, sometimes, the naughty boys’ pranks on him did cause him harm. And maybe this would be one of those times when they made their presence known, spooked him and then delivered the final blow that would always make the phone ring so their giggles and taunts could pour into Albert’s ears.

Albert turned his head, eyes flickering upwards at the door he couldn’t yet see. Would they make it slam shut when he was just about to reach it? Make him stumble backwards until he loses his balance and plummet back towards the room where more than just their lives were taken from them?

Or would they make Albert think they would do something… and simply not?

Albert hoped that it was the latter. Because, if they somehow managed to shock him into stumbling down these rickety steps… he wasn’t sure if he could muster up the energy to climb (or maybe crawl) back up them again.

The almost permanent frown marring his face deepened as he sent a questing look towards the trembling and weak light, eyes imploring it (or someone) to do something. To help him.

But the light didn't– it couldn’t do anything more than what it was doing. Shining and leading him back to where he belonged.

And Albert would be a fool not to continue, even if there was a possibility he would end up in the basement again thanks to one of the naughty boy’s tricks.

Somehow, Albert managed to tighten his grip on the handrail even more. Somehow, he forced his body not to crumble.

Somehow… he made it to the gloomy freedom he never thought he would see again with his own two, very much alive, eyes.

Like a puppet that had all of its string cut, Albert’s body suddenly fell through the open doorway when his foot landed on the last step. But Albert didn’t care, not even when his body hit the ground with a great thud that shook the house and its foundation.

He didn’t care that there was a new burst of pain making itself known for a moment. Because, after that moment, a much bigger and much more persistent agony drowned it out. An agony that, for another moment, Albert pushed aside and allowed a stilted laugh escape his lips.

Because he had made it...

Albert had fucking done the very thing (well one of the things so far) that Finney, with the help of the other lesser naughty boys, set out to do today.

(He had done what nearly all of his boys failed to do— escape that hell-hole.)

The dying sun hit his face. But it didn’t warm his flesh. Instead, it almost made it… colder?

Albert shook his head at that thought, already having an inkling why it felt like that. After all, he was injured. And he knew what an injury could do to someone… even if the biggest part of their injury was left in their basement to rot with their brother and best (and only) friend.

As the drab beams of sunlight floating through the window continued to fade, Albert’s chuckle followed suit. After all, he still had things to do. And he couldn’t waste all of his time after his victory giggling to himself like a madman some people would claim him to be.

“I know what you are,” Vance spat the words from his mouth like they disgusted him too much to even have them in his possession anymore, spittle flying into the air and hitting the smiling mask of his capture and future murdered, “You fucking  freak ,” he added like that would hurt the man more than he would ever be able to hurt him.

And, in a way, it did. But also, it didn’t.

After all, The Grabber would soon promise to make it  really  hurt. Worse than anything The Grabber would do to a boy…

Until Finney Blake, of course.

He had a lot of things to do. But first, he needed to get up off this floor and find a doctor willing to believe whatever story he concocted. Or maybe a doctor who was too exhausted (or maybe one who just didn’t care enough) to ask prodding questions to gain the truth Albert would never reveal.

After all, Albert knew how to lie and deceive people. The past few years he may have only been deceiving naïve boys who would eventually desperately believe anything he told them. But, lately, he had also been deceiving an adult– his brother. Well, he did… until he suddenly found himself unable to anymore.

Slowly Albert placed his palms onto the floor. It was almost like he was reluctant to remove himself from the solid ground he had once watched his mother half lay half sit, crumpled on like a ragdoll that wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be human and force her body to move on its own while her flesh turned red, threatening to bruise.

And like his mother who normally had blood dripping down from her nostrils or from whatever cut her husband’s wedding ring left on her face, Albert found the strength to stand back up… even as his body told him it would be easier to just stay down.

Eventually he began pushing his body away from the ground that had probably seen more bloodshed and pain than the basement. No matter how hard The Grabber tried to change that, Albert had a feeling he never would.

But when he began trying to pull his body closer together so he could try to rise without tumbling back onto the floor, something stopped him.

Chapter 5: A series of Discoveries

Another flare of… pain stopped him.

A pain that was quickly becoming familiar… even if now, it should be impossible.

There was a pain, a resistance, from where his foot should be. But that was impossible, wasn’t it?

So why did he hear a dull thud sound when he tried to drag his leg into position like its no longer unidentical twin limb?

Why didn’t his right leg move when his left one, compared to this, moved so effortlessly and swiftly into position?

Why did he head a dull thud when he tried to move his right leg forwards?

Why did his leg almost… resist the movement Albert was trying to achieve? A movement that Albert knew should be easier on his exhausted body to create now that a weight was removed from it?

A strange concoction of emotions suddenly churned to life in his stomach. For once, overriding the pain and drawing it out with a sense of irritation, weariness… and confused hope.

With his body twisted and bent into a position that probably looked similar to one of his mother’s yoga poses, Albert dared himself to glance over his shoulder and towards the stump he knew should be there, covered by his trousers or maybe even peaking out to taunt Albert with what he lost.

And, when he finally caught sight of that stump… he realized it wasn’t a stump. Because, as Albert cautiously flexed his knee and lifted his leg higher, away from the last step his stump was on the edge of, he saw something.

He saw something hanging on for dear life.

He saw his foot… which wasn’t possible.

He saw–

Ring

He leg dropped down onwards the hard and unmerciful ground, his foot following suit to wobble over the edge of the staircase while the tip of his shoe scraped against the wooden step each time it swayed until it began to stabilize and still.

Shock immediately slammed into Albert’s face as he stared into the darkness that was lurking in the staircase.

The darkness that–

Ring

Albert gulped, unsure how this was possible.

Ring

Unsure how the boys could demand his attention– make themselves known when their spirits were safety locked away–

Ring

Unless they weren’t. Unless they had–

Ring

Albert’s shoulders suddenly sagged with relief when he realized something. Something very important that he didn’t know how he managed to forget.

That wasn't the sound of the black phone, that was still safely tucked away in the basement, liked to make. Something he should have realized sooner. After all, he could never hear that black phone up here. Not with the door closed.

(But sometimes, more times than he liked to admit, he could. And he hated it.)

That was the sound of something Albert had replaced instead of immortalizing forever underground. That was the sound of something that sometimes, unfortunately, made Albert freeze before he realized that, like now, it didn't mean the dead were calling out to him.

Because the phone in the kitchen wasn't used by the dead. It was used by the living– and only the living.

(No matter how hard those naughty boys tried to change that fact, they couldn't. And that fact always filled Albert with relief. And satisfaction.)

Slowly, Albert's eyes drifted towards the phone mounted to the kitchen wall. It was almost like he didn't want to see if he was… wrong. If that shrill ringing really wasn't being emitted from that white phone. If he was hearing that black phone crying out that eerie wail it possessed through the soundproofed room it was trapped in, clearer than he had ever heard it before.

(He didn't want to know if one of his worst fears had become a reality on the one day he had already lost so much.)

The white phone was still ringing, demanding his attention. But soon, it wouldn't be. Because whoever that (alive) person was, calling him and making the phone ring, they would soon give up on their mission. Because Albert hadn't done the polite and right thing– answered the call in a timely manner and did not waste the caller's precious time.

“I have better things to do than wait for you to answer the phone, you know,” Albert's neighbour informed (or just lightly chided) the slightly younger man.

And, once again, Albert didn't resist the urge to roll his eyes. After all, his nosy neighbour couldn't see him, so why did he have to resist his urge?

“I'm sorry, I was… busy,” Albert winced at the latter, vague, world as he glanced down at the small particles of blood embedded under the tips of his fingernails.

Blood that Albert wouldn't remove. Not yet, anyways.

His neighbor gave a dissatisfied huff like she didn't believe him– like the thought her call was much more important that whatever it was her neighbour was doing.

But she was wrong. After all, she had called him to tell him that she had no new information about the latest missing boy.

And Albert had just witnessed, first hand, a brand new development of the case. But of course, even when she poked him for any information he had heard around their small town, he didn't give her any. Not any information she already knew– information she had already told him… and most of Albert's other neighbors.

It was her. It had to be her, he could feel it in his bones.

And if he didn't pick up the phone soon and very fast…

Well, everyone in the neighbourhood (and then, eventually, the whole town) would probably be hearing about it.

And Albert couldn't risk his name being passed around from one gossipy mouth to another. Not so soon after the latest victim of The Grabber had gone missing. Not when The Grabber was still fresh in everybody's minds. He didn't want to chance his name being uttered in the same breath (or long, drawn out overaction That routinely happened after Church) as The Grabber’s.

So, to prevent the slight chance of that even happening, Albert knew what he needed to do.

Pick up the phone, apologize and hum every few seconds when she pauses like she was waiting for a reaction. A reaction she would rip apart if it was wrong. But, luckily, Albert’s sounds of attention, interest and sympathy always worked on her.

And they would now, Albert was certain of it. Even if the noises that left his lips– the noises that told her that he was listening and that she was right (after all, wasn't she always right?) were tinged with pain. She probably wouldn't even notice. Or be concerned about until she gathered more information that forced her to care about the strange, strained sounds of agreement that seeped past her neighbor’s mouth and into the almost inaudible static of the phone.

Albert groaned, hatred and annoyance surging within him. And it wasn't because of one of his naughty boys.

It was because of his neighbor's perfectly timed calls. Calls that always seemed to happen after a boy was taken and was just settling into the basement, after Albert paid one of his boys a visit…

Or after the life had left his boy's eyes.

And, of course, after another one of his boys was buried in a shallow grave in the basement of the house across the street.

Albert's fingers flexed, nearly clawing at the flooring of the kitchen as he forced his leg (that he was certain had nothing attached to the bottom of it except scraps of flesh and blood that was cooling and beginning to dry) to move.

And then, he forced his body to crawl towards the phone mounted to the wall. After all, it would probably take longer to hop across the space between where he was near the basement door and where the phone was placed than it would take to crawl and drag his exhausted body along the floor to his goal.

His foot was probably leaving a bloodied trail across the clean floor. But Albert didn't care. Because at least it wasn't knocking into small mountains of dirt and rocks.

At least this, crawling across the floor like a wounded animal, was better than finding the strength through the pain to heave himself up and out of that pit in the basement.

(The pit that he would be forced to fill in– again.)

Or maybe this wasn’t better than finding his way out of that fucking hole in his basement’s floor. Maybe back then, in the hole, he wasn’t used to the pain. Not like he was now.

Maybe, now, he was just used to the pain that, deep down he knew, must still be as excruciating as it was before.

Or maybe it was just the adrenaline trying to ignite within his body, shock and blood loss talking and trying to make him believe that this was nothing compared to that.

(Or maybe it was something else entirely– someone else that was making Albert believe the pain was getting better… almost bearable..)

Finally, Albert reached the spot on the floor where the ringing was the loudest overhead. Finally he had made it…

And, a part of him wished he didn’t.

Because he didn’t think he could resist snapping at his slightly older neighbor if she tried to chide him for his non-existent rudeness… again.

But, even if he did snap and try to bite her head off through the phone… at least he would have answered. At least it would show he was concerned about the boys and eager for any updates his neighbor could offer him.

Updates that mostly happened because of him. After all, the police never made much headway in their investigations of the missing boys that had quickly grown in their numbers over the last year.

Albert didn’t know why the number of abductions increased lately, just like he was certain the police didn’t know either. After all, the only person who would know… was The Grabber.

And he wasn’t telling anybody his reasons.

Albert settled himself onto the ground so he was half sitting, half kneeling on the ground. And then, he moved one hand upwards, the limb cutting through the air and seeking out the white phone mounted on the wall. The white phone that, as Albert stretched his arm out as far as it would go for it, he discovered was just out of his reach.

And really, that shouldn’t be surprising. After all, his father didn’t like his mother even thinking about giving into temptation and calling for help.

And from the floor, nobody could call for help. Help that probably wouldn't even care.

Because they didn’t that one time his mother managed to bring herself to her feet and grasp the phone like a lifeline. She never knew how much she needed until it was in her grasp and there was a voice pouring into her ear asking her what she needed. But what she needed… she didn’t get it. All she got was dismissal…

And later, more bruises when the chuckling policeman at her husband's favorite bar told him what he had heard from one of the phone operators.

As Albert’s fingers flexed around the nothingness hanging in the air, trying not to think about how often his mother’s did the same, he almost gave up.

Almost.

Until he heard the ringing suddenly come to a screeching halt… and then start up again a few seconds later.

Which was… strange. Because whenever Albert used to allow the phone to ring out, or whenever he missed the chance to snatch the receiver from the hook– it never started up again after the time it took for his annoying neighbor to redial the number that must be ingrained on her mind by now.

Unless this wasn’t his neighbor. Because she would never call him back straight away if he didn’t pick up when she first tried to call him.

Albert’s hand hovered slightly awkwardly in the air for another moment as the ringing continued floating from the phone. And then, knowing that whatever this was about, it must be important if whoever was calling was calling again, he forced his hand to glide through the air until it–

Wee-woo…

Immediately, Albert’s hand froze, fingers just grazing the edge of the white phone’s cord when he heard another, unmistakable–

Wee-woo…

Siren.

Police siren.

And it sounded close, so fucking close. Almost like…

Wee-woo!

It was right outside.

Right outside his house where he had a basement that was clearly not a normal basement any other day. After all, Albert had grown lazy and reluctant to remove the sentimental value he couldn’t get from the basement across the street.

After all, most of those boys were skeletons and bits of hair. Their flesh eaten by maggots and their bones gnawed on by rats whenever they made their way day to that burial site.

But this basement, right underneath Albert’s feet, held memories those bodies couldn’t.

(Memories that those bodies could only hold for a short amount of time. But not forever– not like the basement where he kept them captive, fed and scared in. Not like the basement where his games always finished and ended with new blood splatter and a memory Albert could always cherish.)

Memories that Albert couldn’t will himself to completely wash away with bleach. Or remove by throwing away the raggedy clumps of hair that sometimes had pieces of bloodied scalp attached to the roots.

(The hair wasn’t in the basement, not anymore. After all, he did have to keep it presentable for the next boy that stayed there. The next boy that wouldn’t know about the lies The Grabber told him until he looked closer at the walls and noticed the specks of blood hidden between the uneven ridges of the surface. The blood that was never alone– and would soon be joined by new, fresher, blood.)

Wee-woo!

That siren was right outside his house, today of all days. When he had one very fresh dead body of a man Albert knew the police would remember. After all, Max had a way of making himself memorable to people.

With the lines of coke he hadn’t cleaned up before inviting the police inside a house that wasn’t really his anymore (the lines of coke that he laughed about when he sheepishly admitted that part of his tale over dinner that night), the erratic way he probably showed the detectives the in depth board filled with information about the missing kids and the way Max probably insulted them by suggesting they needed his help to break the case…

Well, Max had probably left his mark on the detective’s minds.

Samson, the dead dog in his basement probably would have made an impression in the detectives minds. But he definitely left an impression on Albert. Albert who was now unsure if he was really dead. After all, his foot was still there, clinging onto life. So what if Samson was doing the same?

(Albert knew that, even if Samson was clinging onto life… he wouldn’t be soon. Because Albert couldn’t allow his best friend to suffer like that.)

But the other person in the basement, the person that wasn’t even close to death and decomposing until he was unrecognisable from the smiling photograph the police used to identify him to people who didn’t know one of the middle school’s freaks was, would be very memorable to the detectives. After all, they were searching for another missing boy that, once again, was in Albert’s basement.

They were searching for Finney Blake, the latest missing boy who was on everyone’s minds.

(Or well, he would be until something else happened.)

And, if they entered this house, they would find him. Very much alive.

Just like Max did… before he died.

Albert didn't know it was possible to repeat history again. He didn’t know if his body was capable of doing that.

But he did know about two people capable of bringing the police to his door.

His brother… and Finney fucking Blake.

His brother, who might have called the police before he ventured down the forbidden staircase leading to the basement.

And Finney, whose wails for help last night could have drawn some police calls...

Or maybe somebody saw the boy running through the street screaming like his life depended on it. Maybe they saw a man who, with the mask on, looked more like a monster as he tackled the boy to the ground and eventually stuffed the boy into his black van before driving a few houses back towards his home and the boy’s new prison.

Maybe they didn’t know it was Finney Blake who they saw. Maybe they just saw something suspicious, someone who needed help, and dialled a number of people who were supposed to help.

And maybe, they gave it. Unlike what they gave Albert’s mother.

Wee-woo!

There was more than one possibility why the police were outside.

And now, maybe Albert had an answer about who was calling him.

Wee-woo!

The police. Who probably knew he had a boy ripe for being the perfect hostage.

Albert allowed a groan to slip past his lips, eyes darting towards the open door in the kitchen that led to the soundproof basement as he allowed his hand to stop hovering in the air and fall back to his side.

But, as he did that, his fingers caught on something. Something they weren’t supposed to do.

The cord.

And, as his fingers made contact with the cord – as gravity tugged his hand back towards it – it somehow coaxed his digits to send the phone receiver hurling towards the ground too.

Right into Albert’s lap.

Albert blinked down at the receiver in his lap, something gnawing in his chest as silence finally filled the kitchen. Silence that was broken up by the wail of a police siren.

And, eventually, a tiny voice slipped through the quiet static of the phone.

“Hello?”

A voice that demanded Albert’s attention.

“Hello?”

“Hello, are you there?”

A voice would probably demand Albert’s freedom and eventually his life.

“Albert, it’s rude to–”

Or maybe not.

Albert’s shoulders dropped with something akin to relief, hand reaching downwards and snatching the phone from his lap before he allowed a deep breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding seep past his lips as he confirmed, “Yeah, I’m here,” he uttered the words.

And, for once, he didn't have to keep the annoyance from his voice.

Because there wasn’t any in his body.

“Sorry, I–” Albert began, knowing that his neighbor would want an apology for his ignorance soon.

But, before he could give his apology and whatever explanation for his rude behavior… she cut him off!

“Never mind that,” she almost sharply dismissed her neighbor's words– something she had never done before.

But, Albert had never killed his brother, been forced to kill his best friend and refrain from killing a naughty boy before. So maybe this day was full of firsts.

“Do you know?” She immediately went on to demand.

Albert’s brow scrunched up with confusion before he cautiously asked, trying to block out the wee-woo of the siren outside, “Know what?” He eventually asked, unsure if he really wanted to know or not.

But he did. He really did.

A disappointed tut seeped through the phone pressed against Albert’s ear– a tut he could feel in his bones as she probably shook her head and muttered, almost to herself, “Of course you wouldn't know.”

“Know what?” Albert repeated, glancing between the basement door and his foot like he was ensuring it was really still with him and not rotting in the basement with Max and Samson.

(Rotting like Finney should be.)

“What the police are doing across the street,” she helpfully informed her neighbor, unaware of the impact of her words.

Unaware of the way she made Albert’s blood turn to ice before he finally managed to part his numb lips and stutter out, “P-police?” He asked like a child who had only learnt how to utter one word.

She paused, Albert knew she did. But he didn’t know how long she paused for.

Because, when she finally parted her lips that were always the same shade of red, it felt like an eternity had passed since Albert had the misfortune of hearing her dry and gravelly voice.

“You really don’t know?” The woman asked, disbelief dripping from her voice and sinking into the static of the phone before it simply swam into Albert’s ear.

And, once it did, it was soon dismissed and removed by a simple, harsh scoff that burst to life through the phone line.

“Really Albert,” the woman chided, “What are you doing that’s keeping you so busy,” there was a hint of mockery, an invisible eye roll that Albert could feel hitting his bones even when he heard it, “That you don’t notice the fleet of police cars outside.”

“P–police… cars?” Albert’s mouth gapped open in shock.

How had he missed that?

He knew the answer to that but his neighbor didn’t. And hopefully, she never would.

Albert’s neighbor hummed in confirmation, probably giving a silent nod of her head as she twirled the phone cords around her finger as she peered out of the window, “Yes, police cars, Albert,” her voice grew distant for a moment.

Almost like she was craning her neck to get a better view of something.

Something that Albert felt he heard at the same time his neighbor caught sight of–

Wee-woo

The woman gasped, “There’s an ambulance!” She supplied the information like she had never seen one before and was about to tell her gaggle of friends all about seeing one in the flesh.

“An ambulance?” Albert brow scrunched up as the distant memory of the last time an ambulance invaded their street.

“He slipped and broke his hip,” Albert’s neighbor across the street tutted as she glanced between Albert and her husband who was being wheeled away into the back of the ambulance, “Again,” she muttered, disdain dripping from her voice.

Last year, her voice was filled with a strange kind of fond amusement.

But now, it wasn’t. Because something had changed. Something Albert didn't know.

But, he had an inkling that his next door neighbor would know…

And would gladly tell him, without him even asking.

“Yes, an ambulance,” she carefully (and quite slowly) pronounced the latter word like Albert was a child who had just uttered it wrong.

But Albert hadn’t. And, if he was being honest, she was the one who–

“Oh my,” the woman once again let out a dramatic gasp, probably clutching her pearls that Albert had a suspicion she stole from him when he was moving his magic props to and from the van.

The pearls were, obviously, fake. Just like the concern he could hear trying to taint her voice.

“That’s the coroner.”

Albert didn't think it was possible for his blood to suddenly drop to a heart stopping cold level so soon after he had just coaxed it to something akin to warm. But, he knew better now. He knew anything was possible.

Like his blood feeling like icy sludge in his veins.

Like The Grabber (and Albert) failing to complete the game on schedule.

Like his brother suddenly no longer being with him in the same way he always was…

And like a fleet of police cars, an ambulance and a coroner appearing on his street in the matter of…

How long has it been?

Albert didn’t know. In the basement, time wasn’t really real.

But, up here, where sunlight could pour through the windows without an obstruction and the walls were clad in soundproofing materials, time moved like it always did for other people. Like it should always do.

“The coroner?" Albert quietly repeated his neighbor’s words like a parrot… or a child who was still learning about the world and the people in it.

A world that didn’t care to educate it. Or maybe the world just cared enough to educate it about the things it wanted to

And, right now, his neighbor didn’t want to explain what Albert needed to know to try to rip apart the growing knot in his stomach.

Because she had better things to do.

“I’ve got to go, Albert,” she suddenly uttered like she had something very important to do.

And, for the neighborhood that was filled with curious people who loved to spread gossip around their small town as much as she did, she did have something very important to do.

Albert hummed, knowing that if he let slip a single thing about the missing boys that had caught her and the town’s attention, she would stay on the line.

A part of Albert might want to keep her on the line– try to coax the information from her lips as she gathered it with her watchful eyes, big ears and her other ways Albert didn't quite understand yet. But another, much bigger part of him, was screaming at him to let her end the call.

Because he, like she did, had very important things to do.

And he was certain he could find the information he would have heard from her when she gained it (but only after she had poured it into people’s ears through he static of her phone or whispered it into the ears of the other occupants of the street that were (without a doubt) already congregating outside with the same intent.

Find out what’s happening.

But, unlike Albert, they wouldn’t have an inkling about what was happening.

After all, only Albert knew why the police, an hopefully called ambulance, and a coroner would descend on their street.

They had found the basement in the house across the street.

They had found the graveyard Albert had (not quite painstakingly) buried his naughty boys in.

And, for once, Albert was thankful that he didn’t let The Grabber kill Finney when he planned to. Because, right about now, if he had chopped the boy into tiny pieces after making it really hurt, he would be in that house across the street.

And he would be caught literally red handed with the boy’s blood probably still drying on his hands and the boy’s fresh body in a shallow grave.

(Finney’s body probably would have been fresh enough that, at first, the ambulance workers would be filled with foolish optimism that they could revive him. But, if Albert did what he had dreamed to do to Finney with that axe, they wouldn’t. And eventually, they would realize that too. They would realize that some boys couldn’t be saved. And Finney was one of those boys.)

But they wouldn’t find The Grabber now, would they?

After all, like he always was, he was so careful.

But still, there was always the possibility that they would find Albert– that they would find The Grabber.

But, The Grabber had sworn that nobody would find Finney Blake. Alive, anyways.

(But maybe also dead.)

And The Grabber always kept his promises, didn’t he?

Chapter 6: Returning Home (Part One)

Albert was almost surprised he came back here, to the scene of the crime.

Well, not to the actual scene of the crime. After all, the crimes did not happen in the basement in that house where so many people in different uniforms but identical grim faces poured in and out of.

The crimes happened in the basement more than six feet under the house he grew up in.

(The house that Max was born and killed in.)

The house that, as Albert’s eyes darted towards it through the murky window of the cab, he saw was thankfully void of prying eyes and men and women in uniform who possessed handcuffs would gladly clasp around Albert’s wrists and never let go again.

Albert’s home, that was now solely just Albert’s who he sometimes shared with The Grabber, did not have a stream of people dripping with water running in and out of it. His house did not attract the attention of the eager journalists and their cameras that lined (and sometimes tried to push through) makeshift barricade that Albert hadn’t struggled to get past to go to the hospital.

“Sir… are you okay?”

But now, things were different.

The crown lingering around the erected police barriers had increased…

And the amount of people in uniforms had grown larger than Albert had thought was possible. After all, he didn’t know the precinct even employed this many people. But, apparently, they did.

And Albert would need to slip past all of these people to make it to safety— to make it home to Max.

“I hope you don’t live that far from here,” the cab driver muttered, his head shifting slightly as he allowed his eyes to rake over the scene still unfolding in front of him.

An event that would probably go down in history in their small town (and maybe even the whole state) and the mad in the front of the car probably had no idea. The cab driver might not know exactly what was unfolding— but he, like the many people desperate to grasp even the smallest snippet of information they could get while gloomy clouds above them continued to spit down at them, probably know that it was something… bad.

Something so bad that this many police officers were here.

Albert let out a shuddering breath, resisting the urge to step back over the threshold and scurry back into his house when another siren sounded, announcing the arrival of another police officer who would gladly put him behind bars where he didn’t belong after doing so much good for their community.

And, of course, the coroner was here. And that was never good.

Unless, of course, they had it coming.

“He was a bad man— a horrible man.”

And those naughty boys in that basement, buried in their shallow graves that The Grabber could never visit again, defiantly had it coming. According to The Grabber, at least. But not according to Albert. After all, secretly, Albert thought they deserved worse. Much worse.

(But maybe, Finney could revel in the worse fate that those dead boys were destined for before they managed to escape due to blood loss.)

Albert didn’t allow his lips to slowly curl upwards into a smile at that thought. But, if he did, it would have probably looked like a grimace. A grimace that would have been acceptable amidst this atmosphere— a grimace that would blend right in with the faces that were the perfect picture of sorrow that already felt in their soles even though they hadn’t had confirmation yet.

But, they must know. After all, the bodies in those bags the coroners were wheeling out weren’t big. They weren’t the size of people’s husbands, brothers, friends and sons that were sometimes were barely old enough to sip a beer at a bar let alone hold a gun while they got blown to pieces. They were the size of those bodies that sometimes resembled a puzzle made out of flesh a bits of organs that nobody bothered to try to stuff back into a body.

Those body bags being carted out of that house were large. The standards size for a body bag. But the content — the lumps that moulded the black bag into a shape that must be a body even though it didn’t look much like one anymore — was small.

The size of a child.

Sometimes a decomposed child, who in a few short years would have been quickly drafted straight to Nam if they were still amidst a losing war, but still a child.

A child who had lost the baby fat that clung to their bodies in a way that no mother would have wanted. If they ever wanted that, that is.

“I don’t think I can get through,” the cab driver interrupted Albert’s spiraling thoughts, sounding slightly regretful.

Or maybe he was just disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to break through the barrier and find out what was going on— something that he would no doubt share with the other people trapped this side of the barricade.

Trapped with the vultures who descended on this town when they heard that something big and unmissable was going down. And, if the people of this town didn’t already know that, the arrival of those news stations would have told them.

After all, why would those news stations that didn’t belong to this area be here is something big wasn’t happening? Something that nobody wanted to miss.

Something that some people couldn’t afford to miss. Like these journalists from different news stations— some of which Albert didn’t even recognize the same of when he saw their vans. But those vultures recognized something big when they saw it— something that could change their lives and destroy Albert’s in the same second.

Those journalists with their camera crew they looked like they would camp out all night for the chance to be the first to report what was happening in this town had had probably caught wind of a story so big they would be a fool to miss.

And, of course, they probably hurried over to catch a story they could probably feel in their bones was going to gain them all the attention someone needed to propel their career to new heights. Heights they didn’t didn’t even think would be possible until The Grabber came along and started terrorizing this small town and giving the journalists enough fodder to cushion their wallets.

Albert snatched his eyes away from the journalists they were sometimes shielded by an umbrella, a hood or nothing at all and directed his attention towards the cab driver. The cab driver who was looking at him through the rear-view mirror with furrow creasing his forehead. And, if Albert could see the man’s lips, a frown would probably be marring those, too.

“Do you know what’s happening?” The man finally asked the question he had probably been dying to ask since he spotted the commotion that was blocking most of the street off.

Albert risked another glance outside, ignoring the small splattering of rain hitting the window and gazing at the growing clusters of people like he had never seen them before. Like he had not just been staring at the crowd and the vehicles he could just make out through the glimpses he caught through the spaces people made when they shifted to get a better look at the coroners as they wheeled another body out of the empty and deserted house.

“No,” Albert simply lied, a hint of apology in his tone as he added, “I don’t.”

The man’s shoulders sagged slightly as he parted his lips as gave himself a consolation prize, “I guess I’ll read about it in the paper tomorrow.”

Albert nodded his head before he arched an eyebrow and helpfully suggested, “Or see it on the news tonight,” he pointed out, catching the man’s eyes in the rear-view mirror before slowly glancing towards the news crews outside the idling cab, willing the other man to see what he was seeing.

Dutifully, the man followed his gaze, understanding flashing in his eyes and reflecting off the closed window next to him before he muttered, “I guess I will,” he uttered like it was a thing he was certain he would be able to do.

And, he probably was. After all, everybody in their community would probably be glued to their television screens tonight…

Or maybe their eager eyes simmering with a disgusting kind of eagerness would be glued to their phones, waiting for someone to call with the information that was the most in demand today. And later, when the news broke about the boys they found in the basement— five and not six of them — their ears would be tightly pressed against the receiver, probably leaving an indent of their flesh as their mouths moved at lightening speed.

The only topic on anybody’s minds tonight would be the discovery the police made in the house across the street from Albert’s childhood home.

The house that was so unsuspecting even when it was hiding the darkest secret this town had ever harbored.

The house that shouldn’t have caught the police’s attention. But, unfortunately for Albert (and probably the dead boy’s families when they were brought in to identify what was left of their sons’ remains) it did. Somehow.

Albert didn’t know how— but he promised The Grabber he would find out how those naughty boys’ resting place was found by the same people that had allowed so many boy’s to be taken from right under their noses. The same people that had failed to catch The Grabber for so many years.

The same people that Albert hoped wouldn’t be able to catch The Grabber, even after their discovery that would evidently change the game they had been playing.

Albert let out a small hum that was void of sympathy and sounded slightly nervous, “I guess we all will,” he mumbled, trying to stop his eyes from straying towards the direction of the house that was now once again out of his view due to the crown shifting with wonder and anticipation.

The driver gave a short not before a gleam appeared in his gaze.

A gleam that would have caused excitement to surge through Albert’s body if he possessed it— and if one of his naughty boys caught sight of it like Albert had caught a glimpse of it glistening in the other man’s eyes through the rear-view mirror.

A gleam that Albert didn’t possess. Not now.

(But maybe he would later.)

A gleam that was directed at Albert… and left him strangely void of any kind of elation. But what it didn’t leave him void of was unease.

Unease that tugged on the knot that had been forming in his stomach since he first set eyes on Finney, decided to bring him home and then everything started deviating from the well known path that never changed. After all, all naughty boys were the same— they did the same things… eventually.

And, of course, Finney was no different. Until… he was.

The knot boiling in his stomach acid gladly accepted the unease that suddenly sparked within him, allowed it to wind itself around the tightly coiled cocktail of emotions and bind itself to it. And of course, the uncomfortable knot would not let the latest wave of emotion go.

Not easily, anyways.

But maybe when everything returned back to normal— when the police were sniffing around the street but had no clue of the monster they were questioning about a boy The Grabber knew in a way nobody else had the pleasure of knowing. And when The Grabber’s latest naughty boy was—

“But you’ll know before the rest of us,” the driver uttered like a fact, his words drawing a line between Albert and the other people who live on this street his cab was idly sat on and the rest of their community who could probably plead innocence and ignorance and be believed, “Won’t you?” He added, the question that was uttered like an afterthought to calm down a person he didn’t know if would turn into an unforgiving monster at the tone of his words.

Well, his accusation.

The start of an accusation that his question tried to soften the blow of. Before, of course, the driver opening his mouth and continued.

And nothing could soften his words, no matter how light he tried to make them. No matter how hard the driver tried to make it seem like he wasn’t accusing Albert of hiding the truth from him, Albert knew he was. It only became more obvious the longer the driver spoke.

“I mean you live on this street…”

“So I must know something?” Albert asked, cocking his head to the side slightly as his voice raised an octave and doused itself in something akin to amused but also pained disbelief.

The driver gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes skipped between the rear-view mirror and the man encompassed within its boarder and the crown of people gathered around the line of police barriers he didn’t dare trying to breach.

After all, everybody in town knew about Albert Shaw. Everybody knew he didn’t like to tip.

Unless of course, he found something about the waiter (but rarely a waitress unless, of course, Albert found too many pairs of eyes on him) he found worth tipping for.

The cab driver knew that the man who didn’t like to be parted with his money easily wouldn’t even throw him a nickel for even attempting to get his through the barricade and a few more steps closer towards his door. Something that he probably needed, considering the condition of his… leg.

The driver brought a curled hand to his mouth, hitting that flesh with a cough that he didn’t need to expel from his mouth. But it was a cough that gave him more time— time to explain himself. And hopefully enough time to kill whatever anger that might be bubbling up inside of the man in his backseat— anger that he would have inherited from his notorious father.

“He seems so… different,” the woman muttered, a contemplative look fluttering across her face as she watched her son play with one of the Shaw brothers.

The older brother— Albert (Al for short if the child was trying to create a bond with someone that wasn’t already there) was holding the baseball, getting ready to throw it towards the other boy.

And inside the house, peering at the two children that would soon be joined by Max (just Max) when he finished his chores and stopped weeping from his punishment his father had likely forced his wife (or maybe he even did it himself if he could put the bottle down long enough) to inflict on him, the woman watched as Albert gave a short laugh before he threw the ball.

The woman next to her, glanced between her friend and the scene happening outside of the window, “Different?” The woman next to her arched an eyebrow, her voice slightly terse as a questioning gleam that was flickering whit disgust appeared in her eyes and imploring her friend to continue.

And she did, while wearing a frown that matched her friend’s, she clarified, “Not different,” her brother furrowed as she gave an quick, insistent shake of her head, “Not like that,” she paused, thought about that idea for a moment, “Well, yes... maybe he could be different like that,” her lips tugged further downwards, taking anther cautious and not unnerved glance back out of the window at her son who that Shaw boy could be corrupting and turning to sin, “But… I’m surprised he’s so different from his father,” she bit her lip, voice lowering slightly as she almost uselessly added, “The man who raised him.”

Her mouth was sealed shut, not allowing the words on the tip of her tongue to dive into the air. But maybe she didn’t need to say them. Maybe her friend already knew about the critique that was doused with confusion.

After all, how could Mr Shaw raise a boy like that? How could he allow his son to turn into somebody everybody was beginning to suspect wasn’t… normal.

Her friend next to her gave her a look filled with unspoken understanding that didn’t take long to dawn on her. After all, anybody in this small town would be able to connect the dots only a few people would dare make public and risk Mr Shaw’s wrath.

Everybody knew how different Albert was to his father.

Nobody thought that Albert could be anything like the man some people suspected he didn’t have the same blood as him coursing through his veins.

Because Albert was different from his father.

Until, of course, he wasn’t.

Anger that the cab driver only heard about through the grapevine of whispers that spread around their small town. Whispers of a young Shaw child who finally showed a flare of his father’s wrath.

“He’s a late bloomer. But I’m telling you, he’ll be like his father someday,” the woman uttered like she was telling a fortune that was destined to become true.

But the people around her didn’t believe her. After all, what Albert did to that other boy didn’t begin to compare to the things they knew his father was capable of.

And maybe it was a one time thing— a burst of unruly emotion that Albert would come to regret.

No matter how much his father smiled at him with something akin to pride glistening in his eyes when he looked at his son afterwards— when he bragged to his friends about his eldest son he seemed to be finally delighted to call his…

They knew Albert wasn’t like that. They knew he wouldn’t do that (or something much, much worse again) right?

Here he was, sitting in the cab with the son of one of the most ruthless and sadistic men that didn’t bother hiding in sheep's clothing. And Albert was just… waiting.

Waiting for the driver to part his lips, give Albert more ammunition to build an excuse as to why he hurt him.

The man behind the steering wheel gulped, wishing he had never opened his mouth as the almost familiar darkness in Albert’s eyes swirled and seemingly called out to him to give him what he wanted.

Give him what he needed.

He didn’t. But he was certain that other people in this town wouldn’t be to wise. They would continue, without remembering the threat coursing through Albert’s blood, and they would accuse Albert of knowing something… just like they would accuse anybody else who lived on this street.

The street where The Grabber chose to bury the town’s naughty boys.

The street where it’s occupants must have seen realized that something was amiss. That a monster lurked on their street and disposed of the boys the town spent so much time searching for… and eventually they would spend so much time mourning.

After all, soon, they would have confirmation about what everybody already knew. Deep down, everyone knew that the boys The Grabber took were dead. They got that confirmation that quickly snuffed out any hope clinging onto their hearts that a boy was still alive… when another was taken.

Mrs Arellano’s sobs had increased the day Finney Blake was taken. Because she knew what it meant. The Grabber had finished, he had had his fun, with her son. And now, The Grabber had taken another boy to have more fun with.

Albert didn’t know what Terrence Blake, the man who reminded him so much of his own father, would do when he was informed that they didn’t find his son’s remains in the basement. Would he be filled with hope that his son was still alive? Or would be be filled with despair when he realized that his son may still be alive… but he was still with the monster who everybody knew did unspeakable things to the boys in his care.

Terrence Blake would probably be sitting in his armchair, just like his father did before him, trying to find the answers to his question in the bottom of a bottle. Trying to drown out his grief he would never dare let anybody else see.

Grief that would probably be hard to hide the day The Grabber came back and stole another boy.

That is, if The Grabber took another boy.

Because now that The Grabber’s burial site was found… he couldn’t dispose of his boy’s quickly and efficiently...

He couldn’t dispose of Max and place him with those naughty boys he tried so hard to find.

But, at least before he died, he had the comfort of knowing he did find a naughty boy. But only one.

One that was doomed in a way Max would probably be forced to witness first hand as his spirit clung to the basement he was slaughtered in.

“Thanks for the ride,” Albert curtly uttered before he reached into the pocket of his trousers he was forced to change into before he left for the hospital due to the amount of his brother’s blood scattered across the material, found his wallet and pulled out some notes.

Notes that he knew wouldn't be enough to pay for the ride. But he also knew that the driver wouldn’t say a word about it— he wouldn't’ demand the right amount from him.

After all, Albert saw the way the man looked at him. He saw that he caught sight of the darkness that lurked withing him— the darkness The Grabber must have placed within him for only certain people to see just because he thought it would be funny.

The man was afraid of him. Or maybe he was just afraid of the blood that surged through his veins and threatened to takeover him any moment.

But that was okay. Because, sometimes, Albert was afraid of that too.

A small smile slipped onto Albert’s lips as he moved the hand filled with money towards the front of the vehicle, “That should cover it, shouldn’t it?” Albert paused, face twisting with something akin to worry before his voice took on an apologetic tone, “You see, that’s all I have…” he trailed off, almost shamefully averting his gaze from the man who was no longer looking at him through the rear-view mirror, “But if I pick up another shift, I can—“ he was just about to continue his lie when he was cut off.

By the driver, who had both pity and sympathy in his gaze as he almost reluctantly accepted the money.

“It’s okay,” the driver reassured the man he was now seemingly unable to look at as he glided the money out of Albert’s grip, “I’ll let you off this time,” he muttered as he pulled the money closer to him and away from Albert, almost like he was worried the other man would snatch it away again when he uttered the next words, “And maybe next time if you’re still not working.”

His latter words seemed to confuse the man in the backseat.

“Not… working?” Albert slowly uttered the words like it was the first time he had heard them and was trying to ensure he pronounced them correctly, a truly bewildered furrow appearing in his brow as his stared at the back of the man’s head.

The man who, once again, realized he should have just kept his mouth shut.

Because maybe it had been a mistake to point out the obvious. The obvious that maybe, Albert Shaw who was more like his father than most of this community would ever know, hadn’t made peace with yet.

After all, the driver knew it was hard to come to terms with certain… changes about a person’s body. After Nam, he had many friends struggle to accept that their body would never be what it once was. It would never be… complete like it used to be.

And, as he risked a glance at the man who had a sense of bewilderment (and possibly a undercurrent of brutality bubbling under his features), he realized something.

Albert hadn’t accepted one simple fact yet. The fact that he was changed.

And, if he could return back to work when his body was healed and his emergency funds had dwindled…

Would anybody want to employ a one legged magician?

Could Albert be employed like that ever again?

Or would he be forced to find a new job that was far, far away from children and the sounds of their laughter?

Chapter 7: Returning Home (Part Two)

When Albert finally stepped out of the cab, the heavens decided to reward his restraint and patience with an increased downpour.

The rain while Albert was trapped inside that car with that driver, who he really wished he could stick a knife in, could barely be classified as rain. Instead, it was more like spittle hitting the car windows the same way small sprays of Albert’s boss’s saliva used to hit his face when he got too close. And when his dentures weren’t correctly placed in his mouth— which happened a lot.

But now, when he freed himself from the vehicle that didn’t smell as bad as the basement did— but was very close to being so— the gloomy clouds looming above his head didn’t spit down small and thin droplets of water that Albert would have easily brushed aside like his mother used to dismiss the residue aftermath of Max’s tantrums he had as a child. Tantrums that he quickly grew out of with the help of their father’s harsh and unmerciful belt.

The drizzle of rain did not signify the end of a dying downpour Albert had missed when he was inside the hospital. Instead, it was just another short hiatus the clouds took when it was gathering enough water to ensure Albert didn’t feel left out. To ensure that he was coated in as much water as the slightly soggy people rushing in and out of that house across the street were.

And, thanks to Albert lack of foresight (and maybe his hurry to leave his home and get help before his foot dropped off) meant that he did drenched by the flurry of raindrops that were suddenly unleashed by the clouds to pelt him. And by the time he hobbled and hopped (with the aid of the crutches he knew he would have to get used to) to the barrier, he realized something. Something that made him grit his teeth as he tried to suppress a shiver and didn’t surprise the mental curse he was throwing at his past self.

Without a coat to try to ward off the raindrops, he was more soaked than the people in uniforms moving in and out of the house in a much faster fashion. After all, they didn’t like to get wet, either. And, unlike Albert, if they got caught in the latest downpour, they couldn’t strip off the soggy material and replace it with bone dry clothing.

Something that Albert had done before he decided to venture out of his childhood home in search for help. Help that he wouldn’t have gotten if he crawled out of his home covered in blood that wasn’t his own.

Help that would probably only be reluctantly given to him while he was in handcuffs. Handcuffs that would probably never leave his wrists until he was given the needle.

Albert didn’t have the foresight to grab his or Max’s coat before he left his childhood home where his brother’s body was rotting in the basement. But he did have the sense to wipe every drop of blood from his flesh and pull on some other clothes that were void of splatters of blood.

Blood that, if the police even caught a glimpse of him instead of that ambulance worker when he tried to slip into his van, they would have probably arrested him. Because they had just found The Grabber’s burial site… and the man who had flecks of somebody else’s blood coating his body and attire would have been suspicious. Too suspicious.

But, thankfully, that ambulance worker wasn’t suspicious of the man who was injured without a drop of blood on his clothing or flesh. Blood that his clothing should have possessed with an injury like that. But maybe that ambulance worker was distracted…

No— Albert knew she was distracted by the way she kept glancing over at the house with something akin to sorrowful desire in her eyes. But eventually, the cuff of his trouser leg he had painstakingly tugged over his floppy foot and ankle minutes ago did possess a suitable amount of blood when he finally arrived at the hospital.

But right now they didn’t.

Because those trousers that were solely coated with his own blood were disposed of in the hospital after a doctor with an expert hand and very sharp scissors snipped him free from the garment. Something that Albert had previously done that day— but with a knife. And without that much precision.

Albert’s face twisted into a mixture of disgust and anger as he glanced towards the crumpled piled of shredded trousers that he probably wouldn’t even be able to turn into rags to clean the house with due to the amount of blood.

And then. Slowly and almost reluctantly he forced his gaze to drift towards the trousers he had grabbed from a basket filled with clothing Max had promised he would deliver back to Albert as new as the day he got it. Which wouldn’t be that hard to do. After all, when he got those trousers, they already had a few stains on them and they were creased like nearly all of Max’s clothing was.

But Max didn’t deliver Albert’s clothing back to him like he promised he would do. And now, he would never get the chance to do it too.

But maybe, if The Grabber remained free, Albert would have the chance to fulfill another one of Max’s promises he probably never intended to keep.

Albert allowed his gaze to wander over the amount of vehicles and people on the other side of the police barricade, a part of him both dismayed and slightly amused to see that they hadn’t called for another ambulance to replace the one Albert rode to the hospital in.

The ambulance that was called when the basement was discovered and people still held hope bubbling in their desperate chests that they would find someone alive down there amidst the soil. Or maybe not among the soil like the others… maybe just down there. Doing nothing but waiting for his white knights in police uniforms who had failed to save the previous boys who had been in his situation.

Albert had missed the part where the police and detectives swarming the house have realized they they wouldn’t find anyone alive down there— or anybody who resembled a missing child who still looked like their missing poster.

After all, most of his naughty boys down there was decomposed, their flesh parting from their bones and looking more and more like a prop from a horror movie. And Robin…

Well Robin’s body was still riddled with cuts, even as his flesh started to discolor and bloat, so he wouldn’t look like the slightly brooding child who tried to look like he would fight anyone who didn’t think he looked like the (once second until he was the only) toughest kid in school. Robin wasn’t smiling in that photograph that circulated with the pinned up missing posters. And he wasn’t smiling in death.

But, in that photograph, his flesh hadn’t been wounded like it was when he died. It hadn’t looked like somebody had reached into those deep gashed and tried to tear the ripped flesh from his bones.

That ambulance ride that Albert took for himself was for Finney. Even if nobody dared to say it— they all knew that he had the most chance of still being alive. The Grabber had stole those naughty boy’s lives, and Albert had stole the ambulance ride that was meant for Finney. But together, they had stole much, much more.

They had stole hope and instilled fear in its wake.

Because The Grabber was still at large. In fact, he was right there in front of all these police officers, waiting. Waiting for so many things that made the knot in his stomach throb.

But the thing he was waiting here, at this barrier he managed to excuse himself to the front of, was something else.

Permission.

Permission he didn’t care if he received from his naughty boys. But permission he needed from the police to get home.

And to clean up…

Well, everything.

But not Finney. Not yet, anyways.

The police officer who had been giving the same muttered words to anybody who asked about what was happening, spotted the injured man.

The injured man who he recognized. But only because it was a small town. And that magician both made his daughter laugh and cry during his performance at her birthday party last year. The final year before she demanded she wanted something different. Something that involved a tiara, fairy wings and pink. So much pink that the officer feared he would never rid his home of it.

“Albert,” the officer greeted like they were old friends, a strange type of relief sparking to life in his eyes as he was finally free to direct his attention towards one of the few people who hadn’t demanded his attention and then proceeded to know what on earth was going on.

And, of course, the officer had to lie to the people in his small community’s faces. He had to say he couldn’t tell them (when he really could), that he didn’t know (when he unfortunately did) and that he’d let them know as soon as he could (but he wouldn’t because thankfully he didn’t have to deliver that bad news).

But maybe he didn’t have to do that with Albert. After all, he had a feeling that Albert would know what was happening on this street before any of these other people. Because he lived on this street. In fact, quickly scarily, he lived right across the street from the house they were raiding for bodies.

The officer had a feeling his fellow policemen and sometimes women would liked to have a word with him. A word with everyone on this street. And, as they talked, they would have to reveal what they found in that house. They would to search for information about The Grabber— a monster they didn’t know how close he lurked until they discovered the basement.

Albert would soon be questioned, whether before or after an official statement was released from the public was unknown. But what was know was one thing: he would be talking to the police in the future. The future that was getting nearer and nearer with every body that was wheeled from that house and with every question and word the police officers exchanged.

But, right now, Albert wasn’t being questioned about The Grabber’s activities or his suspicions. And, thankfully, he wasn’t a suspect in this case— at least he thought he wasn’t.

Right now was just Albert Shaw, freshly injured, and looking to go home to rest after his ordeal. His ordeal that he would probably solemnly remark later that it was not as horrible as the missing boys’.

Right now, the officer was looking at him like he would provide him with a welcomed reprieve from the flurry of questions being hurled at him. And, Albert would. But not for long. After all, he had other things to do. And other people to deal with.

“Hey,” Albert greeted the officer, taking a quick glance over the officer’s shoulder as the rain plummeted onto them, “Can I get through?” He asked, jerking his downwards to gesture towards the barricade made out of yellow police tape and human officers that must have done something to annoy their superiors to ensure they were standing out here in the rain instead of—

Right. The basement. Albert only realized that being inside that house would not be considered being better than being out here in the downpour when he noticed the other officer idling next to barricade and refusing to comment about what was going on. The other officer who had some residue of smeared vomit stuck in his mustache. A mustache that would have been impressive… if it wasn’t for the officer’s breakfast that clung to the strands of hair. The strands of hair that Albert was being to realize looked more and more like pubic hair the longer he gazed at it.

The officer who told Albert he could keep the change after finishing his daughter’s birthday party furrowed his brow at the man’s question.

And, as he heard somebody next to him on the barricade throw another question at another officer, Albert realized why.

So, to give the officer in front of him a reason to allow him to pass through while the others couldn’t, he parted his lips that were dripping with cold water and informed him, “My house is over there,” he jutted his chin out, eyes once again flying over the officer’s shoulder to get him to see his problem.

Albert’s house was behind the barrier. In fact, it was right in the middle of it, with no way to get to it except ducking under this flimsy yellow tape.

“You live… here,” the police officer chose his words carefully, but he wouldn't stop the wince from creasing his features as his eyes scanned around the houses and landed on one in particular.

The one that was the sauce of all of this chaos.

“Yeah, I do,” Albert confirmed, debating whether or not to let go of one crutch to use his hand to point towards the direction of his house before he thought better of it.

After all, he was still getting used to these crutches. And he really didn’t want to fall over in the rain that made everything slippery. He didn’t want to fall over with all these people to witness his humiliation. A humiliation he would be forced to make a laugh erupt from his mouth and maybe make a joke or two— just like he did when he was performing a magic trick that may or may not be in the middle of going wrong.

So slowly, and with a slight wobble he quickly mended when he remembered the amount of eyes that would see any fall and the amount of mouths that would spread it to as many willing ears as it would reach, he lifted one crutch off the ground.

Carefully, Albert ensured he didn’t hit the officer the the object that was only slightly (and very hesitantly) raised from the slick ground and pointed towards the direction of the house across the street from the one that was buzzing with too much activity.

“Right over there,” Albert pointed out, quickly dropping the end of his crunch back tot he ground and willing himself to stabilize again when the officer’s eyes shot towards the house he tried to direct his gaze to.

And, thankfully, the officer’s gaze landed on the right house. The house that was thankfully neglected by the other police officers.

“You live… there?” the officer asked like he couldn’t quite believe it— like he desperately needed the part-time magician to burst into a fit of laughter and tell him he was joking.

That, no, of course he didn’t live across the street from The Grabber’s burial ground. That, no, of course he may or may not be one of people that had the chance to catch a glimpse of The Grabber. And that, no, Albert didn’t live across the street from where those missing kids were buried.

But Albert did live across the street from The Grabber’s burial ground. He did manage to catch a glimpse of The Grabber (every time he looked in a mirror). And he definitely did live across the street from the place those kids were buried— because he wanted to.

But now, he wouldn’t be able to live across the street from those naughty boys that were so close and yet so far away at the same time. Soon, they wouldn’t be close. Their bodies would only be far away soon— and The Grabber would never be able to touch them again. Physically, at least.

After all, he still had the phone.

And he still had Finney— who Albert knew at least one of them cared about. And would be kicking himself for not allowing Finney to die like the rest of them when The Grabber gave him the chance to. A chance that Robin selfishness snatched away from his friend.

His friend that Albert knew Finney would hate when The Grabber was finished with him.

Albert didn’t smile at that thought, knowing it was for the best. After all, nobody else here was smiling so, if he did do such a thing, it would only draw attention. Attention (and alter questions about how he could be fucking smiling at a time like that— a time when the missing kids’ bodies were being wheeled out of a hell hole) that Albert didn’t need to attract.

All he needed to do right now, was attract this officer’s sympathy.

But he had a feeling, once the officer realized Albert’s condition, he would only receive his pity.

And Albert hated receiving people’s pitying looks. Almost as much as Max hated his dealers cutting his cocaine with—

“Are you sure?” The officer suddenly asked, cutting through Albert’s thoughts and instantly tugging his lips into a displeased (and slightly irritated) frown.

Albert gave the officer an exasperated look, careful not to add too much ferocity in it as he tiredly asked, “Why else would I want to go in there?” He asked, arching a moist brow that the raindrops were seemingly tying to penetrate every time they splattered against his flesh.

The officer bit his lip, sending a subtle glance towards the rest of the people on Albert’s side of the barricade. People who had probably tried to get though to get a better look. Or, like the journalists and their people trailing after them whit cameras— a chance of a picture that could change their lives.

Albert rolled his eyes, letting out a slightly amused huff as he pointed out, “You know I’m not a reporter. I’m not nosy enough to be one,” he paused, giving the officer who resolve was hopefully crumbling like the harshness of his face a pointed look before he reminded him, “Not like my neighbor is,” he jerked his head towards his neighbors house, “Who’s already on your side of the tape.”

“She is?” The officer uttered like he was once again hoping he hadn’t heard what the other man had just said.

But he had heard Albert correctly.

Albert gave a short nod, trying to fight the smile that tried to push its way onto his lips — something it was only able to do because of the pain relief prescribed to him — as he continued, “You know her,” Albert watched as a furrow creased the officer’s brow as he delivered the final blow, “She’s the woman who told everyone about your wife’s”

Immediately, the officer’s face darkened.

And Albert decided to add just one last stab to the officer’s heart. Just because he could.

“And yours.”

Silence didn’t fill the air thanks to the sounds of the rain plummeting and then exploding on the ground once it made contact. And thanks to the people around them.

But, if it was just the two of them with only this piece of flimsy tape separating them…

Albert knew he would be devouring the silence and the unspoken weight it held. And he would be enjoying it so much more than he was now. Because, right now with everything that had happened and the possibilities of what could happen, it was hard to enjoy anything.

And maybe, when the officer went home tonight or in the early hours of the morning, Albert didn’t want him to be able to brush off what happened today like he probably did every other day on his job. He wanted to make it memorable— to make it hurt. And maybe Albert also wanted the officer’s wife to hurt, too. But of course, the pain that would be inflicted on her wouldn’t be from Albert’s hand.

After all, Albert didn’t like to get his hands dirty… not like The Grabber did.

“Right,” the officer’s voice was gruff, his face as closed off and as void as emotion as their father’s liked them to be, “Her,” he grunted the word like it disgusted him.

Albert hummed, glancing back over the officer’s shoulder before he cocked his head tot he side and asked, “So, can I come on through?” He asked like he already knew the answer.

But, just to ensure he did, he parted his wet lips and added.

“If I stay on this side of the barrier any longer, talking to you, she will think you’re telling me something.”

The officer quirked a brow, employing him to continue.

“And she’ll demand you tell it to her, too,” Albert added, knowing that this officer would not want to speak tot he woman who tried to ruin his marriage and somehow both ruin and built up his reputation in this town.

After all, Albert knew this officer since they were children. And he knew how much of a temper he had— and how fast he would loose his badge if he gave Albert’s neighbor the punishment for her actions he thought she deserved.

The officer stared at him… but didn’t really gaze at him. Not completely— not like a person who was really looking at Albert would do, anyways.

But nobody really looked at Albert the way they probably should. Because, if they did, Albert knew they would find the monster this whole town was searching for— the bogeyman who haunted this town and its people with tales and rumors that only a few people could confirm. And, unless somebody could master of art of talking to the dead on a very specific disconnect black phone that was safely locked away in the basement (well, right now it was tempting Albert to seal it away in a hole forever) nobody would be able to hear those tales that the Grabber’s naughty boys could tell the world if they had the chance.

The tales they were only able to tell Finney Blake after their eyes had lost their focus, glazed over as Albert coaxed pint after pint of blood from their feeble bodies. And eventually, those eyes would have popped like gruesome balloons that couldn’t wait to deflate and sink into decomposing eye sockets. Well, some of them would have. Albert didn’t think that Robin’s eyes had the chance to do that yet.

Normally, he would know. But with Max, Finney… and everything else, The Grabber hadn’t had the chance to visit Robin like he had visited his other naughty boy’s after their deaths. He hoped he wasn’t resentful and jealous of that fact.

But, if he was, The Grabber didn’t know if he would be able to make it up to the boy.

As Albert stared at the officer in front of him — the officer who wasn’t really looking at him — he was reminded of one of his boys. And it wasn’t Robin.

(Robin who’s eyes probably hadn’t had the chance to deflate and collapse against the drying, deep wells they had clung to even in death. But Robin did have the chance to do something unforgivable— ruin The Grabber’s plan. Turn Finney against his nature and make him the naughtiest boy who (really deserved to be punished) had ever graced The Grabber’s basement.)

It was Billy. Who, near the end of his stay in Albert’s basement, who didn’t really look at The Grabber. Instead, he looked through him… or at something that was nothing in particular. Like that ceiling Billy was so intent on keeping his eyes pinned to even when life was seeping out of his body and The Grabber was taunting him.

Even when Billy probably wasn’t even seeing the ceiling, that unlike the walls had somehow managed to escape the worst of the blood splatter, his distant eyes that were growing more and more glassy with every stab of the knife he kept his eyes glued to the darkness above him. Not wanting to even look at his tormentor.

Which was fine, it really was. Because from Billy, The Grabber had learned to ensure that his other naughty boys were forced look at him— stare at him and give him everything he wanted as he took away their lives and innocence.

But maybe he didn’t like that as much as he thought he would have. Not with Finney Blake, anyways. Finney who somehow saw and knew too much— who made connections and guesses—

“But someone’s coming…”

— that weren’t really guesses that Albert knew he couldn’t blame the naughty boys across the street for.

“He?”

Because Finney Blake was special, just like The Grabber said.

“I want this to really hurt.”

And when Finney looked at The Grabber, he saw Albert.

“This face?” The Grabber mocked.

The boy stared at him, seemingly through the carefully crafted material of the mask and right into his sole. And his eyes…

Finney’s eyes seemed to say, “No— not that face,” the boy gave a deadly blink as Albert's face fluttered behind the mask, “That face,” the boy’s gaze seemed to say, eyes scanning over the way Albert’s features pulsated under the mask.

And Albert…

Well, he could only allow The Grabber to release a dry chuckle from his lips. And he could only watch as it didn’t even unnerve the boy.

It only seemed to annoy him.

But this officer wasn’t special like Finney was.

And he definitely not special (or even young enough) like Billy was.

But his eyes… they still reminded him of Billy.

Billy who was the first taste The Grabber got of a truly broken boy.

A boy who couldn’t (or wouldn’t look) at him during one part of The Grabber’s game. A boy who had willed their mind away from his body in a futile hope to get away from the monster that was intent of destroying him.

(A monster who had tried again and again to slip back into Billy’s field of vision, but to no avail.)

In the end, even if his mind had broken and shattered into too many pieces for The Grabber to gather in the short time he had left with them, Billy did look at him. Once, anyways. And, with Billy, that was enough… at the time.

Even if Billy’s mind wasn't aware of it— even if his mind were too far away for The Grabber to capture and tug back during the last few seconds of their time together…

Billy still looked towards the direction of The Grabber, even if he didn’t really see him right now as the darkness in his vision called for him to give in and let it take him away from the hell hole and the monster hovering over him and greedily drinking in the way his body and mind was giving up.

But Billy had saw him once— they had all saw him once. And that was all The Grabber needed until he decided he needed more.

Until he decided that he needed someone who would look at him in their final moments and see him for what he was— see him completely in a way Billy didn’t. Or, well, wouldn’t.

Because they knew The Grabber. And, in their final days or their final moments, all they saw was the monster and not Albert.

(Albert didn’t want to think about Max. Max who might have looked at The Grabber and see his brother instead of the monster he had so many chances of capturing. Who he probably would have captured if he looked at what was right under his nose sooner instead of stuffing it with white power.)

Right now, this police officer wasn’t seeing Albert. And he definitely wasn’t seeing The Grabber.

Which was good, because he wasn’t The Grabber. Something Max must have known when he looked at Albert. Because, if he had known, he would have found Finney sooner… instead of stumbling on him by accidence when he decided to rebel against his older brother, right?

The officer wasn’t like Billy or like who Albert suspected Finney could easily be after seeing the flickers of an slightly unnerving lack of focus he sometimes captured in that boy’s dark eyes.

The officer’s gaze were distant, but he would force his mind to return to reality. Because reality — this crime scene — was normal for him. And it didn’t make him want to run away like so many of The Grabber’s boys tried to do.

And soon, that focus returned to his eyes and he looked at Albert again. Just Albert who had no traces of The Grabber on his features or body.

“Yeah,” the officer gave a slightly stiff nod as he reached out to the yellow tape that separated them, “You can come on through,” he gave him a tight smile that never reached his eyes— a smile that was just like his father’s — as he wrapped his hand around the tape and tugged it upwards for Albert to quickly slip through before the hoard of people next to him saw the opening and decided to use it for themselves.

But, Albert didn’t slip through. Not right away, anyways.

Because, with these crutches he didn’t think he could easily duck under the heightened tape and make it to the other side of the barricade like the officer intended.

And, when Albert started awkwardly maneuvering his body like a new born fawn who was still learning how to walk. When he started starting and stopping his movements that was filled with uncertainty— when the officer saw his fucking leg, he put a stop to Albert’s actions with one simple sentence.

“What happened, Al?” He asked, using the man’s nickname he had never even thought of using before.

After all, why would he? They weren’t close. And he certainty never mocked or teased the man who was once a boy who was always picked on by others.

Albert paused for a moment before he straightened himself back up to his full height, “Oh, you know,” he let out a dry chuckle that squeezed his heart, “Samson happened,” he explained as he gave an eye roll that felt like betrayal.

Betrayal that quickly evaded his body when he noticed disgust suddenly twist the officer’s features. The officer who then glanced down at the yellow tape he was holding and seemed to be debating whether to close the barrier between them.

Instantly, Albert knew why.

After all, even after his very quick whirlwind romance with a waitress in Vegas that reluctantly ended up in a quick marriage of convenience so Albert could bring his new bride back home with the promise of her never lifting a finger if she stayed with him long enough to ward off the stares and pointed questions that jabbed at the careful facade he had woven. And, she didn’t lift a finger during their marriage. She didn’t even manage to lift a finger as she died.

But, Albert lifted a finger after his marriage… well, he lifted a whole hand whenever anybody asked when he was going to settle down. He lifted that hand, the wedding band wrapped around his finger instantly drawing the attention of whoever was asking before Albert could even begin to utter the words of mourning and devotion to his late wife who tragically passes after they finally conquered the long distance that had been separating them for years.

Albert was a widow who was so consumed by grief and love for his wife — a woman — that he hadn’t taken on another lover. Had the officer forgot?

Or had it been too long— had Albert’s mourning period been too long that people were beginning to forget the woman he had claimed as his bride just for them? Had people forgot about his love of women and were beginning to once again fall back on their old suspicions.

That he was one of them. A fucking... queer.

This officer certainly thought so, Albert knew he did. He saw it in the officer’s eyes and, immediately, he felt the need to go to Vegas again and find someone he could promise the world to for a few months or even years until her lift could be tragically and suspiciously cut short again.

“My dog,” Albert quickly blurted the words, a sense of urgency showing that he didn’t mean to allow to surface, “Samson,” he uttered the name again, much slower this time as the horrible emotion in the officer’s eyes began to die out, “Samson is my dog,” he informed the officer before he forced, glanced down at his wedding ring he still wore even when The Grabber’s mask was attached to his face, “Or, well, he was my dog,” his voice dropped with sorrow as he moved his gaze towards what was left of his leg.

And he knew the officer did the same.

He knew the officer believed his tale.

And he knew the officer was looking at him with pity. Pity that Albert hated… but at this moment he didn’t mind it too much.

After all, if pity was what got him through this barrier, then he would accept it.

Just like the officer accepted his explanation, removed the look of revulsion and unease from his features and hold the tape higher for Albert to maneuver under.

And he did, with some difficulty. But Albert did it.

Finally, he had made it through the barricade.

Finally, he was one step closer to home.

To the basement.

To Max…

And to Finney.

Chapter 8: Returning to the scene of the Crime

Other’s kindness towards him was always unexpected whenever Albert didn’t coax it out of them. But maybe, subconsciously, his injury coaxed pity concealed by kindness and a sense of duty out of the officer this time.

Because, when Albert finally made it onto the other side of the barrier— when the yellow tape was dropped from the officer’s hand like it had suddenly burst into flames he knew better than to get burned by, the officer gave Albert a look. And then, as the yellow tape flopped uselessly back to limply hanging between them and the crowd Albert was no longer a part of, the officer parted his lips.

And he spoke.

“I’ll walk you back to your home, Al,” the officer said, glancing between what was left of Albert’s leg after Finney and Samson’s handiwork and the home he was now beginning to remember belonging to Albert.

Or, well, belonging to Albert’s parents when they were kids. But now that Albert’s parents (and maybe his brother?) was out of the picture, it was passed onto Albert’s possession.

The officer seemed pleased with himself for the suggestion that didn’t seem like a suggestion. Instead, it seemed like a piece of the future that was set in stone— something that couldn’t be changed even if Albert wanted it to be.

And, Albert did want it to be changed.

Because this man in front of him, being splattered by the same rain as Albert. Could have an ulterior motive.

The police officer was pleased with himself, Albert knew he was. But maybe he was too pleased with himself. Maybe he was mentally patting himself on the back for offering to help someone this way— to get away from the crowd and their demands for information he could not share with them. Or maybe… he was congratulating himself for something else.

After all, this police officer and Albert weren’t the same. He didn’t have the same rights as Albert. And, that uniform he wore…

He could tear through Albert’s home if he wanted to. He could do that so easily just if he had a suspicious that something was amiss.

And something was definitely amiss in Albert’s home. And those bloodied clothes that he left so close to the exit of his home would be enough for the officer to poke his nose and eventually barge his body into something he really shouldn’t do if he wanted to keep his life and Albert wanted t keep his freedom.

Or, maybe… that’s what this officer wanted. He wanted an excuse to get inside Albert’s home. And that would be so easy for him to do after walking him to the door. He could do so many things and spill so many lies disguised as the truth to gain entry to Albert’s home and the opportunity to snoop around…

Probably like his superiors wanted.

Because, maybe, they were suspicious of the man who lived, alone, across the street from The Grabber’s burial site.

Maybe they didn’t want to ask him questions like they probably wanted to ask the rest of Albert’s neighbors. Maybe they wanted to make an arrest before they admitted to the state on live TV that they had found the missing children who were buried right under their noses.

Maybe they were just hoping to make any arrest to say they had a suspect. A suspect that would turn into real deal if they looked in Albert’s basement that was filled with bodies and all the evidence those police detectives had ever dreamed of.

Albert gave the police officer a tight smile, shaking his head lightly as he began to refuse, “That’s not necessary—“

“Nonsense,” the officer immediately cut Albert off, not even giving him the chance to finish his excuse he was building in his head.

But that didn’t stop Albert from trying again. After all, his parent’s didn’t raise a quitter who easily backed down.

(But this officer’s parents didn’t, either.)

“I can’t take you away from your post,” Albert explained, glancing over towards the other men in uniforms and wondering which one of these men this officer reported to, “Your boss you probably kill you,” Albert didn’t miss the wince that fluttered across the other mans’ face when he uttered a certain word, “If you left your duty,” he let out a huff that lacked the chuckle he aimed for, “I know mine would if I left what I was supposed to be doing for something I definitely wasn’t supposed to be doing.”

The officer processed his words before he gave a slow shake of his head, his hand cutting through the air like it was trying to cut through Albert’s worries and excuses, “I think he’ll…” he trailed off for a moment, the word "kill" probably on the tip of his tongue but the officer refused to let it jump into the air, “Be mad,” he found a word that didn’t cause bile to rise up from his stomach or his features to twist into sorrowful despair, “If I didn’t walk you home and you fell.”

Albert arched an eyebrow like he didn’t quite believe him.

The officer saw that and finally dropped his tall tale.

The officer leaned closer to Albert, his shoulders sagging with defeat as he quickly admitted, “I just want… a break, you know?” He paused, his Adam’s apple bobbling slightly as he glanced towards the crowds that had somehow doubled in size since they began talking, “I can’t bare looking at them and lying to their faces any longer.”

Albert’s brow scrunched up with fake confusion, “Why don’t you tell the truth?” He almost innocently asked, tilting his head to the side slightly as the onslaught of rain continued trying to plaster Albert’s hair to the side of his face so that it could never be removed.

But his hair wasn’t like his mask. It could easily be removed by Albert’s own hand— whenever and wherever he felt like it.

A flash of annoyance sparked to life in the officer’s eyes that suddenly looked at Albert like he couldn’t believe he just said something so foolish.

But, Albert did. And now, the officer had to provide an explanation.

“I can’t,” the officer stressed the latter word until it was nearly a hiss seeping past his teeth that spent spittle flying into the rain around them, “I can’t tell them anything, Al,” he dropped his voice somehow lower as he gave a pointed glance towards the crowd whose curious and suspicious eyes sometimes flickered over to them.

Albert parted his lips, giving an quite impressive of someone who just realized what the other person was talking about. Albert knew it was impressive— and he knew it was great. After all, he had seen the same look on his brother’s face countless times before.

And it always made him want to roll his eyes as his brother’s foolishness whenever he saw that look flutter across his features. Albert knew the officer was fighting the impulse to roll his eyes right now. And that made him happy… almost.

“I meant your boss,” Albert jutted his chin towards where most of the uniformed people seemed to be gathered in front of the house whose basement Albert knew he would never see the inside of again, “Why don’t you tell him that—“ Albert began to explain.

But, once again, he was cut off.

And made to feel like a fool— something he definitely wasn’t.

For a moment, Albert wondered if this was what Max felt all those times Albert corrected himself? But then he quickly dismissed that thought. After all, Albert was only acting like a fool— Max was a fool.

Max was a fucking idiot (but he was Albert's idiot) whose cruel but true nickname as a kid involved the word "moron". But Albert wasn't like Max... and Max wasn't like Albert.

And, unlike Max, Albert could pretend to be something he's not.

“I can’t do that, Al,” the officer uttered, a hint of pleading in his tone and his eyes implored the other man to understand, “I really can’t.”

Albert understood that, he really did.

After all, what kind of man would tell his boss that he couldn’t handle that task he was assigned to do? A task that, if he refused to do it, it would make him seem weak. So weak that his boss would look down on him and probably offer his wife his condolences for unknowingly breaking the law and marrying another woman.

“Okay, man,” Albert nodded, backing down and channeling his inner Max, “I get it,” he reassured, knowing that the officer would never know how much he really did get it, “You can walk me home,” he confirmed, stopping himself before he could add anything else— before he could make a joke that would make this officer’s lips curl with disgust.

The officer let out a sigh of relief. And then, he didn’t waste any time before he nodded towards the direction of Albert’s house that was a safe enough distance away from the barrier and announced a demand.

“Let’s go.”

And, Albert quickly agreed, hoping that he wasn’t about to regret trusting this officer’s words.

Hoping that he wasn’t about to regret giving him the opportunity to catch The Grabber if he dared take a peak into his house or pretend he heard a scream coming from deep within the home that had never really felt like a home.

Their pair walked away from the barrier holding back a collection of people who all shared the same goal: finding out what was happening in their small town. But they wouldn’t get answered. And, like that cab driver, they would be forced to find out when the news finally broke and reporters filled the televisions screens in homes or when newspapers were thrown onto porches by a boy that wasn’t Billy.

The officer was, of course, faster than Albert who was still getting used to the crutches that thudded against the slick ground and threatened to send him tumbling towards the harsh and unforgiving earth with one wrong move. But when the officer realized he would be too far away from Albert to use the excuse of escorting an injured man who could easily fall and injure himself so close to a crime scene to his home, he slowed down.

And decided to try to inject a hint of lightness into this foul situation.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to get an ambulance through that crowd,” he raised his hand sluggishly, his protruding thumb being shoved over his shoulder to gesture towards the crowd and the barrier they were being kept at bay by, “So don’t slip, okay?”

Albert huffed out a laugh that was void of humor and only slightly filled with gruff annoyance, “Yeah,” he agreed through slightly gritted teeth as he continued moving the crutches making the pair thud against the ground, only one foot followed their lead while the other would never receive the option to do so too, “I’ll try not to,” he uttered like a promise.

A promise he didn’t know if he would be able to keep. Inside his house, anyways. After all, he had a lot to do in his home… and that basement.

And he was certain he would tumble to the ground more than once.

But out here— he wasn’t sure he would. Or if the officer would allow it.

After all, those journalists at the barrier, if they didn’t get the story they had been promised would change everything… they would probably be content to write about the selfish police officer who let an injured man fall to the ground and didn’t even try to save him.

Albert glanced down at the bottom of his crutches that were already coated in a thin sheen of wet particles of dirt he hoped would be easy to clean off and wondered if he would be able to save himself if he fell. After all, he didn’t save himself in that basement…

That was those naughty boys and The Grabber’s handiwork that saved him. But could Albert save himself if he needed to?

Did he have it in him?

Or would he be like Finney? Finney who failed at the last hurdle, even when he was so close to saving him and his life from a monster’s clutches?

Finney who was now doomed in a way Albert never was. But he could be, so easily he could be.

Albert’s neck that was beginning to bruise throbbed and he forced himself to lift his gaze away from the ground and towards what was in front of him.

The house. The house that would soon be the most famous house in all of Galesburg. That is, if The Grabber’s basement where Albert’s beloved foolish brother and loyal and vicious dog were rotting away wasn’t discovered.

Albert allowed his eyes to sweep over the exterior of the house— just like anybody’s eyes would have done in his position.

The outside of the house was ordinary— it was always ordinary even when what the basement held wasn’t. Even when the bodies began to decompose, filling the basement with maggots, rats and rancid stink that didn’t even smell like something a human could produce…

Even when all that evil was shallowly buried away in a hidden basement…

The outside of the house never changed. It never looked anything other than ordinary and so fucking normal Albert could hardly believed he knew what laid in that basement and who lurked in the shadows crying to be found and given peace that The Grabber didn’t think they deserved.

The officer saw his eyes wander towards that house, Albert knew he did. And, as he glanced towards the officer, he saw a silent plea in his almost resigned eyes.

A plea that Albert wouldn’t be like the others. That Albert wouldn't ask like the others did.

And, that plea gave Albert everything he needed to deter the police officer from trying to assist him inside his home… and unfortunately catch sight of something he was never meant to stumble on.

Not like all these people in uniform seemed to stumble onto this house that shouldn’t have caused anyone to be suspicious or intrigued about.

Slowly, Albert tugged his eyes away from the officer and gave a pointed look at the house that Albert now only noticed had a small, sad girl curled in on her self as she sat by the chain linked fence. It was strange seeing her there. She looked so out of place Albert didn’t know how he didn’t notice her before.

But when he did, he couldn’t stop noticing her. Because, there in the midst all of the chaos and adults hurrying around there— she looked so out of place.

Almost like she wasn’t supposed to be there. And, in a way she wasn’t. After all, The Grabber’s tastes were exclusive to boys.

“How did she get across the barrier?” Albert found himself asking, almost against his will.

That wasn’t the question Albert had intended to ask— the question that the officer had probably come to expect after that careful look Albert directed at him.

If the officer was surprised by the sudden question, Albert didn’t know how to describe what he was feeling when the question that hadn’t even crossed his mind flew from his lips and snuffed out his chance of repelling the officer from overextending his… kindness.

But, once the question was propelled into the air, fighting against the rain that tried to pelt it to the ground before it could reach the officer's ears, Albert found that it didn’t leave a bad taste in his mouth. He found that that question was the right thing to ask— like it belonged in the world.

Like he wanted to know the answer. Or maybe The Grabber did.

After all, The Grabber had been the one who had seen this girl before while he was cruising around the town in his van, trying to identify a new naughty boy to bring home. The Grabber wasn’t interested in girls, though. So whenever The Grabber’s eyes landed on this girl, they quickly slid off her like she was something unimportant.

Something that wasn’t as interesting as the boy that was normally by her side. Her brother, Finney. Finney who was strange— a freak to his fellow classmates. But never to his sister. His sister who The Grabber was surprised have even recognized as she sat there in the said looking like a dog who was waiting for its owner to return to them.

Normally, she didn’t look like that. Normally, she would be laughing instead of looking like she was on the verge of tears. Normally… well she probably wouldn’t be alone waiting outside of a crime scene.

Because that was what she was doing. That’s what Gwendolyn Blake, younger sister of Finney Blake and daughter of Terrence Blake was doing, waiting.

Gwendolyn Blake was waiting, waiting for her brother. She was waiting be reunited with him the same way the other missing kids’ families would soon be reunited with their lost children.

But she wouldn’t receive what she was waiting patiently for. Not like the other families would.

After all, Finney Blake wasn’t buried in a shallow grave in that house’s basement.

He wasn’t even in that basement.

He wasn’t even dead… yet.

When the silence between the pair stretched on for too long, Albert parted his lips, and lowered his voice like he was talking to himself instead of the officer who had slowed his pace to match Albert’s uncertain one, “Unless she lives here?” Albert mumbled the suggestion as a contemplative furrow creased his brow, “No, she can’t live here…” Albert trailed off, giving a small shake of his head before he continued to mutter, “I don’t recognize her.”

Of course, this girl didn’t live on this street. If she did, her parents (or, well, parent) would have probably ushered her inside to safety away from the scene that was unraveling on their doorstep. And, if she did live here, Albert would know it. After all, he knew all the kids that lived on this street.

And, even if she looked like she was trying to become one with the chain link fence she was huddled again, she didn’t belong here. She would never fit in here— or there.

(After all, there was no girls allowed in The Grabber’s burial site. But, maybe, he could make an exception… one day.)

“You don’t?” The officer eventually asked, sending a quick glance towards the girl who everybody would soon know.

“No, I don’t,” Albert confirmed the lie he was feeding the other man as they neared his childhood home that many kids lost their own childhoods in, “Is she the daughter of one of these officers?” Albert’s eyes flew around the people in uniforms, hoping the officer next to him followed the only silent gesture he could make right now, “Is she waiting for her father to get off work so she can get out of the rain?” He prodded like he knew that one of his guesses would be correct.

But his guesses would never be correct… even if a part of them were true. They both knew that. But the officer thought he was the only one who knew that. After all, he knew more about this crime scene that Albert did, didn’t he?

He knew more about this girl who had somehow led them to the house that held the missing kids’ bodies, didn’t he?

“She’s just some kid,” the officer gave a terse shrug of his shoulders and he tugged his eyes away from the girl who had tried to singlehandedly solve this case, “A sister of one of the missing kids, I think,” he muttered as the rain carried on a not so gentle and sudden breeze tried to snatch his words away from Albert’s ears.

It was almost like the wind was trying to protect the girl and her identity. Even if the wind hadn’t failed to take the officer’s words about the girl away from Albert, Albert didn’t need to heard them. After all, he already knew about Gwen.

But of course, he knew a lot more about her brother, Finney.

But the way the officer refused to meet his gaze— the way he brushed off Albert’s question with an answer that wasn’t really an answer…

It made Albert think he needed to get to know Gwen more. Much more.

Because there was something going on, something that Albert couldn’t put his finger on right now.

But there was a feeling bubbling up withing him— telling him that that something had to do with Gwendolyn Blake, sister of Finney Blake and soon be presumed to be the only child of Terrence Blake.

Albert hummed, giving the officer confirmation that he heard him. And that he dropped the subject. After all, it was clear that officer wasn’t going to give him more information.

And it was clear that Albert had already made an impression on the officer’s mind with his leg and the Samson misunderstanding. He definitely didn’t want to add to it by asking about Gwen… especially if something were to happen to her in the future.

Albert resisted the urge to let his eyes stray back towards the house where his naughty boys were still being carried out of. He resisted the urge to allow his gaze to rest on their covered bodies that were wrapped in black bags designed to keep prying eyes from seeing what laid beneath the material. But Albert already knew what laid wrapped inside those black bags.

He had probably memorized every deteriorating piece of flesh that still clung to those bones that were sometimes broken. And he knew that his naughty boys had done the same while they were lurking in the shadows of his home or trembling and seething in the basement they preferred to haunt and torture themselves by watching another boy fail in a different way than they did.

Albert tuned his eyes towards his home, not missing the pair of eyes peering out of the window of the house next to him as his eyes drifted towards the place he had always called his home. And he was certain the officer didn’t miss those eyes, either.

Because the officer’s body stiffened and his pace increasing slightly as they continued on their short journey. Albert didn’t know if the officer consciously made the choice to walk faster and try to leave Albert int he dust. Or if his body had made the decision for the officer— the decision that was for the best if he wanted to avoid interacting with the neighbor who he had probably fantasized about pummeling to the ground like he did so often to his wife.

Albert didn’t call for the officer to wait for him. He didn’t need to. Because, just as fast as the officer’s pace increased, it slowed back down again. And then, when Albert caught up to him, Albert found him leave the officer behind.

Because the other man didn’t continue forcing his legs to propel his body forwards— towards the house and after Albert. Instead, he seemed content to—

“Is everything okay?” Albert asked, allowing a hint of worry seep into his voice as he came to a stop and glanced between the officer and their surroundings.

Their surroundings that hadn’t changed too much. The only differences Albert could see was the people mulling around the street, taking places on the ground that other people once held before they moved onto another.

Of course, things weren’t okay. If someone was to take look around at the erected police barrier, the house where corpses were being carried out of… and at the newfound designated vomit corner that was both too close to the crime and and too far away for some people to make it to the unspoken place where people should go if they couldn’t stomach what that had witnessed in that basement— anybody would be able to see that things weren’t okay.

But Albert wasn’t talking about the basement where he had learned to be okay with its content… or the police and public presence that set him on edge. He was talking about the officer— the officer whose feet suddenly seemed glued to the slick ground, finding stability while Albert still struggled to do so.

The officer bit his lip, glancing between Albert’s features twisted with concern and the house they were just about to walk towards— together. For everybody to see.

Maybe this had somehow given the officer a sense of deja vu— about what happened after a date.

Or maybe not. After all, this wasn’t a date. Albert hadn’t just been escorted home by a man who wanted to weasel his way inside the house… and eventually inside him or under him.

This was different. Maybe it was different in a way Albert always feared.

Maybe the officer could feel something… off about this house. This house that seemed so ordinary to everybody else but Albert. Albert didn’t know if he wanted that to be the reason the officer refused to get too close. After all, nothing good could come out of someone else feeling the dark energy Albert could always sense surging from every inch of the house before it tried to seep into his bones. But maybe, just this once, that option was better than the alternative.

The alternative that had the officer looking at him like that… again.

The alternative that made Albert’s stomach churn with just as much unease that must be coursing through the officer’s body.

The officer’s body who didn’t want to talk another step towards the house. The house he probably had suspicions about what Albert got up to, alone, in there.

(But not who— thankfully.)

Maybe the officer had suspicions about what activities Albert partook in inside those walls. Maybe the officer didn’t want to get too close in case—

“Officer!” A surprising shrill voice called out… before, of course, that voice faltered and caused the owner descend into a series of coughs.

Coughs that Albert would be able to recognize anywhere.

Because they belonged to his neighbor.

His neighbor, who had slipped out of her house without Albert or the officer noticing… and was making her way over to them.

Albert and the officer shared a look. A look at Albert thought the officer was exaggerating slightly. Because Albert was sure that the officer didn’t have to look like he had to look that ill at the thought of interacting with the woman who had tried to destroy his marriage… twice.

“I should get inside before I catch my death,” Albert muttered, eyes lingering on the officers sudden pallor face for a moment before he tugged his eyes away from the man and towards the woman huddled under an umbrella.

But, just as he was about to part his lips and fly an excuse in the woman’s directions, a voice cut him off.

“Can you make it to the door by yourself?” The officer asked, a urgent type of almost confused pleading weaving itself between his words.

“Officer, you must tell me what’s happening!” The woman demanded.

Albert bit his lip, glancing between the woman’s urgent face and the officer’s miserable, almost defeated face before he gave a tight smile, “I can’t keep you from your job any longer,” he uttered, not even trying to sound apologetic.

“No, you should not do that, Albert,” the woman scolded as she came to a stop next to them, shielding Albert with her umbrella for a moment before she turned to her neighbor, threw a harsh scoff after raking her little eyes over his sodden clothes before she tutted, “And you should not be outside without a coat on,” she added before she snapped her head towards the other man, effectively throwing all of her attention onto the officer, “Now, officer, I must know…” the woman’s voice trailed off, drowned out by the rain and the distance Albert was creating between them.

Albert let out a deep sigh, knowing that if his arms weren’t connected to the crutches, he would have allowed his shoulders to sag with relief. But he couldn’t do that. Not while he was standing and clutching these, crutches, anyways.

Behind him, part of The Grabber’s life was unraveling. But Albert couldn’t stop that.

Right now, he couldn’t stop anything that was being uncovered in the house across the street. But he could still stop some things from happening in the basement of his childhood home.

He could do a lot of things in this basement.

A basement that wasn’t covered up and hidden like the basement in the house across the street. But somehow, this basement under his feet right now, wasn’t discovered first.

The basement he thought would evade discovery was found with an ease Albert missed due to Finney.

But, hopefully, this remaining basement wouldn’t be discovered.

Hopefully, everything goes according to the plan The Grabber had been slowly forming in his mind.

The plan that wasn’t fool proof… but it was the only plan they had right now.

And it was the plan Albert vowed he would follow.

Eventually, Albert had reached the door to his childhood home he allowed The Grabber to invade, the weight of the world and all of his past failures and possible future consequences weighting heavy on his shoulders. Eventually, he removed one arm from the grasp of a crutch that didn’t send him tumbling to the ground even in the slick downpour, using his hand to grasp the crutch and lean it against the outside of the house so he could—

“Officer!”

Albert’s rolled his eyes at his neighbors demanding voice, not even bothering to cast a glance over his shoulder at the scene he was certain he would find.

After all, his neighbor never changed. She was always demanding information from everyone. And, this time, it was the officer she had set her sights on.

“Officer…?”

Albert bit his lip as he fished his keys out from his pocket, quickly moving to glide them through the air before he slotted the correct key into the lock, like the rest of the community’s, had seen more use since The Grabber started roaming the streets in search for boys. Boys that, if he didn’t find walking to and from school, he could decide to start plucking from homes.

But it never came to that. But, one day, Albert supposed that it could. If The Grabber was desperate enough, that is.

Or maybe if The Grabber no longer had his signature van… because he no longer had the job that supplied him with it.

Albert frowned at that thought as he twisted the key in the lock until it gave a satisfying click.

“— please!”

There was a hint of distress in his neighbors voice. But, Albert refused to give any more attention. After all, she was probably growing desperate and agitated that the officer wasn’t giving her what she wanted.

And, well, Albert had much more important things to do. Things that required every drop of his attention. Because, if he didn’t give those things lurking in the basement his attention… he could slip up again. He could leave himself open to attack… again.

He could nearly loose his fucking life at the hands of a boy.

Or maybe he could loose more than that.

Albert shoved open the door with more force than was necessary, grabbed the crutch leaning against the wall before he quickly slotted his arm back into position and wrapped his fingers around the handle of the object he knew he would need to get very familiar with.

And then, he began his new method of walking over the threshold, the sounds of his clutches thudding against the floor growing more and more distinct the farther he got away from the raindrops slamming themselves against the ground and every surface they could find.

Once Albert was safely inside the house and protected from the onslaught of rain, he turned and locked the door with an ease that didn’t bring a smile to his lips like it normally did. After all, he wasn’t locking this door as a precaution that he didn't really believe was necessary. Because, now, he knew it was necessary.

Because Finney Blake had gone further than any other boy before him— he had opened the soundproofed door, crept up those rickety stairs… and made it outside the house The Grabber had decided he was destined to die in.

Now, The Grabber needed this door locked like he had never needed it locked before.

Because Finney was a threat. A threat that was waiting in that basement— waiting for him to return.

And Finney was probably hoping to finish what he started with the encouragement of those naughty boy’s who liked to taunt The Grabber through the disconnected telephone.

And The Grabber would return, he really would. He just needed to prepare himself first.

After all, there wasn’t just Finney waiting for him in that basement.

Max and Samson were waiting for him… and probably wondering what he was going to do with their bodies now that The Grabber’s burial site was compromised.

Chapter 9: Hesitation at the Threshold

Albert didn’t hesitate outside the soundproofed door of the basement. And that definitely wasn’t fear coursing through his veins and making his hands tremble slightly.

That was adrenalin.

And that, in his hand that wasn’t hovering over the handle of the door he just unlocked a moment ago, was a knife. His favorite knife— a knife that was only his favorite because of the amount of blood that ran along its razer sharp surface. And, of course, because of the amount of naughty boys’ lives it snuffed out.

And, maybe, if The Grabber was forced to snuff out the light in Finney’s eyes sooner than he had planned…

It seemed right that it was this knife— the knife The Grabber used on all of his boys — should do it.

(And, even if he could lift up that axe and not topple over onto the ground… he knew it wasn’t a good idea to attempt to use an axe again. After all, he wasn’t as… skilled with the axe as he was with this knife that was practically made for him. Made for death. And made to be wielded by The Grabber who needed more than just a flimsy knife.

The Grabber who needed something special…

And, when he was dealing with his very special guest in the basement that hopefully hadn’t succumbed to a death that wasn’t dealt by his hands, he needed something extra special.

Which is why he had the spray bottle filled with enough wasp poison to probably kill a human let alone those pesky wasps. Of course, like it always was, it was safely tucked away. Out of sight from any of his boys who’s body wasn’t telling them to run as fast as they could away from the monster that wore a man’s flesh.

The Grabber didn’t need to hide the wasp poison from Finney. But, he liked to keep a few cards up his sleeve, even when they were cards Finney had already seen before. And, if he couldn’t subdue the boy easily with the knife, the wasp poison would have to.

And if it failed to do so… if The Grabber failed to utilize it properly… well, The Grabber didn’t like to think about what would happen then.

The Grabber’s fingers flexed around the knife, steeling himself for a moment before he pushed his other hand forwards, towards the door handle. With some hesitantly still swimming around his body, The Grabber curled his calloused fingers around the handle of the soundproofed door.

And, with one deep inhale that failed to loosen the impossibly tight knot in his stomach, he pushed open the door. The door cried out at that movement, emitting a long, almost eerie, drawn out creak of rebellion as it followed The Grabber’s unspoken order.

The Grabber didn’t watch the door to ensure it completed its duty. He never did, and he wasn’t going to start now.

Not when he had much more improvement things to watch out for.

Like a boy. A desperate boy who had probably been awake and scheming for…

Well, The Grabber didn’t know how long it had been exactly. Finney probably didn’t, either. But The Grabber had a feeling that, for Finney, it would have felt like he had an eternity to plan his next attack.

Because, down here, time didn’t work properly, it never did.

And, with only corpses and disembodied voices to keep him company, time would have moved at an even more torturous pace.

The door finished its song of agony that was both a plea and a reminder for the man (the only person whose blood had never coated its new and improved surface) that the door desperately needed something. Something that The Grabber would never provide.

After all, it was better when the door let out its cry. It was better for the boy’s to know that someone was entering their prison…

And, it allowed a delightful assortment of emotions to twist onto those naughty boys’ features. Emotions that The Grabber knew he wouldn’t have been privy to see if those hinges were doused with oil.

The Grabber would have missed out on seeing a fresh dose of fear and anxiety that was only born because of something they had anticipated happening, had finally happened. Something that would haunt their dreams had happened— the door giving its warning creak before The Grabber entered the basement.

The Grabber would have also missed out on witnessing some of his naughty boys try to hide what they were really feeling with things like scowls and harsh words. His naughty boys liked to create masks, just like The Grabber did. But, unlike The Grabber, they weren’t very good at it.

Because their emotions— their true terror and pitiful anxiety, after a while — always seeped through the cracks of their fragile façade they tried so hard to create and maintain.

Some of his naughty boys tried so hard to be brave— to pretend to be tough. When, deep down, The Grabber knew they weren’t. And, eventually, those boys learned that too when the tears started to fall from their wet eyes and cries for mercy mixed in with apologies The Grabber knew they didn't’ really mean were pouring from his dry and cracked lips.

Finney had tried so hard to be strong that The Grabber almost thought he was. Almost.

After all, The Grabber could easily see the parts of Finney he tried to hide. The parts of him that might not even be completely his.

“His mother was…” the woman trailed off, a pained grimace contorting her features for a moment before she adverted her eyes and dropped her voice, “You know,” she muttered dismissively even though Albert didn’t know.

Just like the actions Finney did before — and the things he did to The Grabber with a strength that may not be solely his — The Grabber doubted the slightly vacant look in the boy’s eyes and the way his face sometimes when completely slack and void of anything belonged just to him.

After all, since Finney Blake’s adduction, Albert had been hearing a lot about the boy’s mother. The boys crazy mother.

But maybe crazy wasn’t the right word for that woman. After all, there was whispered that seeped across town that the latest missing boy’s mother heard and saw things that weren’t there. Or maybe they were there… and only she could hear and see them.

Maybe it wasn’t insanity she possessed. Maybe it was something more familiar. Something The Grabber knew all to well.

Something The Grabber also knew Finney knew.

Which is maybe why it was a bad idea to leave Finney in the basement where he wasn’t really alone. Finney wasn’t alone just because he had the corpses. He wasn’t alone because, well, who could be alone when they had that black phone near them?

Certainly not anybody like The Grabber… and Finney.

Finney could have spent his time scheming with those other naughty boys, bouncing ideas, dismissals and plans back and forth between each other. For Finney, six heads were definitely better than one.

But for The Grabber, six minds that were all deteriorating in some way, weren’t better for his odds of survival. Right now, six people trying to plot his downfall (that they had very clearly shown they could somewhat accomplish) was more dangerous than the police outside.

The police who didn’t have a single suspicion about the monster in this basement. The monster that was a threat to this town and its young boys.

The monster who didn’t watch the door as it opened. The monster who, instead, kept his eyes wide and alert as they darted around every slither of space that became available for his eyes to glide over as the door opened.

The space that… wasn’t different?

The Grabber’s brow furrowed, the white face paint coating his face flaking slightly at the action.

The basement didn’t look normal. After all, normally, the bodies on the ground wouldn’t be this old… and they definitely would be human instead of a dog.

But having corpses on the floor was normal until Albert gathered the strength to dispose of them where The Grabber required. But what wasn’t normal in this situation is that everything looked exactly as it was when he crawled out of this basement.

Nothing seemed out of place… yet.

And that made The Grabber’s stomach viciously churn with unease.

Because, Finney was down here, The Grabber knew he was. He just couldn’t see him… or what he had done, yet. But he would… eventually.

If he stepped over the threshold of the basement and moved towards the hallway where he knew Finney must be hiding and waiting to attack… The Grabber would see him.

And, he would be ready for him. The Grabber’s favorite knife (and the wasp poison) would be ready for him.

But deep down, Albert knew that The Grabber would never be fully prepared for Finney. Because Finney had proved himself to be unpredictable— and how could he be prepared against someone whose actions were controlled by five dead boys?

Even without the dead naughty boys whispering in his ear and poisoning Finney’s mind against him while also making him aware of every step of The Grabber’s game, Finney had proved himself to be unpredictable. The large gash that had torn through his forearm was proof of that.

But the dead boys in The Grabber’s basement had shown their hand— they had shown their true desire. And they had tried to use Finney to do it.

Those dead naughty boys wanted The Grabber dead, and they didn’t care if Albert was collateral damage in their goal that The Grabber thought was impossible. Until, of course, it became possible. And it became dangerously close to being achieved.

The Grabber’s grip on the handle somehow tightened more. Even though, soon due to the sweat coating the surface of the handle, The Grabber feared it would be like trying to clasp hold of a stick of butter. He wanted its reassuring weight in his hand— a weight that wasn’t unfamiliar like the axe.

The axe that The Grabber probably wouldn’t be able to use. Not like he used to do, anyways.

But that might be a good thing. After all, The Grabber was quite… bad at using that axe. He was so bad that he was certain his dead boys would have broke out into a few fits of giggles when they witnessed him missing his evasive target and then nearly plummeting to the ground after being thrown off balance by the movement he really should have perfected before he attempted to use it down here.

Normally, down here was where he perfected his swings and slashes. But he had a feeling he should have known better than to divert from the norm and try to learn something new when everything was going so fucking wrong and nothing was right. When everything was different, including the boy in his basement, The Grabber should have just stuck to what he had known. And, when the boy wasn’t following the per-destined path that every boy subconsciously knew to follow, The Grabber should have snuffed that problem out before it had the chance to fester and grew stronger…

Or maybe when he grew weaker to the disembodied voice’s that poured through the static of the disconnected black phone. Maybe he had grown so weak that he allowed them to coax him to do their bidding for them.

Because he was desperate— just like every other boy in his place had been once upon a time.

The longer his boys stayed in the basement, the more desperate they got. They would do anything for a chance of freedom.

Finney hadn’t done some of the things the other boys did (and sometimes offered to do when they saw the terrifying glimmer of his knife)— but his act was filled with desperation.

And planning.

Because it was his last resort— his last chance of gaining his freedom…

While taking The Grabber’s away in a way that hadn’t seriously crossed his mind before.

The Grabber couldn’t let his guard down, not while Finney was still at large down here. Letting his guard down would be a disadvantage. And, lately, The Grabber had received far too many of those.

The Grabber didn’t pull his eyes from the basement that had changed so much since he was a child as he reached towards the wall where he had propped up of his crutches.

But still, when he had both of his crutches back in his position and his arms that also now acted an extra helpful pair of legs, he still found himself hovering behind the threshold. He still found himself waiting.

Waiting for something he didn’t even know.

But, The Grabber knew he couldn’t wait forever.

He knew he needed to get this over with.

He needed to put Max to rest before his brother started making the phone let out shrill ring.

He needed to put Max’s body out of sight… so that, maybe, he could also put his calls out of his mind. Max’s calls that The Grabber didn’t even know if he would make.

But, if he did make that black phone ring (and if The Grabber decided to keep the black phone in the basement so that it was there during another naughty boys’ stay) The Grabber doubted he had any kind words to say about the man who wore his brother’s face.

But he didn’t doubt the thing Max would encourage him to do: turn himself into the police.

After all, isn’t that what Max had always wanted since he caught a glimpse of a newspaper announcing a child snatcher in the town he grew up in? Hadn’t he wanted to catch The Grabber— to take away his freedom and put him behind bars?

Or would it be different now that he discovered who The Grabber was. Or, well, pretended to be?

For a moment, The Grabber’s eyes strayed towards Samson— the only person or thing on this planet that accepted The Grabber… and Albert. Foolishly, The Grabber allowed his eyes to linger on that still body— on that head that was split open like a gruesome coconut who allowed its inside to leak outside just because its owner wanted it to.

The Grabber’s slightly glassy eyes skipped over the blood and the fur attached to the ragged chunks of cold and probably flesh that had parted from Samson’s body during their struggle. His eyes didn’t stay on what was left of Samson’s skull for long.

Instead, The Grabber’s eyes loitered on the axe impaled between the butchered cranium of his best friend who, in the bed, was more like those naughty boys than The Grabber liked to admit.

The axe was flopped on to the ground, its weight dragging what was left of Samson’s head down with it, twisting the skull that just looked like a hunk of meat that hadn’t been properly skinned (and definitely hadn’t been properly deboned yet) at such an unnatural angle The Grabber could see the tight coil of Samson’s neck that looked like part an imperfect imitation of a coil.

A coil that had an extremely thin looking layer of skin was tersely stretched over so tightly it almost seemed like it was burst. But it hadn’t burst, not yet anyways. And, surprisingly, it still clung onto the two parts of Samson’s body it was almost desperately holding onto.

The Grabber allowed his eyes to rest on that axe. The axe he would need, even when he never needed it before.

Because, normally, he would wrap up the naughty boys’s bodies whole, transport them across the street and bury them in their designated shallow graves.

There was a fresh grave in that basement, already dug and waiting for a body that once possessed the name Finney. A body that it would never be able to claim now that the police had raided the house and discovered the basement.

That grave would remain empty until somebody filled it in. Until they filled all of the graves The Grabber was disappointed and annoyed to know would be empty by now.

Because they had taken his naughty boys from him. The police had taken his boys from their resting places and were in the process of returning them back to their families that The Grabber stole those boys from.

Every grave that he had ever dug in that basement would be empty by the time the news broke of the police’s discovery. But his boys’ presence would still linger in their air— the unnatural chill that that basement always possessed would still cling to the particles of air. And that smell…

Even with the bodies gone, The Grabber didn’t think anybody possessed the powerful ability to remove that stench of rotting bodies from that basement. Bodies that may have poisoned the dirt and the foundation of the house with their very existence.

This basement The Grabber was lurking outside the only entrance and exit to was different. Or, it was, until The Grabber had no choice but to create a new burial site.

Right under where he slept…

And right across the street from his old burial ground.

But only temporarily, The Grabber promised himself and Albert. Even though they both knew it was a lie.

After all, The Grabber didn’t think Albert could bare his brother being somehow far away from him in the future. Somewhere where he couldn’t easily visit him by going down the rickety old staircase. Or simply crossing the road like he had planned to do— because that was what he always did whenever he wanted to see someone… special. And so dead that their ghosts couldn’t even grasp a hold of the memory of The Grabber name. A name he swore he didn’t claim as his own.

Even though, without the mask on and with only a thin layer of face pain coating his features, he felt closer to that sometimes deserted name than he did for a very long time.

Almost reluctantly, The Grabber tugged his eyes away from the axe he knew he would need to use eventually. And then he turned them towards what was left of the black phone mounted onto the wall.

The black phone that wasn’t just disconnected anymore, but also missing a receiver. A receiver that Finney could probably easily get…

If he wanted to risk breaking or even snapping his ankle clean off.

The Grabber continued staring at the black phone mounted onto the wall, almost lie he was trying to stare into the sounds of everybody who lurked int eh shadows of this basement. Everybody that The Grabber couldn’t see— but he could feel.

In more ways than one.

“This,” The Grabber paused, a nauseating excitement sparking to life in his disgusting eyes as he uttered like a fact he promised to make true for only one of them, “Is the best part… my favorite part.”

The memory of them was still fresh in his mind, always. Even if it wasn’t for them.

“You don’t remember our time together, do you?” The Grabber asked, lipped pulled downwards into a deep frown that matched the one carved into his mask.

The silence that the static nibbled at was the only answer The Grabber received.

But later, from another boy, he would also receive an admittance. An admittance that, even if death, his naughty boys loved to lie to him.

Even if they didn’t want the memory to be at the forefront of their minds, fresh as the day it was created, it was always there for The Grabber.

They were here, they were all here. After all, where else would they be?

With their families who couldn’t even hear or feel them like The Grabber could? In the other basement where they were extracted from the ground like a treasure nobody was quite so happy to find once they realized the condition it was in?

There place was here, in this basement, where they belonged. With the man who took everything from them, who gave them things they had never dreamed of…

And with the boy they had so far unknowingly taken everything from.

The Grabber didn’t smile beneath his mask. After all, there was no mask, brother or otherwise, to cover and conceal his features from prying and hateful eyes.

There was only a thin coat of white face paint— face paint that bended to his will and yielded to his unpredictable movements just as easily as he hoped Finney would have when he first set his sights on the boy.

The Grabber didn’t smile. Even if he had the mask to shield his features, he didn’t think he would.

After all, he didn’t have anything to smile about… yet.

And those dead naughty boys weren’t his intended audience. Not yet, anyways.

His audience was Finney. Finney who was hiding in this basement, out of The Grabber’s field of vision.

But he wouldn’t be hiding for long.

After all, there was only so many places somebody could try to hide in this basement. And all those places didn’t provide as much cover from The Grabber’s excited eyes (and eventually his glistening knife that craved their blood) as the naughty boys had probably begged their Gods for.

The Grabber knew every corner of this basement— he knew every single place a despair boy could try to hide from him.

And he knew that, no matter how hard they tried, his boys wouldn’t coax the wall or a small corner of the basement to open up and provide protection.

Nobody could protect those boys.

And nobody could protect Finney. Not from The Grabber, anyways.

The only person that could was on the floor, dead as a moronic doornail who really should have listened to his brother to stay away from this basement. But Max didn’t never listened, not for long anyways.

Maybe that’s why The Grabber wasn’t as surprised as Albert was about Max’s fate.

Maybe that’s why only a small huff of irritation (that somehow successfully overpowered the alarm surging through his body) when he spotted Max at the bottom of the basement’s stairs…

Talking to Finney.

Finney who quickly started screaming like he was the one who was about to have an axe’s head embedded in his head.

The Grabber cherished that memory— that delightful sound. And, deep down, he knew Albert did too. After all, wouldn’t he want to remember how the person responsible for his brother’s death screamed in terror?

But The Grabber didn’t cherish what came after that. Not all of it, anyways.

Not the part after The Grabber swung his not so trusted axe and missed… and then everything else that happened after that.

But everything when Finney began stuttering and wailing— the glassy eyed look of panic, guilt and despair filled with disbelief…

And that moment— that single moment — The Grabber thought he had done it. He had finally got what he wanted from Finney. Until he realized he hadn’t. He really hadn’t.

But that was… okay, he guessed.

The Grabber still had a lot of time to get what he wanted from the boy— to get the vengeance Albert wanted for his brother’s death too, didn’t he?

Chapter 10: Something Amiss

Now he was wasting precious time, The Grabber knew he was.

But he couldn’t help it. Albert’s weakness must have rubbed off on him, making him reluctant to take a step into his own fucking basement.

Something that he needed to do to get to Max…

And Finney fucking Blake.

Finney who was probably hiding in that narrow hallway where he successfully managed to get the upper hand— but only for a moment. A moment that The Grabber still couldn't believe had actually happened.

But it did. The Grabber knew it did. Because the evidence of everything that happened before that incidence was scattered in front of him on the basement floor. The basement floor that his only foot still hadn’t touched.

Because he was still hesitating— he still hadn’t crossed that threshold to enter the basement and start something he knew he could finish. Because he had to finish it. Failure wasn’t an option. Not now— not ever. Even though he had come close to failure The Grabber could still feel it’s phantom touch pressing on his neck, he couldn’t allow that to happen again. Never again.

The Grabber sucked in a deep breath, trying to push away Albert’s residue anxiety he could still feel coursing around this body he possessed.

And then, he tightened his grip on the handles of the crutches, steeling himself for another moment. Or well, allowing himself to hesitate for another moment. But it wasn’t a very calming moment, it didn’t help to snuff out any of that unease churning in his stomach. It just made him more uncomfortable… and more unsteady.

Albert hadn’t had time to get used to the crutches yet, he still wobbled, stumbled and sometimes looked like he was about to tumble to the floor. And, when he was descending the staircase looming behind him, he would have crumbled to the ground like puppet who suddenly had its strings cut if it wasn’t for the handrail and wall his hands suddenly darted out to find purchase on to stabilize himself… at the expense of his crutches.

His crutches that, without his grip on the handles, fell free from where they were tucked under his armpits that were leaking more moisture than usual. The pair of crutches did manage to survive the sudden rocky plummet down the staircase they experienced… thankfully. The crutches were good and well made, The Grabber could admit that even if they began to chafe him in ways he didn’t even think were possible— or ways he had experienced before. But the wood didn’t snap, it didn’t even splinter. Which was good.

Because, maybe, if it could survive that, it could survive much, much worse.

Maybe it could even be a weapon. A weapon that wasn’t a traditional one. But, like Finney, The Grabber could be resourceful. He could turn things into weapon that definitely weren’t made or supposed to be used as weapons.

An unconventional weapon that would probably be even easier and quick to wield than the knife in his hand since he already had a tight grip on them. A grip so tight he sword he heard the wooden handles creak a few times as he adjusted his grip. But it was a weapon he didn’t think anybody could pry from his cold, calloused hands.

Or well, they were weapons. There were two of them— one more than the knife he possessed. Which was good.

And useful if somehow (but probably due to someone) he did loose possession of one of the crutches. The crutches that weren’t only good for helping The Grabber balance— they were something that The Grabber needed. Because, if he needed a weapon at a moments notice, they would be useful. They would be more than useful. They could be the difference between life and death— freedom or failure.

(And The Grabber had a feeling that he would need all the weapons he could get his hands on as fast as he could if he stepped over that threshold.)

Failure that would be much more uncomfortable than his grip on one of the crutches. His grip that was only uncomfortable because of hilt of the knife was now also clutching onto like a lifeline alongside the handle of one of the crutches.

Creak

Immediately, The Grabber’s eyes darted to the side, resisting the urge to step back. Because he couldn’t do it— not how he usually did with two feet instead of one foot, two crutches and two limbs that needed to control those crutches anyways. Something The Grabber would later realize that, in his haste, he would probably forget about in his hurry to retreat from the sudden noise.

The noise he immediately recognized as the door.

The door that was fully open…

But now seemed swaying, creaking back and forth like a tennis ball being hit back and forth by two players The Grabber couldn’t see.

But it didn’t mean they weren’t there, playing with him in the only way they now knew how.

They were letting The Grabber know he was there…

Or they were trying to scare him away from the only living boy in the basement— trying to send The Grabber scurrying up the staircase with his knife, his vengeance and his tail between his legs. Trying to save the boy from a destined pain… even when they had already doomed him.

But The Grabber wouldn’t run, not from this. Not from them.

So, he allowed all the oxygen to escape from his lungs and seep past his lips. And then, his arms flexed, forcing the crutches to shift upwards and then forwards—

Thud

Reluctantly they landed back onto the ground— over the threshold. And completely inside the basement.

All that was left was to drag his other leg over the threshold… and then the rest of his body.

Creak

The Grabber glanced towards the door he couldn’t see and then allowed his eyes to purposefully sweep towards the black phone mounted onto the wall. Fury trying to burn bright in his eyes.

A fury that The Grabber let kindle in his heart, letting it fester in his soul and allowing it to build up until he could release it.

Release it on Finney…

Or someone else.

After all, The Grabber didn’t think sadness could fuel his body during an activity he needed to do. He knew he needed something more— something stronger that could power him for…

Well, The Grabber thought that it could fuel him forever.

The Grabber kept his eyes focused on the black phone mounted onto the wall, giving it an almost pointed look— telling them to watch as he—

“I’m not running,” The Grabber uttered like a promise he knew he would need to keep as he moved his only foot over the threshold and into the basement.

The basement that was deathly cold. Just like it always was.

The basement seemed to always hold the bone chilling, frigid air that never seeped past the threshold to invade the rest of the house. But, when The Grabber entered the basement, it was always hard to understand how this level of coldness that sometimes liked to turn so cold it was like suddenly stepping into winter where all he could feel was the bitter crisp air hovering around him while the snow continued to pile higher and higher.

But there wasn’t any snow in this basement, even though the temperature was like some type of twisted winter wonderland. And the only thing that piled higher and higher was the bodies The Grabber ensured never moved again… unless he forced them to.

(But he wouldn’t be able to force their bodies to do anything, not anymore.)

“But you can try,” The Grabber added, allowing his eyes to slip away from the black phone and towards the hallway where he knew Finney was.

After all, there was nowhere else for the boy to hide.

The door was open, bouncing between being pressed against the wall and shifting forwards slightly— creating a small slither of space that nobody would be able to hide behind. And the hallway… the hallway was the only place Finney could be, lying in wait for The Grabber.

“You won’t get far, though,” The Grabber ominously added the words that were uttered like a deadly promise.

A promise that, deep down, he didn’t really think he could keep. His near death— his momentary failure had left him shaken, off kilter in a different way than the crutches had the power to leave him.

And it would take time to gather the courage he once held in this basement. But he would gain it back, he knew he would.

But, in the mean time, he wouldn’t give Finney the satisfaction of seeing the affects of what he did to him— what he nearly succeeded in doing to him.

That was clear from the way The Grabber had applied the white face paint to his neck, too. Effectively covering the bruise lining his neck and reminding The Grabber and Albert of what he nearly lost.

The Grabber was strong— he demanded fear. And he would get it.

And in this moment, to get that fear, he knew what he needed to do.

Fake it… until he made it back to his former glory and everything stopped going wrong and everything started getting back on track and going right.

“Not like you did before,” The Grabber continued, glaring at the only part of the shadow hallway he could see— the opening of the hallway that was coated with a type of darkness that seemed to want to conceal the boy from The Grabber’s voice.

The boy… who didn’t answer The Grabber. The boy who stayed silent and refused to raise tot he bait.

Maybe the boy thought that, if he stayed silent, The Grabber would forget he existed. But The Grabber doubted he could ever forget that Finney Blake existed. Not after what he did— not after all the trouble he cased him.

Or maybe he wanted The Grabber to panic— to make him think that the boy really wasn’t there. Safely tucked away in this basement and away from the authorities the boy would no doubt tell everything to.

(Or maybe, if he was embarrassed about certain things, he would tell the police just enough to send The Grabber to prison… and ruin Albert’s life in the process.)

But The Grabber wouldn’t fall for that… would he?

No, he wouldn’t. That’s what he told himself, even as worry started clawing at his heart and his face twisted with unease.

Finney was here, in this basement where the only exit was—

Creak

“Stop it,” The Grabber suddenly snarled, snapping his head the the side and hurling the words towards the air fluttering next to the door— towards one or more of his naughty boys that must be there.

But the door didn’t stop it’s miniature movement’s, it didn’t stop it annoying cry.

The Grabber frowned at his boys’ disobedience, wondering how they had somehow grown braver in death as a renewed aggravation surged back to life within him. Successfully snuffing out all of the worry. For only a moment.

A moment that began to end when The Grabber released an curt huff that was somehow filled with a promise of pain and rage if they didn’t stop— a promise that wouldn’t be carried out on them. Something they probably liked— and wanted. Because they didn’t stop. They didn’t fucking stop—

Whoosh

The Grabber’s heart stopped.

Whoosh

It really did stop as he felt that—

Whoosh

Breeze.

There was a breeze… in the basement.

Warily, he eyed the nothingness next to the open door, fear and a question seeping into his dark and uncertain gaze as he felt nothingness caress his face…

And something invisible rustle to rustle the stray strands of hair— the only thing the weak gust of wind could move. Except, of course, the heart trapped inside his chest that plummeted towards his stomach as soon as—

Pitter

Quickly, The Grabber’s eyes darted towards the direction of that noise he wasn’t sure how he didn’t notice before.

Patter

The noise that shouldn’t be possible.

Pitter

Not in a soundproofed basement.

Patter

But, there was that sound.

Pitter

The sound of rain

Patter

Hitting the window.

Pitter…

The open window.

Patter.

Chapter 11: Hook

Creak

He was going to die, The Grabber swore he was.

Creak

Is chest was painfully tight as it fluttered, compressed and squeezed the heart that captured by his ribcage.

Creak

His ribcage that definitely did feel like a cage now.

Creak

A cage his heart wanted to desperately escape from.

Whoosh

From this angle, Albert couldn’t see the gap between the window and its frame. A gap he knew must be there to cause the surprisingly gentle and moist breeze to seep into the basement that never had the chance to experience an exposure to the outside world (like it did right now) since The Grabber emerged form his cocoon.

All Albert could see was the hole in the wall— higher that it ever was when Albert was a child — where the glass pane was house…

And no longer protected by a series of bars that wasn’t old enough to rust… yet.

Bars that were ripped free from where Albert had ensured that the foundation was safety gripping it in a tight and inescapable hold he knew The Grabber would be proud of.

Creak

Oh.

That wasn’t the sound of the door being played with like a cat would toy with a mouse it would eventually eat.

It was the sound of something else. Something that The Grabber would have liked he would have eventually noticed even if he wasn’t staring right at the source of the noise.

The noise that was coming from the window.

The window that, now, The Grabber could see the slim opening of.

Because gravity, with the help of the wind had tugged the window open, creating a slither of space for the wind to invade this basement. Wind that tried, and thankfully failed, to bring the rain it was helping to pelt everything and everyone with outside.

Whoosh

The wind wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t as cold as the stale air in the basement. The stale air that wouldn’t be stale for much longer thanks to the rush of fresh air seeping through the window that hadn’t been used in years.

The creaking made that fact obvious. So did the way the window didn’t fall completely open, even when the wind was tugging and it and probably begging it to allow more of its crisp and bitter air inside. Even as a child, Albert remembered that window getting stuck, sometimes refusing to fully open no matter how hard Albert willed it to.

It was no different now.

And The Grabber was thankful for that, he really was. Even though Albert still harbored ill feelings to that reluctant window he was struggling to remember a time when it didn’t get jammed and only provided a small slither of opportunity to call out for his father to let him out of this basement.

The window wasn’t open fully— it couldn’t open fully. And that meant one thing.

Even though the window was unlatched— even though Finney had once again been very naughty…

He was still in this basement… right?

Doubt crept up on The Grabber as quick as Finney could have done while he was momentarily distracted by the window.

With one hastily thrown look over his shoulder that instantly relaxed when he saw no boy creeping up on his with that damn phone in his hand the phone whose cord bayed for his neck — The Grabber seemed satisfied that, even thought it was likely Finney was still lurking in one of the many shadows of this basement, he wouldn’t pounce. Not yet, anyways.

But, just in case he did pounce— or if he tried to use The Grabber’s small investigation to his advantage, he moved towards the wall that the door was huddled against.

Then, he removed one hand from a crutch, using it to tug the door away from the wall and slightly closer towards its frame. But the door didn’t travel for long, only moving an inch or so before it came to a loud, slightly eerie but mostly annoying, creaking stop.

The Grabber blinked at the door, silently curing the heavy soundproofed object that was normally so helpful towards him. But it seemed that, today, it wouldn’t be. Today it would be difficult.

But that was okay. The Grabber could deal with difficult things… even though he normally only dealt with difficult boys.

The Grabber moved his hand so it was gripping the handle of his crutch again, giving the door one last warning look. A look that the didn’t hastily apologize for the inconvenience it was causing The Grabber and hurried to slam itself closed.

Instead, it was like the door stared back at him. Lifeless in a way The Grabber was use to.

A way The Grabber had hoped Finney would have been at this time.

Creak

The wind outside once again tried its hardest to heave the window open— to allow a bigger gap for it to pour into the basement. And, even if the window did move, The Grabber knew it wouldn’t be a lot.

And, if the window did manage to open…

Well, The Grabber could easily fix that when he went over there.

That is, if he managed to make it over there. Something that this door didn’t seem to want him to do.

But he would do it, even if it killed him. Or well, even if he stumbled to the ground after overestimating his ability to remain upright when—

Thud

Hitting the door with his crutch.

His crutch that almost bent, but didn’t break even as—

Thud

Thud

Thud

The door was definitely moving now— it was defiantly closing now.

But The Grabber didn’t stop hitting it. Or kicking it withe the thing that acted as both an very long arm and a slightly too short leg. Even when the door had finally jerked fully closed back to where it belonged lodged in the door frame, he didn’t stop hitting it.

The Grabber never stopped, even when someone was pleading with sobs tearing through their throats for him to do so. So why would he stop now?

There was only one reason The Grabber would stop punishing the door for not quickly obeying him fast enough before. There was only one reason he would end his childish tantrum.

A little voice in the back of his head that sounded both like Albert and his father. A voice that reminded him of something: he needed to save his energy. And he definitely didn’t need to waste his anger on the door when there was a new naughty boy that would make the perfect punching bag.

A punching bag that must have watched that scene— and must have been left fucking terrified of the monster he was trapped in this basement in.

Because Finney was the one trapped in here with him and these rotting corpses. Not the opposite.

When The Grabber reminded himself of that fact, something within him shifted. And he almost felt like himself again instead of that disgusting coward Albert. Albert who couldn’t handle the basement or those naughty boys, not like The Grabber could.

And The Grabber could only handle the basement and everyone and everything in it with strength. Strength that he didn’t have a lot of right now— strength that decreased before he even set his sights on the boy again due to him wasting it on the door that wouldn’t obey him quick enough.

Creak

Almost reluctantly, like he was unsure if this was even worth the effort it would take, The Grabber removed his gaze from the door and allowed it to drift back towards the window.

The window that was uncovered, unlatched…

And, once, it could have possibly opened wide enough for a boy to slip through.

(But not now. Not when that boy was Finney.)

Finney couldn’t slip though that space. Deep down The Grabber knew that the boy couldn’t do that. After all, if the window did open fully— nobody could climb through that slither of space. Well, they could. Finney could— but only if if he missed a years worth of meals. Something that The Grabber could easily arrange to happen.

The Grabber’s arms moved before his mind had sent the signal to move those limbs. The Grabber’s body knew what he needed to do before his mind did sometimes. And this was one of those times.

Slowly, The Grabber moved towards the window, sparsely throwing glances over his shoulder to ensure he wasn’t snuck up on by his latest naughty boy— the naughtiest boy he ever had the pleasure (but, lately, it was only displeasure) of having in his basement.

Outside, the wind continued propelling raindrops towards the window, begging the window to allow them entry. And, as The Grabber neared the window, he realized that the window had been worn down by the wind and allowed a few droplets of rain the fall into the basement… and splatter onto The Grabber’s face.

And try to destroy his temporary mask that wasn’t nearly as good as the real thing he normally wore down here. But it was the mask he wore outside— it was the mask that wouldn’t send children running from him with fear in their gaze and a tale of a strange man trying to show them something funny.

The boys parents wouldn’t find what The Grabber showed them funny, though. They didn’t share The Grabber’s sick sense of humor. Or delight.

His short journey wasn’t quick as it normally would have been. But it wasn’t as slow as it could have been. Maybe The Grabber would eventually be as fast as he once was.

Or maybe he would never be like he was before. Maybe he would have to create a new normal.

But if The Grabber had to do that— he promised to ensure Finney had to do that, too.

Just after he closed this window, secured it with the lock and ensured that whatever screams and wails for help left the boys lips would be kept between these four walls and out of ear shot of everyone congregated outside.

Maybe it wasn’t wise to do this when more than just their small town’s police force were standing outside with The Grabber fresh on their minds. But he couldn’t leave the corpses out in the open like this for long long.

After all, there was a reason he put his naughty boys’s bodies In the basement in the house across the street. And that reason wasn’t just because he wanted a place for his dead naughty boys and a separate the boys he may or may not trick into being naughty— something they might not do if they saw the evidence of their fate hidden under loose soil in the lumpy ground. After all, those naughty boys might have tried to conceal their true selves with altered behavior and lies that easily flew from their lips when they were alive.

And, maybe, in death too. Because somehow they had poured enough lies into Finney’s brain to make him think he had a chance (a chance that he definitely did have… until he didn’t anymore) to kill The Grabber.

Thud

The Grabber came to a stop, throwing one more cautious glance over his shoulder before he deemed it safe enough to—

Click

Locking the window was surprisingly easy, the object giving almost no resistance even though it seemed too rigid and difficult to move for the wind.

But, what would come next wouldn’t be easy.

Because things with Finney were never easy.

This window was further proof of that. Because, not only did Finney somehow manage to remove the grate that covered the window…

He had also managed to unlatch it. He had somehow managed to scale the wall, fumble his fingers until ti found purchase of the latch he was probably straining to reach. The latch that he actually managed to fucking open. But, luckily, he didn’t manage to escape out of the window.

The window that might have been not even needed the grate due to its tendency to get stuck.

The Grabber knew that wasn’t true. After all, he had taken other boys before Finney. He had taken boys who had managed to grow taller with their age. So tall that this window wouldn’t be a problem to reach. Or smash.

Some of The Grabber’s other naughty boys, while they were still alive, could have shattered the window pane and climbed free from the hell hole The Grabber decided they were destined to die in. That is, if it wasn’t for the grate The Grabber noted in the back of his mind that he needed to find, reinforce… or maybe just replace.

After all, he didn’t want anybody else to do what Finney did— any part of what Finney did.

(Briefly The Grabber wondered if, later, Finney would like his gratitude. If Finney would like to know he was responsible for helping make the basement a safer place to hold his naughty boys. If he wanted to know that he helped make other boys’ suffering somehow worse.)

The Grabber dropped his hand away from the window, a few specks of water coating his flesh that he quickly wiped away before he grabbed a hold of the crutch he had leaned against the wall…

The slightly bloodied wall.

And not in the normal kind of way. Normally, the blood that coated the walls in this basement was in scattered and splattered in clusters that The Grabber could taste their age on his tongue when his eyes caught sight of them. He could vividly picture how every stroke of blood that coated the walls (blood he was still reluctant to remove after this, even though he knew it might be for the best) came to be.

But this blood— The Grabber couldn’t do that.

He didn’t know how this blood that looked so out of place in this basement that was filled with nothing but dismay, decay and gore.

Until, he glanced to the side slightly and caught sight of a patch of faded red liquid that was stale and probably ingrained into the wall. The liquid that was a spatter…

Instead of a smear.

The Grabber gave a contemplative hum, resisting the urge to reach out and trace (and maybe even taste) the blood.

The blood that was so fresh The Grabber could smell it.

The blood that was probably warm…

Because it was from Finney.

“What did you do to my window, naughty boy?” The Grabber muttered, almost to himself as he flicked his gaze upwards towards the shut window.

The shut window that wasn’t always closed.

The window that was out of Finney’s reach— but Finney still reached it.

But, maybe, he didn’t reach it for long.

Maybe his grip slipped…

Maybe the wind was helpful and shoved the boy away from his freedom.

Whatever happened happened… and left Finney injured.

The Grabber’s slightly white lips twitched upwards with something akin to delight returning to his body.

Delight that transformed into marvelous pleasure when he dropped his gaze downwards— towards the floor. Towards something he didn’t even know how he failed to notice before now. Because on the floor was a patch.

A patch of blood.

The Grabber grinned down at the liquid he swore he could see his old face in, “Are you injured, Finney?” He asked in a soft voice that was filled with false concern, “Did you… hurt yourself, Finney?” He tersely his the boy’s name through gritted teeth as a cruel but joyous lilt weaved through his voice.

The boy who, predictably didn’t answer.

The boy that The Grabber realized was probably huddled in the shadows, licking another wound. A wound that Finney couldn’t even try to blame The Grabber for like he probably, in his mind, tried to blame The Grabber for Max’s death.

At the thought of Max, The Grabber’s smirk dropped from his lips and was replaced by a scowl. A scowl that would have made the children witnessing one of his magic shows laugh. Because, that scowl with this face paint… nobody would take him seriously.

(Until they were forced to.)

Only, of course, his naughty boys who knew better than to think The Grabber was funny. His naughty boys would take him seriously— they wouldn’t laugh. And maybe they would even cower, just like they all did eventually.

Even when they tried so hard to make it seem like they never did. Like they were all as tough as they sounded on the phone.

But Finney wasn’t tough, not with Robin, anyways.

And now, he was cowering. He was doing what every naughty boy in his position did before him.

Finney was ensuring that everything was beginning to get back on track— that everything was going right and following the pre-destined path The Grabber had grown accustomed to.

A path that, even thought Finney was now following, The Grabber was going to change. Just for Finney— his special naughty boy.

With the help of the crutches and his let, The Grabber turned away from the window and towards the direction of the narrow hallway.

The only place Finney could be.

The only place Finney would be. Because that was the only place to run— every naughty boy found that out.

Just before they found out that there was nowhere to hide. Not really, anyways.

But, sometimes, they liked to try to play hide and seek with the monster that haunted their town— a monster they would later haunt.

And if Finney wanted to play that game— The Grabber would. Because he did indulge his naughty boy… sometimes.

Finney could make that black phone give a its familiar shrill ring— he didn’t demand his attention and sometimes get it when The Grabber was feeling particularly kind… or particularly curious or cruel. So he couldn’t indulge him that way. If this was the only way The Grabber could indulge him before he did what he needed to do, then The Grabber would do it.

But it didn’t mean that he would ensure the boy liked it. Because he didn’t deserve it, of course. Not like The Grabber did, anyways.

“Do you want me to fix you up, Finney,” The Grabber asked like that was an offer that was on the table— something he would do.

But The Grabber wouldn’t. Not int eh way that that flicker of hope that probably foolishly ignited in Finney’s chest before it was quickly snuffed out by a realization grounded in reality thought he would.

The Grabber tilted his head to the side, face twisting slightly as he put on a show of pondering to his invisible audience, “Because I can,” he uttered like he surprised himself that he could do something like that.

Before, of course, his voice dropped until it was nearly a growl.

“Because I really can.”

Creak

Immediately, The Grabber’s eyes darted towards the sounds of life.

But, in this situation, it wasn’t a sound of life he heard.

It was the sound of death. Of one of his dead naughty boys… trying to play with what was left of the black phone mounted on the wall.

The black phone that seemed to be… breathing?

The Grabber’s brow furrowed as he stared at the black object mounted onto the wall, a hint of confused disbelief (and a fear he would claim was Albert’s) seeping into his widening eyes as he watched the black phone suck in a deep, rattling breath. Before it exhaled with a long, drawn out creak.

For another moment, The Grabber watched the phone breath in and out before he decided he might like their taunting prank calls batter than this.

Because this…

This was just the creepiest damn thing he had ever seen.

And it was unnerving in a way he didn’t think he had ever experienced before.

But, maybe in the future, he would experience something more unnerving. Because his dead naughty boys were upping their game lately. And The Grabber had a feeling they had a few more tricks up their bloodied sleeves. Tricks that The Grabber promised himself that he would never let them affect him.

Or get close to hurting him… again.

“Finney,” The Grabber let out a deep, exasperated sigh, his grip on his crutches tightening as he forced his terse voice to lighten, “Come out so I can fix you.”

But Finney didn’t.

He didn’t even move. The Grabber didn’t think he did, anyways. Because he didn’t hear even a scuffle of movement coming from that hallway trying to be consumed by shadows.

Shadows that would be easily snuffed out with more light. Or maybe they would run away with their tails between their legs when The Grabber neared— just like they always did.

“Finney,” The Grabber called out the the basement that was never empty as he began moving around Max’s body just like he moved around Samson’s— with ignorance that tried and failed to be blissful, tiredness that gave away to anger slipping into his tone when he didn’t receive and an answer in the form of a terrified voice telling him to go away or pleading with him to leave him alone, “Finney,” he repeated like that would coax a response, verbal or otherwise, from the boy.

But it didn’t.

All it did was, somehow, make the silence in the basement— the silence that Finney allowed to suffocate them with his cowardice and reluctance — worse. It made it almost deafening.

And sightly… frightening.

Because the longer the silence stretched on with only The Grabber’s voice and the dull thudding of his crutches to shatter it, it allowed doubt to creep up on him and eat at his certainty he had tried so hard to make unbreakable.

The silence told him that he was wrong— that Finney wasn’t here in this basement.

He was gone. And soon, The Grabber would be gone too— taken away in handcuffs and leaving behind two ruined lives.

The Grabber quickened his pace, stumbling a little bit at the series of erratic movements he was forcing his body to perform so soon after—

“Finney, answer me!” The demand burst from his lips before The Grabber could stop it, spittle filled with desperation flying from his mouth as his crutches stabbed at the shadows that coated the entrance of the hallway, “Answer me right fucking now or—“

Nothing.

The Grabber would do nothing.

Because Finney was still here, trapped int eh place he would soon ensure he could (and would) never escape from.

Finney were right there— just around the sharp corner that offered the tiniest bit of privacy to whoever was using the toilet. During the past few years, that had mostly been his naughty boys. Unless Albert ate something bad that made diarrhea burst from his asshole and vomit seep from his lips. When that happened, Albert used the toilet (that had never been cleaned since Albert claimed ownership of his childhood home) down here.

Just to make it more unpleasant for any of those naughty boys that stayed down here. But not inconvenient. After all, Albert did provide them with toilet tissue… that Albert mostly used.

Now that shitter and the small space around it was providing cover for Finney. Cover from The Grabber’s prying eyes that always sought him out in a crowd even when he had robin down here.

But not compete cover. After all, if Finney had dragged himself closer to the toilet, The Grabber wouldn’t have seen him. He probably wouldn’t have known he was still here…

Until, of course, he stumbled down this narrow hallway with panic and desperate urgency forcing him to crawl when he decided that the crutches were only slowing him down. Once he reached the end of the hallway and turned towards the place he had witnessed (and delighted) in seeing many naughty boys try to hide from him— he would have spotted Finney. Just like he spotted his other boys.

But he didn’t need to go along the hallway to spot Finney. Because he could see him.

Well, The Grabber would see Finney feet trapped inside his battered and dirty sneakers that he wouldn’t have gotten the chance to outgrow if everything went according to The Grabber’s plan.

But he couldn’t see the rest of his body. Because the upper parts of Finney’s body were hidden from him by more than just clothes. They were hidden by the wall.

Finney’s injury was hidden by the wall.

An injury that The Grabber found himself compelled to see to stop the small, annoying voice in the back of his head from whispering its doubts into his ear.

After all, The Grabber didn’t think he had hurt Finney that much when he smashed the boy’s head against the wall. He couldn’t have. Because, if he did, how did he move all the way over there? How did Finney managed to unlatch the window.

Or maybe the injury he gained from his presumed tumble from the window was serious. Serious in a way The Grabber found himself frowning at.

Because he didn’t want it to be serious— too serious for The Grabber to fix and make better so they could play a new kind of game.

“Finney,” The Grabber cautiously called out, the shadows shifting slightly around him as his eyes remained focused on the boy.

The boy who didn’t move at the sound of his voice echoing off the walls and bouncing into his ears.

Finney’s feet remained where they were, laying limp on the ground and totally unmoving even though the other boys in his place would have hurriedly pulled them closer tot heir bodies. And out of The Grabber’s line of sight as they hoped and prayed that the monster coming after them hadn’t seen them.

(But The Grabber did— he always did. And now, his dead naughty boys would see him— always.)

The frown marring The Grabber’s face deepened when he received no response. But he couldn’t let that sad discomfort show for long.

After all, he had an audience. And one very special naughty boy who The Grabber had to keep reminding himself not to get tricked by. And not to let his guard down around.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Finney,” The Grabber easily let that lip slip from between his bared teeth, directing his words at the part of the boy he could see peaking around the corner and hoping he could rouse a reaction from the boy.

But he didn’t.

So, The Grabber did what he always did in this situation when his naughty boys were hiding and praying that they wouldn’t be found even though it was likely The Grabber already had his eyes on them.

He played another game. A game that wouldn’t be the last game they played together. But maybe it was the nicest they would play down here.

Until, of course, The Grabber found them— really found them.

Chapter 12: Line...

“I just want you to come out from your hiding place,” The Grabber blandly uttered like it was a reasonable request.

A request that he really didn’t have to make. Because Finney was already given away his hiding place.

But, if Finney wanted to act like he hadn’t done that— like he was successfully hiding from the monster…

Then The Grabber could play along with that game. Just like he always did.

The Grabber let out a thoughtful hum, resisting the urge to reach up, place his own hand on his chin while his brow furrowed with concentration as he tried to work out where on earth that naughty boy could be. But he didn’t do that. And not just because Finney couldn’t see him and his dead boys had probably seen the action too many times to make them unnerved by in.

It was because of the crutches. The crutches that The Grabber found quite limiting— limiting in a way he was cursing Albert’s foolishness, rash decision and his reluctance to end Samson’s (and maybe Finney’s life) before he caused damage like this. Damage that could never be repaired. Not easily, anyways. And definitely not cheaply.

The crutches that, with every thud that sounded and reminded The Grabber of their existence and his new predicament, he vowed to make Finney pay for.

Because Samson had already paid for his part in this— paid with his life. But he couldn’t make Finney pay with his life. Not yet, anyways.

If The Grabber had raised his hand to his chin, he would be tapping his finger against it as he pondered out loud, “I wonder where he is…” The Grabber trailed off, keeping his hands clutched to the handles of his crutches and gaze fixed on the boy.

Waiting for a reaction that never came.

Something that make The Grabber more than annoyed as he eyed for a reaction from the boy that had never really provided him with what he needed.

(Until, of course, he was forced to sacrifice Albert’s beloved brother.)

The Grabber’s eyes narrowed at the pair of feet that still didn’t move, “Where my naughty boy is,” The Grabber clarified in a slightly raised voice just in case Finney hadn’t been able to hear him the first time.

The pair of feet that was attached to a boy he knew he would have to get to later. But that later might be now.

The Grabber let out a short huff of irritation, glancing down at where the ends of his crutches met the floor… and then at the gaping hole that took up most of the space on the floor of the narrow hallway.

The hole that The Grabber would have to get across. He didn’t know if these crutches would help or hinder him further when trying to cross but—

Oh.

Was that his face?

The Grabber had continued staring down at the floor, but his eyes was tugged by an invisible force to something else.

Something familiar and utterly broken.

His face…

Albert’s mask.

That was destroyed. Thanks to Finney… and the crushing weight of Albert’s body when he had tugged himself out of that hole, crushing the mask and scraping it against the floor int he process.

The Grabber’s grip on the handles of the crutches tightened, making the wood creak and tremble as it threatened to snap like he should have snapped Finney’s neck all those days ago. The way Finney had tried and nearly fucking succeeded in snapping the Grabber’s neck before.

“Finney,” The Grabber didn’t growl the boys name, but the way he pushed the name out of his mouth like it disgusted him to even have it in his possession for another moment— the way his voice dropped into something inhuman was low, guttural…

And was definitely not friendly like he normally was when he wore this white face paint that always seemed to both creep kids out and make them lower their guards at the same time.

“Where are you, my naughty boy?” The Grabber didn’t try to keep his voice light and play full, but there was a sing-song quality to his lilt that, when it shot through the deathly cold air of the basement, it even made the hair on the back of The Grabber’s neck stand to attention and goosebumps rush to cover the surface of The Grabber’s bare arms.

If if did that this this body that The Grabber was possession…

The Grabber couldn't’ wait to see what his naughty boy’s reaction must have been. What would hopefully still be there, festering in anticipation and waiting for his arrival so it could peak and give The Grabber everything he wanted.

But, deepened own, he had a feeling he would be very disappointed with the reaction Finney would give him. Because Finney had been nothing but an annoyance and a disappointment since he arrived in the basement. He never gave The Grabber what he had been craving— he just took and took, giving nothing but destruction back to The Grabber.

Why would it be different now?

Why would Finney change… when he hadn’t been forced to change?

“I’m coming to get you, Finney,” The Grabber viciously crooned like a promise they both knew he would do anything to keep.

A promise that was inevitable and had already been written as part of their destiny.

Because it was something that needed to happen. Everybody in this basement knew it. That’s why The Grabber brought the wasp poison when it had never even stepped foot in this basement before. And that’s why Finney had unlatched the window in a last ditch, futile attempt to escape before The Grabber could come back and get him.

The Grabber sent a cautious and disgruntled look down at the hole he would need to fill it before he flicked his gaze back towards the only part of his target he could see.

And then, he began to move. He slipped his arms free from the crutches (but refused to drop the knife from his grip, grabbing and then throwing the crutches over the space in the ground like they weighted nothing— like they were nothing. The Grabber watched them clatter to the ground with sight disinterested in his dark eyes

And then, he began hugging the wall like he did…

How long had it even been since he did this? Since he hopped along the narrow space between the hole and the wall. The space that was filled with blood, dirt…

But Finney wasn’t here this time, taking up some of the valuable space on the floor and being a nauseous.

Now, The Grabber found it almost… easier to do this a second time. When his foot wasn’t dangling, bobbing and threatening to pull him into the hole. And when he had pain relief flowing through his veins and making it almost easier to think and move.

The Grabber only stopped hugging the wall when he reached the other side of the pit. The pit that, from up here with the dim light stopping him from seeing nothing but darkness as his eyes tried to travel further down the hole at, from up here, looked bottomless. But The Grabber had experience with that hole. He knew it wasn’t never ending. There was a end to it— and when he reached it, his phantom foot that wasn’t there anymore flared with pain and grief.

The Grabber didn’t push himself free from the stability of the wall once he reached the patch of tiles coated with dirt that was both fresh and old. Instead, he continued to use it for support and stability and he slowly and cautiously lowered himself to the ground to retrieve his crutches.

His crutches that, once he slipped back into position, reassured him that he didn’t need the wall. Not while he had them, anyways.

But what The Grabber did need was to get to Finney. Because he couldn’t do what he needed to do while Finney was still at large and a danger to him and everything he built (and destroyed) here in this basement.

The Grabber turned his gaze ahead— towards the boys whose future he held in his clutches. The boy who was still partially hidden by the corner where the toilet sat. But not for long.

Because, soon The Grabber would be in that little nook with Finney where where was no good place to hide and—

What was that?

The Grabber had taken one step forwards, his crutches lagging behind slightly when he felt something soft and squishy under his foot.

Something that The Grabber eventually recognized as as slab of meat, now flattened and pressed to the ground it seemed to be wanting to morph into. A piece of meat that The Grabber slowly removed his foot from, lowered it down onto a space on the floor next to it as confusion coursed through his body.

Because this meat shouldn't be here. After all, the only food The Grabber brought into this basement was under seasoned lukewarm (and sometimes freezing cold) scrambled eggs. The Grabber had never brought meat into this basement.

Not for his naughty boys who definitely did nothing to deserve something as luxurious as that. Something so large that would give them energy (energy that they would use to fight him) and probably clear their minds better than a dish of scrambled eggs every could.

Starvation as something he relied on to ensure he always won and everything always went according to a rigid plan in this basement. And with a slab of meat this big— it would give enough power to feed his boys’ minds— maybe enough to make them think straight. And that was never good. Because they already caused so much trouble when their minds was starved of fuel— The Grabber didn’t like to think about the chaos they could have cause if their minds weren’t deprived of something The Grabber ensured his was never deprived of. Not since he was a child, anyways.

This food — this meat — was out of place in this basement unless…

Unless he had forced his latest boy to reach a point of desperation where no other boy had been before.

Tearing flesh of somebody and… eating it.

The Grabber didn’t look at the piece of meat that was once under his foot in horror. But he also didn’t look at it in delight.

He just looked at it with a slightly twisted expression that he was certain the dead boys lurking in this basement wouldn’t be able understand. Because, right now, The Grabber didn’t even understand what eh was feeling.

But he did know what he was thinking. His mind was busy when his body seemed frozen gawking down at that piece of meat like he had never seen it before. Even though… he could have seen if before. But when it was wrapped in a layer of skin… or fur.

The Grabber’s mind was whirring with potabilities of who this meat belonged to. There wasn’t many possibilities— only three. Two people and one dog who this flesh could have belonged to. Because they were the only ones locked away in this basement with a starving and desperate boy who The Grabber really didn’t know what to expect from anymore.

Max was on the other side of the hole. And The Grabber could easily glance over his shoulder, rake his eyes over his brothers body to ensure it was intact in a way a corpse that was untouched by small, greedy hands and only touched by the natural order of decomposition.

But The Grabber didn’t do that. Because he couldn’t turn his back on Finney.

And, really, did it matter if Finney had ripped a piece of his brother away from him. After all, Finney had already taken so much from Max…

What difference did it make if Finney took Max’s life and a section of his body.

A piece of his body that Max could have encouraged him to take. After all, he did give up his life to find those naughty boys… he could have easily chosen to give up parts of his body to sustain one of those boys, too.

But, as quickly as that thought popped into The Grabber’s mind, he dismissed it. After all, he didn’t think Finney had become desperate or depraved enough to resort to cannibalism. Not when he had the option to consume a dog instead of a human.

And if this meat did used to be attached to Samson… well maybe it was fair. Maybe The Grabber felt a spark of satisfaction that the mutt responsible for finishing off his foot had a part of himself (that he could never get back) taken away from him, too.

But, eventually as his mind was filling itself with sick ideas of pleasure, he realized something.

The piece of meat was perfectly cut.

And… it wasn’t the only piece of meat in this basement. Because, there, closer towards the wall was another slab of meat…

And then another…

And another.

All identical to each other. All perfectly sliced— and all lukewarm while they should have been cold and stiff as a corpse.

And, after seeing them all scattered across the floor— and creating a small pile om the floor in front of a fucking hole in the wall The Grabber was forced to seal up when Vance had decided to destroy it— The Grabber realized a few things.

He recognized those pieces of meat that definitely weren’t from a dog or human.

Those pieces of meat that should still be in the freezer The Grabber was mentally thanking Albert for installing a lock on.

Because Finney had infiltrated the freezer, tore away the meat from its resting place, dwindled Albert’s food supply and ensured he had burned a hole in Albert’s wallets. Because that meat was expensive. Very expensive.

And now, Albert would have to replace not only that meat— but everything else Finney had destroyed in this basement.

The Grabber’s fingers clutching both the hilt of the knife and the handle of the crutch itched— begging for The Grabber to allow it to stick a knife into the boy that had caused more trouble than he was worth. But, even though The Grabber really wanted to allow that knife to slice into the boys’ flesh. He knew he couldn’t allow that to happen.

He couldn’t allow Finney’s future of pain and agony to slip through his fingers.

After all, he wasn’t finished with Finney… yet. Finney still had a price to pay for what he did to Albert’s brother… and this basement.

So, The Grabber sucked in a deep breath, trying to will away the need coursing through his body and parted his lips, “You’ve been really fucking naughty, Finney,” The Grabber breathed out with a disproving shake of his head as disbelief laced his words, “The naughtiness boy I’ve ever seen, actually,” he added even though he didn’t need to.

Even though, deep down, he knew he wouldn’t receive a reaction. Not from Finney, anyways.

But maybe, he would receive a reaction from one of his dead naughty boys.

Waiting for a few seconds to receive that reaction was futile. Maybe, later, he would receive a reaction he had been dreaming about. But only after he had began dealing with Finney the way he (and the boy would later agree) he deserved.

With one goal in his mind, The Grabber started moving towards Finney’s predicable hiding place. Before, a series of realizations dawned on him.

The Grabber could only see the boy’s shoes.

And now, that nook wasn’t the only hiding place in this basement.

There another— a very new one. That was empty and void of meat, thanks to Finney.

Cautiously, The Grabber’s eyes darted towards the hole in the wall. The hole that must be deep, but not as deep as the fucking hold in the ground, and large enough to fit a small boy in it.

Or maybe even an adult. Well, a chopped up adult… like Max would soon be.

Slowly, like he was scared too much movement would alert the boy of his presence he had already announced, he freed one arm of a crutch. A crutch that he quietly placed against a the wall so he could hold his knife properly with a grip that would have destroyed a lesser hilt.

And then, he leaned all of his weight onto his single foot and one crutch, ensuring he was stable before—

“A-ha!” The Grabber exclaimed as he hopped the short distance to the opening of the hole.

The hole that he promptly nearly tumbled into… and then away from as he lost his balance, his stability he gained from the crutch crashing towards the ground with the object while his arms flares to find purchase on the wall.

Purchase that he eventually gained, with some difficulty. But eventually he gained it.

And nearly lost his knife in the process after his hands scrambled to the wall, slammed his clenched fist to the wall to steady himself…

With a force that he was certain would have broken a lesser man’s fingers— a lesser man who would have also dropped the knife from the sudden painful jolt that changed his joyful exclamation to a shout when he thought he discovered the boy’s hiding place into a animistic howl of agony.

Agony that wasn’t even rewarded with the discovery of the boy.

Because the boy wasn’t; there, in that freezer. The freezer that, as The Grabber muttered curses, threats and promises into the air, he realized was empty except a few sparse pieces of scattered meat lurking between some thawed water, blood and other juices that The Grabber didn’t want to think about.

The Grabber seethed, letting out a few more curses through his teeth, particles of saliva flying into the chilly air hovering around him before he reached for both of his crutches that had tumbled to the ground during the commotion.

The Grabber that Finney was the cause of, just like he was the cause of everything that had gone wrong recently.

“Finney,” The Grabber called out, dropping the playfulness and leaving just the promise of cruelty in his voice as he snapped his head towards the boy’s hiding place, “Come out now and apologize and I’ll be… nice,” he forced the latter word wrapped in a lie from his mouth in a low hiss, wondering how nice he would be if Finney obeyed and made this easier for The Grabber who really didn’t want to waste his energy hopping towards the toilet.

But all of his thoughts of being nice was wiped from his mind when, once again, he received a reply that was nothing but silence. And ignorant disobedience.

The Grabber’s seemingly permanent frown that must be trying to turn Albert’s features into a new mask for him to wear seemed to stretch almost unnaturally downwards.

A frown that he vowed to turn upside down— something he knew would happen when he dragged a few pleas and maybe a never ending stream of cries from Finney’s lips.

Something that he couldn’t wait any longer to make happen. So, he didn’t.

The Grabber secured his crutches—

Thud

—and began to close the distance between him and Finney’s hiding place.

Thud

Thud

Thud…

And found something he never thought he would find.

Chapter 13: And Sinker

There the boy was, on the floor, seemingly unconscious.

But The Grabber knew what kind of naughty boy he had in this basement— he knew how many times he tried (and failed) to trick him and pull the wool over his eyes.

Now would not be one of those (very few) times Finney succeeded in fooling him. The Grabber promised himself that it wouldn’t be.

“Oh, Finney,” The Grabber called out, imitating the voice his mother used to use when she had a surge of cruelty run through her and didn’t want him to know about it yet, “Wake up,” he demanded in that wistful, singsong voice that Albert always felt a spike of wariness stab him whenever he heard it from his mother.

But Finney hadn’t heard that voice from The Grabber before, he was certain of it. So he wouldn’t know that that particular lilt in his voice could never be trusted.

Something that The Grabber was still on the fence about giving him the chance to make a note of and store the information away for future use.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” The Grabber continued when Finney continued playing dead, a part of him unsure if Finney would be surprised by the knife he already viciously pressed to his throat as he threatened to disembowel the boy and do what he should have done days ago…

Or if the boy would be surprised the wasp spray that invaded the boy’s eyes and his mouth on the day The Grabber brought him to his new home.

Those two objects were both things Finney had already seen.

But these crutches, a pair of unlikely weapons that The Grabber would utilize if he needed to, Finney hadn’t seen them… yet.

The Grabber didn’t know what he was expecting Finney’s reaction to these wooden objects propping him in a way that was different from how those puppets on what was probably his favorite television shows were propped up. The Grabber hoped to see a flash of guilt followed by a series of stuttering words that tried to disown the blame The Grabber would be placing on him.

But he really didn’t know what he would see when Finney’s eyes fell on these crutches… and then as they drifted to the space on the floor next to one of the crutches— the space that was missing something the boy still possessed two of. The Grabber would never have two feet again— not like he used to have, anyways.

And that was thanks to Finney, and Samson. A pair who The Grabber was trying not to entertain the idea of them working together to destroy a part of him. Because that was ridiculous, wasn’t it?

But wasn’t everything that happened in this basement ridiculous and sometimes impossible?

Hadn’t the way The Grabber had nearly lost his life to a boy who probably would have been one of those pacifists against what was going on in Nam — a boy who The Grabber was definitely stronger than — been ridiculous?

Hadn’t the way that phone rang and the disembodied voices of boys whose bodies where no longer rotting in the basement across the street... impossible?

Albert who had always been Max’s protector when they were kids— who had sworn to never hurt him like their father did — been the one to hurt him the most. The Grabber had been the one to fucking kill him like he one of his ’s naughty and disobedient boys… even when Max had sworn he had grown out of that phase. To Albert, the idea of even thinking about hurting Max was impossible. But, in this basement, it made that ridiculous idea reality.

The Grabber stared down at the boy on the floor. The boy who remained perfectly still. Except, kind of unfortunately, for the slight rise and fall of his chest.

The Grabber allowed his eyes to linger on that subtle movement, a furrow forming in his brow the longer he stared. Because he recognized those breathing patterns.

But he didn’t want to believe it. Because it couldn’t be true, could it?

Finney couldn't really be asleep, looking so peaceful, after everything that just happened— after everything Finney did, could he?

But maybe he could… with some help.

Help that The Grabber gave him when he bashed his head against that wall. And later help that Finney gave himself when he unlatched the window and probably promptly fell from a dangerous height to cause that small pool of blood on the floor under the window.

The window that The Grabber would need to properly secure again. But not right now. Now, he needed to secure Finney— to ensure he couldn’t interfere or temp The Grabber to kill him before it was time to do so.

The Grabber’s eyes drifted for the boy’s lax face, about to move his crutch to send a sharp jab to jolt him awake when he noticed something he didn’t know how he missed before.

Blood.

Which… he really should have realized would be coating the boy’s flesh after seeing the patch of fresh, red liquid in the hallway and under the window.

But, for some reason, it still surprised The Grabber to see it there, so stark and angry against the boy’s flesh that looked totally unaware of its existence.

Because Finney’s features weren’t twisted in some form of pain. Which was impressive. Because if Finney was pretending to be asleep… he must be feeling a pain that wouldn’t be relived by pills like Albert’s was.

The Grabber knew from experience that his boys couldn’t deal with pain— not like The Grabber could.

But maybe Finney was different.

Or maybe he wasn’t.

Because the blood was coating Finney’s face, some of it dried and some of it still dripping down his dirty skin and gliding over every ridge and pore of flesh.

Finney was injured— his head was injured. Something The Grabber was aware of before. But now, he was seeing the importance of that information he previously overlooked.

After all, he knew had bad head wounds could be. And how much they ruined The Grabber’s fun… and saved the boys from what they had been begging for to stop since The Grabber started.

Some of his games with his naughty boys were cut short after he punched them slightly too hard and their head hit the floor of the basement, trying to ricochet back for a moment before gravity (and later death) stole that movement. And then every movement that wasn’t controlled by The Grabber after that.

But Finney was well enough to unlatch that window… and promptly fell a distance that sadly didn’t break his ankle— only more of his head. Which must have lead to this pitiful sight of the boy on the floor— completely defenseless in a way that didn’t really satisfy The Grabber in the way it normally would have done.

After all, it was hard to be satisfied with anything right now. Even the sight of his latest naughty boy, injured and punished by an unseen force that he had previously heard called Karma. Or maybe it was guilt and the boy’s own need to say how sorry he was for taking away two of the most important things Albert had.

Max and Samson— who were both dead, thanks to Finney.

Maybe Finney decided the head injury he received from the wall— the wound that allowed Albert to make his escape from the basement with his tail between his legs wasn’t even. Maybe he needed more pain to quell the guilt gnawing at his stomach. Maybe he needed to punish himself before he offered his body up to The Grabber on a metaphorical silver platter like he had done now.

Maybe Finney wasn’t as naughty as he thought.

Or maybe The Grabber was being tricked again by the boy who cold never compare to his other naughty boys. Even if The Grabber had thought, for a moment, that Finney had done something that no boy before him had done before— give himself an unsatisfying punishment while yearning for The Grabber to deliver his own.

Maybe Finney was still tricking him— maybe he knew what The Grabber wanted most in the world and was giving it to him in hopes of him going easier on him.

(But The Grabber wouldn’t do that. Even if he did like the sight of that blood… and the sight of Finney seemingly unconscious.)

Or maybe he wasn’t doing that. Maybe he was just playing pretend like he had done before. Maybe he was feigning sleep while hoping that The Grabber would go away and leave him alone.

But, like before, The Grabber couldn’t do that. Even if he wanted to. Because, now until The Grabber had finished his mission, they were both stuck down here in this basement… together.

The Grabber wouldn’t be leaving this basement. Neither would Finney. Something the boy would have to learn one of these days, even if it killed him.

But, in The Grabber’s basement, Finney might have learned something else: how to fool The Grabber.

Finney could have gotten better at playing this particular trick— he could have learned from the other naughty boys on the disconnected black phone about his tells when he fakes slumber. And he could have snuffed them out.

An idea that instantly made an irritating itch appear under The Grabber’s skin.

(And not only because those dead naughty boys had been interfering with The Grabber’s game.)

Because, once again, Finney had deviated from the path The Grabber had learned by heart. Finney was supposed to be bad at pretending to be asleep— he wasn’t supposed to get good at it. He wasn’t supposed to change into something else. Not if The Grabber didn’t permit it, anyways.

As The Grabber continued gazing at the boy on the floor— the boy who may or may not be offering his body up for a punishment The Grabber couldn't’ give him right now. A feeling of wrongness bubbled up inside of him. And it wasn’t just because of this whole… situation.

It was because of his thought— his thought that Finney had gotten good at something The Grabber was now realizing was impossible to do in such a short amount of time… right?

Finney couldn't have gotten that good at pretending to be unconscious— even when he must have felt The Grabber’s eyes on him. Even when he knew there was a possibility that he could feel more of something else The Grabber possessed on him.

(Or maybe in him.)

Those dead naughty boys must have told Finney tales of them— tales of them together. By now, Finney must know about all the fun The Grabber had with his boys. Even when they would vehemently admit that they did not have fun— that they did not like it…

Even when The Grabber knew they did.

Maybe the boy really was unconscious. Maybe his own self inflicted punishment that The Grabber knew was an idea so foolish he wouldn’t have been surprised if Max’s ghost had whispered it into his ear and forced The Grabber’s mind to claim the idea as his.

Maybe the boy had simply injured himself— maybe he had just succumbed to an injury.

And, if Finney did do that… The Grabber would have been really grateful for that.

Because The Grabber needed Finney out of the way for this next part. He didn’t need him interfering or trying to escape. And, if he was unconscious… Finney wouldn’t be able to do any of that.

But if he wasn’t unconscious. If he was really awake and feigning sleep in a much better way than he had done before…

That would be a problem. And an annoyance The Grabber was beginning to suspect that was all Finney would be.

The Grabber’s eyes narrowed down at the boy, rising one crutch slightly before he sent it towards Finney’s foot.

Finney’s foot that when it was harshly prodded by the bottom of the crutch didn’t do anything except wobble slightly.

The Grabber frowned at that unsatisfying reaction, a part of him hoping for more.

Which, he would probably get if he—

Thump

If he did that. If he jabbed the end of his crutch into the boy’s stomach, almost like he was road kill on the side of the road he was ensuring was well and truly dead.

But Finney wasn’t roadkill on the side of the road— he was naughty boy in The Grabber’s basement. And he wasn’t dead like the other boys— not yet, anyways.

The boy didn’t react to the object that The Grabber wielded like an extravagantly large knife that was too blunt to successfully penetrate the boy’s flesh.

His eyelids didn’t flutter, his face didn’t contort with fear…

And not a single sound of pain escaped those lips that remained parted even as drool escaped it, mixing with grime and blood to create an image that would have been unpleasant to anyone but The Grabber.

But The Grabber wouldn’t be fooled that easily— not anymore anyways.

And he definitely wouldn’t not take a few more precautions around the boy to ensure that he really was out of the way and his mind trapped in a slumber while his body remained here in this basement where it would stay for eternity.

Lowly, The Grabber hopped closer to the boy, using his crutches for support until he came to a stop and leaned them against the wall. The wall that The Grabber eventually reached out to to help lower him to the ground instead of just falling to the harsh tiles and causing an fresh ache that he wouldn’t be able to feel joining the already numbed pain coursing through his body thanks to the pills swimming through his veins.

But Finney wouldn’t receive those same pills, not from The Grabber anyways. He wouldn’t receive nay pills that would dull anything for him. Or could make him miss out on any of the experiences The Grabber was planning for him. The Grabber swore that he wouldn’t allow Finney to miss out on any of that.

Not like he needed Finney to miss out on this. And only this.

Because, as much as The Grabber wanted Finney to be awake for this— to see the consequences of his actions and even help if The Grabber reluctantly needed him to.

The Grabber couldn’t deal with Finney, Max and Samson.

Not when The Grabber had found his body changed in a way he didn’t think he would ever experience.

Not when Finney hadn’t found himself changed— not when Finney could definitely outrun (and maybe even overpower him again.)

The Grabber made himself as comfortable as he could, kneeling on the ground next to the boy who still didn’t react to his presence that would only grow nearer.

And then, as he kept his eyes trained on the boy’s face, dark orbs scanning over the flesh and searching (sometimes under a few layers of blood that coated the skin) for a flicker of something that would tell The Grabber that he was right— that the boy wasn’t really asleep — he slowly reached for his belt.

He reached for the spray can of wasp poison handily attached to his belt.

And then, slowly and almost tauntingly, he raised the spray can into the air and simply shook it. It rattled a familiar sluggish, continuous noise shooting through the air, echoing off the walls of the hallway bouncing into Finney’s ears.

But, even thought The Grabber knew the familiar sound reached Finney’s eardrums., it failed to rouse Finney from his lie… or his slumber. The sound that he knew haunted his dead naughty boys, even in death, failed to snatch Finney from sleep’s clutches… to force him to stop pretending.

And, when Finney didn’t react, The Grabber began to allow his shoulders to relax. Because, maybe, Finney was really unconscious.

But, if he wasn’t, The Grabber was certain that he would be soon.

Because The Grabber wasn’t taking any more chances with Finney. He would be letting his guard down around him and allowing him to trick him… or cause him any more trouble.

Cautiously, and very reluctantly, The Grabber placed his knife onto the ground next to his crutched. Hopefully it was a safe enough distance away from Finney’s desperate grasp if he suddenly decided to break the illusion he was trying to create.

Hopefully The Grabber would be quicker than Finney and would be able to grab hold of the sharp object, that was the thin line between life and death, before the boy could.

But, if The Grabber wasn’t fast enough— if he couldn’t reach for the blade that had claimed do many souls and had been coating with so much blood…

Well, he didn’t want to think about that.

Just like he was certain Finney, if he was awake, didn’t want to think about The Grabber would do. What he could do to him.

The Grabber smiled, the rattling of the can coming to a slow stop as a smile began to crawl onto his white lips. And then, with the hand that wasn’t hovering in the air and holding the wasp spray, he reached out for the boy that was the cause of all of his problems.

And had tried so hard to be the tool in The Grabber’s downfall.

For a moment, The Grabber’s almost uncertain fingers hesitated. Fingertips only grazing the flesh coated in dirt and blood before those limbs grew more confident.

Because Finney hadn’t moved— he didn’t give a single twitch of resistance of discomfort. He accepted The Grabber’s touch like none of the boys before him did.

And, for some reason, that made the smile on The Grabber’s lips spread further until it nearly took up all of the space on his lower face.

The Grabber slid his fingertips further up the boy’s face, the rest of his fingers following suit until, eventually, live the first day Finney arrived in this basement, The Grabber was cupping the boy’s cheek.

And, like that first day, the boy didn’t pull away. Maybe because he never wanted to do that— tear him away from the only affection he would receive from a man old enough to be his father.

Or maybe he knew what would happen, how displeased The Grabber would be, if he did pull away.

Slowly, The Grabber stroked his thumb over the cold flesh that, for a moment, The Grabber was reminded of flesh that belonged to a corpse. A corpse that breathed and—

Flinched.

Ever so slightly, just then, Finney flinched.

He did, The Grabber swore he did.

The monster grinned, excitement sparking to life inside of him for what felt like the first time in years as he stared at the boy’s face. The boy’s face that was as still as all of the other naughty boys’ faces, but only slightly more warm.

The Grabber waited for more movement, another flinch or something that told The Grabber that he hadn’t imagined seeing that bit of movement that The Grabber was beginning to doubt was a flinch.

Maybe it was just a simply twitch— something that happened, subconsciously, even in sleep.

Slowly, that smile dripped off The Grabber’s face the longer Finney’s face remained stubbornly still.

And then, when that smile had nearly vanished, a fire born from determination and righteousness was ignited within The Grabber.

Because The Grabber had seen a fucking flinch— he was certain he had.

And he would prove it— by coaxing another from the boy who really didn’t like to react to him like a normal boy would.

“Finney,” the man called out like he was trying to wake the boy up— or just trying to get his attention and snatch his mind back from wherever it had wandered off to escape him, “I want to give you something,” he softly whispered the words like he only wanted Finney to hear them.

But he didn’t. Because he knew, even when he dropped his voice to a soft, breathy whisper that was only meant to be for Finney’s ears. His words weren’t solely for one naughty boy— they were for all of the naughty boys.

And those words The Grabber just uttered— they would send a shiver down his dead boys’ spines— even when their physical spines were moving further and further away from their spiritual bodies…

The Grabber knew they would quiver when they heard those words. After all, they all knew what The Grabber had given them…

And maybe when The Grabber gave Finney that something… it would be like giving all of his naughty boys that something again.

But it wouldn’t, The Grabber knew it wouldn’t. Because when they saw what The Grabber gave Finney— they would be grateful they were already dead and their bodies far, far away from him.

The Grabber leaned closer, his grip on the wasp poison tightening slightly as his eyes raked over the boy’s face, staring intently for a moment before he uttered the words that he was certain would provoke a reaction, “I think you’ll really like it,” he lied.

For once knowing that what he gave Finney… he wouldn’t like. He really wouldn't.

(Unless he was sick like the man The Grabber saw in the mirror— then he would. He really would.)

For a moment, The Grabber allowed his calloused hand to glide upwards, dipping his fingers into those oily locks and tugging. Hard.

Intently, The Grabber watched the boys’ face for a reaction— for the smallest hint of pain or fear that could easily slip through the boy’s mask he had probably just crafted to deceive him. But he received none.

So, The Grabber allowed his fingers to go lax, smoothed the hair back into place before he patted the spot he had nearly ripped the strands of hair from int he form of a silent apology he didn’t mean.

“Maybe you are asleep,” he wondered a out loud for his strangely silent audience of naughty boys.

Finney didn’t react to those words, either. But that was okay.

The Grabber had a lot more things planned that the boy could react to. When he was really awake, of course.

(Something he was still unsure if Finney really was right now.)

The Grabber slipped his hands free of the boy’s hair, humming a simple tune as he allowed his fingers to playfully dance along the boys flesh (and, for a moment, get dangerously close to his eye— so close he feared if he didn’t have better control of his urges he would have easily been able to poke and eventually pop the eyeball) until he reached the boy’s lower face.

Something his fingers previously never lingered long on.

But now, they would.

For a moment, The Grabber wondered that, if the boy was awake, would he know that too. Would he know what it meant when The Grabber’s fingers came to a stop near his lips where the monsters dark eyes were glued to and seemed to gleam unnaturally bright with anticipations at.

If he didn’t know, he would soon.

Because, quicker than The Grabber had planned for, his fingers reached out. The tips of his fingers, almost cautiously but definitely curiosity, skidded over the flesh of the boy’s slips. Getting used to the feel of the discolored flesh that was cracked and almost as dry as the desert to his touch. And then, once he had gotten used to the feel and the knowledge that Finney wouldn’t (or couldn’t) stop him, he made his move.

Slowly, he wiped the fresh drool that had congregated at the corner of the boy’s lips, not giving it the chance to slip down the side of Finney’s cheek or his chin.

He only hesitated for a moment before he leisurely, like he had all the time in the world, brought that digit coated with saliva to his mouth. He stared at the boy’s face, an almost challenge sparking to life in his eyes as his lips parted, eagerly welcoming the finger inside.

And, as The Grabber stared down at the boy’s nonresponse face, he plunged the finger inside the warm depth of his mouth. Gradually, drop by drop, he wiped the saliva that wasn’t his own onto his rough tongue. His taste buds jumped for joy, attacking and eventually consuming the foreign liquid as The Grabber began tugging his finger free from his mouth until—

Pop

He was free.

For a moment, The Grabber seemed to be the only free thing in this basement— the only thing that moved.

Because the air… the air suddenly stopped, bristling with disgust The Grabber knew wasn’t its own as it threatened to poke and prod the monster to make it feel even the smallest amount of discomfort The Grabber could feel around him.

The Grabber’s finger coated with more saliva than it was seconds ago when it entered his mouth slowly began descending through the stiff and heavy air. The man’s eyes grew distant for just a moment, his head tilting his head to the side slightly, his features painted a ghastly white twisting with wonder as mouth swished around the saliva like it was wine.

Wine that was—

“Disgusting,” The Grabber spat the word from his lips, his expression warping to matching the word he couldn’t wait to expel from his body, “You’re… disgusting,” he hissed out the latter word, spittle that wasn’t completely his own flying free form his lips and landing on the boy who helped create that strange, disgusting mixture.

The boy didn’t react.

So, like The Grabber’s only aim was to cause the boy a pain he obviously wasn’t feeling right now, he parted his lips again, leaning even closer to the boy like that would make him hear him better, “You taste disgusting.”

The boy, predictably, didn’t react.

The Grabber didn’t know why the fact that he already felt like he knew wouldn’t receive caused him to clench his fist to resist punishing the boy before he was really awake to feel and appreciate it. But it did.

And The Grabber didn’t like it.

Just like he knew, if Finney was awake, he really wouldn’t like what came next.

The Grabber moved his hand with one finger slick with spit back to the boy’s face.

Not waiting another second before he dipped that finger inside, muttered a quick, “Say ah,” even though he knew Finney wouldn’t.

But it was almost fun to pretend Finney would— to pretend to give Finney the option to do as he said while he created a mental list of punishments he could give the boy for his disobedience.

The Grabber didn’t give Finney time to say “ah” before hooked the digit over the bottom row of the boy’s teeth and, slowly, dragged it downwards.

Now, the boy’s lips were parted, almost like Finney was giving him a silent scream.

Or he was trying (and failing) to give a shout for help, just like he did when The Grabber first wrapped his arms around the boy and dragged him into the van.

Before, the slither of space between the boys lips wasn’t enough to do what he needed to do. But now, it was.

Now, the target was bigger.

Now, The Grabber had the chance to make the boy really react.

With the hand that wasn’t in the process of propping open the boy’s mouth, he gave the canister filled with his trusted wasp poison one final shake.

Then he moved the spray can, quickly aiming the opening of the nozzle into the center of the target…

And then he released the wasp poison into the boy’s mouth.

The Grabber, for once, was feeling slightly merciful. Because he didn’t allow the spray of wasp poison to stray— he didn’t allow it to fly into the boy’s closed eyes.

He just kept it trained on his target, and watched.

He watched as Finney didn’t really move— not like The Grabber thought he would have done if he was really awake and feigning unconsciously. The boy didn’t reach up, try to shove the spray can away… or even try to hurt The Grabber with an object he couldn’t see like he did the first time he did this.

Instead, all Finney did was scrunch his forehead up into something that resembled an uncomfortable and slightly confused wince as a small, distressed sound, slipped free from his propped open lips.

And then, it was over. The Grabber allowed the stream of spray to die down. Satisfied that Finney would truly be unconscious, if he wasn’t already before.

But he was also utterly unsatisfied with the lack of reaction he received from the boy. Something that was beginning to become a familiar feeling with Finney.

The Grabber let a small huff seep past his mouth, slipping his finger free from the grip on Finney’s teeth before he placed the wasp poison back into his belt.

And then, after throwing one more look of disappointment mixed with annoyance towards the boy that was now definitely unconscious, he began to raise himself to his… foot.

Grabbing, slipping into and then stabilizing himself with his crutches was slowing becoming second nature to him. But using them— walking with them…

The Grabber doubted that that would ever become second nature to him.

And he didn’t want it to become second nature to him, either. Now long some of the other things he had hoped and then honed to become second nature to him.

The axe he would soon be using wouldn’t be one of those things he would hone… even if, at first, he was hoping to ensure it was.

The Grabber moved away from Finney, turning the corner to find himself in the narrow hallway that he didn’t want to think about how much money it could cost to fix everything Finney did here.

Because, if he did, he knew that The Grabber would want to turn around and punish the boy right now. Something that he didn’t want to do when the boy wouldn’t be be aware of it.

Once again, The Grabber maneuvered his body around the hold int eh ground. And, soon, he was where he wanted to be.

With Max.

Max who was lying face down in the grime and memories that The Grabber created with his naughty boy’s. But, from what The Grabber could see of his face that had drying blood still trying to drip down his features, he looked almost… peaceful.

Almost… forgiving.

Something he didn’t know if it was really true. Something he didn’t know if he wanted to know if it was true. After all, the only reason he would find out that information was if the phone rang.

And a naughty boy wasn’t on the other end of it.

Instead, his naughty brother would need to on the other end of the phone, giving The Grabber the disembodied answerers to questions he probably didn’t even know he possessed.

The Grabber’s eyes fluttered towards the ground— towards the small pool of blood pooling there. If Max was still alive, The Grabber didn’t know if that amount of blood would be enough to drown Max if the axe he impaled with directed his nose into that liquid. But The Grabber did know something.

Now that he was really looking at Max and that blood…

It didn’t look the same as it did the last time he was down here in this basement.

Now it looked almost… disturbed.

And he knew that Max wouldn’t have been the person to disturb it. After all, the axe he plunged in Max’s head was enough to kill him. Quickly.

So quickly that he was already dead when he hit the floor.

The Grabber refused to remember the small twitch of his brother’s body— the small twitch that happened when he was on the floor. He refused to admit what that meant.

Max was dead— he would have already been dead when his body crumbled to the floor like a rag doll. He definitely wouldn’t have the life flowing around his veins to raise his hand to the back of his head to discover the source of his agonizing pain.

His clumsy limbs couldn't have disturbed this blood.

But Finney’s could have. Very easily.

Finney gained consciousness after The Grabber knocked him off. The unlatched window, the blood under the window… and the boy’s new place of rest was evidence of that.

Finney could have gone to Max before he passed out from his second head injury. He could have checked on him— he could have tried to rouse him from the dead while he hoped and prayed that he had only hurt Max instead of killed him.

After all, he probably thought it would be better if he only injured Max instead of killed him (even when it was clear from the amount of blood what he had done).

Albert knew from experience that it wasn’t better. And that, sometimes, the guilt from hurting someone wasn’t better than the guilt that came with ending someone’s suffering. Something that eh was uncertain if Finney would ever gain the knowledge of.

Eventually, The Grabber found the courage to tug his eyes away from the amount of blood Max lost— and towards the object Finney used to cause his brother’s body to loose that much blood…

The thing that caused the flesh that was embedded with millions of hair follicles to peel away— the make Max’s cranium splinter and half shatter to revel parts of his brain. A brain that probably began to destroy long before Finney willed the axe into his head and delivered the final blow to the organ that was already damaged because all of those drugs Max loved to consume.

The axe wasn’t sticking up form where it was lodged in Samson’s skull, like like it was when it was briefly embedded in Max’s. Instead, it had flagged until the handle was touching the ground— its weight not supported by Samson’s cranium that wasn’t as strong or thick as Max’s.

But there wasn’t so much of Samson’s skull left to support the weight of the axe, so maybe it was harder for Samson to hold it up.

The Grabber’s eyes scanned over what was left of Samson’s head, trying to work out where all those pieces of bone, fur and bits of flesh used to fit together to form the trusting and almost loving face that The Grabber had gotten used to seeing.

But he couldn’t. The puzzle formed out of rotting meat didn’t make sense. It would never fit together like it had done before. And, the longer The Grabber gazed at what was once his companion… he wondered how all those pieces of things even fit together in the first place.

The Grabber didn’t like to linger on that question for long, not like he would have done if it was Finney’s (or maybe one of his other, lesser, naughty boy’s) cranium he was mentally trying to slot together to something that would never be human in his mind.

And he definitely couldn’t allow his gaze to linger on the handle of that axe any longer. Because he had a lot to do— and he had already wasted so much of his precious time with his latest naughty boy. Time with Finney that he probably would have enjoyed if Finney actually reacted.

But, he didn’t. So, of course, The Grabber was disappointed and wearing what was becoming his signature frown when Finney was involved.

The Grabber swept his gaze towards the mattress, an idea that he quickly followed through with forming in his mind. Because, sometimes, The Grabber was very… animated.

Now that his body was off kilter with a missing foot that he missed more and more with every passing second (and a pain that emitted form the phantom limb increased the nearer he came to the time he was told to take another dose of relief in the form of a simple pill) The Grabber knew he would be more… uncoordinated in his actions.

And with the axe The Grabber could admit to himself and Albert that he wasn’t very good with…

Well, The Grabber knew that the chances of knocking the crutches from where he, at first, thought he could lean them against the wall was high.

And, on the mattress, that they couldn't’ be knocked to the ground or accidentally get impaled by a wayward swing of an axe, they would be safe.

So The Grabber chose to throw them— to safety.

The man’s aim was good. So, of course, the crutches landed on the dirty mattress. And, soon, The Grabber’s knees were pressed against the ground so he could crawl the short distance to Samson— to the axe embedded in his body that he didn’t realize was so… fragile.

As The Grabber crawled over to what was left of his best friend, he silently cursed his past self for not cleaning his floor more often. Because, by the time he (surprisingly quickly) reached Samson, his hands were covered in a thick layer of grime. And his trousers…

Well, the familiar mixture of dirt, sweat, blood and other dried fluids that covered this floor had rubbed themselves over the material of his trousers, trying to coax the fabric to allow them to seep into their pores.

The Grabber doubted that his trousers didn’t let the grime penetrate it. He also doubted that that nauseating concoction would be easy to get out of his trousers.

The Grabber came to a stop next to what was his best and only friend, a part of him knowing that he would never find a friend like him again. And another part of him happy he didn’t.

After all, he didn’t think he could handle loosing another limb. Not to someone who was supposed to only hurt the naughty boys and now his owner— who definitely wasn’t naughty.

Acting on an instinct he had developed for years, The Grabber's hand automatically reached out to pat the dog. But, before his hand could come in contact with the fur that was stretched so thin— the fur that, in some places, wasn’t there. Because the maggots had got to Samson, devouring parts of the flesh coating in fur and making The Grabber’s lips curl with disgust.

The Grabber stared at the cluster of maggots squirming over and under his best friend’s skin before he parted his lips and allowed some words to slip free before his mind could stop them, “You deserved better,” The Grabber uttered before he shook his head and dismissed that idea.

Because Samson did deserve this, didn’t he? After what he did to his fucking leg, even after years of love and loyalty, Samson did deserve this, right?

The Grabber told himself that Samson did deserve this fate— he did deserve the maggots making their home in his body. Just like he deserved that axe in his head.

The axe that The Grabber was now reaching for, hoping that he could extract it and only it. After all, he didn’t want any maggots to come with it.

But, as he wrapped his hands around the handle, shifting himself on the floor for a moment as he adjusted his grip on the axe and his position on the floor, he had a feeling that maggots were inevitable.

Something that was confirmed when he gave a sudden, harsh tug that not only freed the axe from his ex-best friend’s head…

But also a maggot.

A maggot that was suddenly transformed into a fly with no wings as it was flung from the axe it was partially resting on and into the air. It soared for only a moment, a moment that was too long for The Grabber’s liking, before it began plummeting back towards the ground.

Back towards the bodies it could easily penetrate and make a home that The Grabber would never rip away from it in.

The Grabber cast a look over his shoulder, features twisting into a sense of disgust that not only marring his features but tried to burrow under his skin and ensure that expression never left his face. Because The Grabber saw where it landed— he saw where that fucking parasite that was so much like his naughty boys who took and took and refused to give The grabber anything but disgust.

There the maggot was, where it had landed, on the floor. Next to Max. Max who wouldn’t just be Max for much longer. Max who would be Max and the maggot soon.

The Grabber sent one last glare at the maggot before he forced his gaze back towards the axe that was now secure in his hands.

The axe that was easier to dislodge from a dog instead of a human. Which was good. Because The Grabber didn’t think he had enough strength to heave the embedded axe out of a cranium that was as strong and stubborn as Max’s was…

And then find the energy to chop Albert’s beloved (and idiotic) brother to pieces so he could place him in resting place that wasn’t his final one.

After all, The Grabber wasn’t a monster. He wouldn’t just leave Albert’s brother in the freezer forever. It was just temporary. And that excuse was something that both The Grabber and Albert repeated to themselves to make them feel better.

And try not to think about where Samson’s finally resting place would be.

Because Samson's death was… oddly violent and done with a weapon that would raise questions if he brought the dog to be cremated or buried in one of the plots in the local pet cemetery. Questions like why Albert had an axe— and why he didn’t stop after he was incapacitated… or clearly dead. And Albert didn’t think he could answer questions like that. Not yet, anyways.

Albert could bring Samson to be cremated or buried… but them people would see the injuries coating his body. Albert knew what people would think— they would think it was extreme and unjust compared to the injury Albert would not allow them to see. And he couldn’t be risked as being seen as violent. Not when The Grabber was at large— and everybody would be searching for him.

The Grabber still needed to work out a resting place for Samson. But he already had one for Max. And, right now, he needed to focus on that.

He needed to give his brother that. That one thing that might make a difference whether or not Max saw him as a monster or a man who looked and sounded so much like his older brother.

So, he began making his way back to his brother— to give him what he deserved.

(Max didn’t deserve that. But, at this moment, it was the best… or maybe the only thing The Grabber could offer the man Albert claimed to love so much.)

With one hand clutching the axe and the other clutching nothing, he made his way back towards Max. The head of the axe scraped along the floor as The Grabber crawled towards his brother, scratching a path through the grime that settled on the ground until it reached its target. Until it reached Max and—

Quickly, The Grabber slammed his open palm to the ground, a look of twisted determination fueled by anger contorting his features as he squashed the lone maggot underneath his flesh.

The maggot that The Grabber swore he would not allow to penetrate his brother’s flesh like it had done to Samson’s. Because Max didn’t deserve that, did he?

No, he did not.

The maggot seemed to agree with that too. Because it didn’t fight back, it didn’t even move away from The Grabber’s hand as it came plummeting towards it. It easily splattered under the crushing weight of The Grabber’s hand. And because of the lack of resistance, The Grabber knew he did the right thing.

For Max.

His brother who, as a child he would do anything for. Maybe things didn’t change too much since they grew into adulthood.

Or maybe things changed too much.

Because, as a child, Albert knew he wouldn’t have even thought about killing his brother. His brother who would never hurt a fly…

But would hurt the enemy in Nam.

His brother who was now before him, after seeing him for what he really was.

And, for some reason, The Grabber never felt closer to Max — or anyone — before.

But he knew he could be closer, he could feel much closer to Max. But he wouldn’t do that, not to Max anyways.

But he could stick something else into his brother. He could tear him apart in a different way than he tore his naughty boys apart.

And The Grabber wouldn’t even need to unfasten his trousers to do it. He would only need get get into position, hold the axe, aim it and then just…

Swing

Somehow, Max had more blood to fling into the air, splattering across The Grabber’s makeshift mask when the axe made contact with his body.

Swing

Somehow, in the back of his mind, The Grabber could hear his brother’s voice.

Swing

He could see his brother’s wince of sympathy as he watched his brother take his body apart.

Swing

He could see—

Swing

He could see—?

Sw—

Something that shouldn’t be there.

The axe hovered int eh air, half way between Max’s body and the sagging position The Grabber invisibly marked as the start of the axe’s descent towards the body.

And The Grabber?

Well, The Grabber was staring at something. Something that wasn’t Albert’s brother.

But something else that shouldn’t be down here in this basement. Something that looked out of place down here.

Something attached tot eh wall of the narrow hallway.

Something that looked like it was put there… to hold something in place.

Ring

Something that wasn’t there anymore.

Ring

Like a tripwire.

Ring

A tripwire that The Grabber now remembered help send him stumbling down into that hole.

Thud

The Grabber’s eyes widened, eyes instantly skipping over the urgent ringing emitted from the black phone trapped in that hole and towards—

Ring!

Finney.

Ring!

Finney… whose feet had moved.

Ring!

Finney, who The Grabber couldn’t see…

Ring!

Until he could.

Ring!

Until he could see the boy, stumbling from his hiding place and carrying something.

Ring!

Something familiar.

Ring!

Something that looked a lot like—

Ring!

The Grabber’s knife.

Chapter 14: Dancing with the Devil

“Shit,” The Grabber muttered under his breath, eyes widening as he watched the boy’s eyes land on him— land on his fucking target.

The axe slipped from his suddenly lax grip, not clattering onto the ground. Instead, it plummeted downwards, lodging itself in a piece of flesh.

Flesh that wasn’t The Grabber’s. But, even if it was The Grabber’s instead of Max’s flesh the axe head perfectly fell after its too sharp blade severed the skin, the man doubted he would have felt it.

“Finney,” The Grabber’s voice was low with warning, trying to inject a little bit of threat in his voice.

A threat filled with a promise of pain he was unsure if he would be able to deliver to the boy. After all, Finney had The Grabber’s trusted knife clutched in his unexperienced grip. And The Grabber…

He had an axe he couldn’t properly use, even when he had two feet.

He didn’t have his fucking knife he sometimes wielded like a second hand.

And he didn’t have those two wooden weapons he had told himself that he could use to hurt the boy— they were on the mattress.

And, by the time he scampered towards the mattress to retrieve his crutches, The Grabber was certain he would find a knife lodged in his back. Or his neck. After all, the boy seemed to like to go for his (and only his) neck.

But, right now, he seemed to only want to go for his heart— to make it come to a screeching halt with one word. With one name that didn’t belong to The Grabber— not really, anyways.

“Al,” Finney uttered the name in a slightly uncertain breathy hiss, probably unaware of the damage that simply word had the power the wield.

Probably unaware of the damage he already did to The Grabber’s heart— and his identity that was on the brink of collapsing.

The Grabber’s fingers flexed around the nothingness in them, keeping his slightly fearful but very wide eyes trained on the boy who had easily become the biggest threat in this basement.

Oh, how the tables had turned in a way that The Grabber hated— in a way he wished he could turn on its head again.

“Don’t do this, Finney,” The Grabber tried to warn the boy again, a hint of pleading that was quickly drowned out by anger seeping into his dark gaze as he began to raise his hand like he would mentally be able to put a stop to the boy’s movements if he concentrated hard enough, “You won’t like what will happen if you’re a naughty boy…” The Grabber trailed off, voice raising an octave as he pointed out with a arched eyebrow, “Again,” he finished his weak threat that probably wouldn’t have changed any of The Grabber’s plans for the boy.

The boy who never reacted like the other naughty boys. Because, they would have probably cowered at the threat they had already experienced a hint of what it contained. Or they would have began cursing at him with a fire that The Grabber couldn’t wait to put out.

But there wasn’t a fire in the boy’s orbs. There was a dullness, a sense of duty he wasn’t really interested in completing. Which was interesting.

Because the boy should be enjoying this, shouldn’t? He shouldn't be approaching The Grabber with that knife like he would be approaching another task he needed to complete on his list of chores.

This boy was wrong. He was all wrong.

And The Grabber didn’t know if he possessed the power to make him right.

But, he knew he couldn’t do anything but try. And to try to do that— to do everything he planned…

He would need to survive another encounter with Finney.

Something he managed to do before… but only by the skin of his teeth.

And only because of his dead naughty boys providing a perfect distraction. But, something told The Grabber that he wouldn’t be granted that distraction this time. Something told The Grabber that, this time, Finney’s attention wouldn’t be pulled away from him.

Something that normally would have caused a rush of excitement to flood into his body. But not this time.

Not when Finney’s facial features twisted until he was staring at him like that. The boy’s narrowed eyes were filled with determination that didn’t feel like his own. But the concentration that scrunched his face up— that did feel like his own.

And The Grabber had a feeling he knew how it was created: the wasp poison. The wasp poison that always ensured his boys were knocked out… and allowed The Grabber to bask in the after effects the poison caused his naughty boys.

But, right now, he wasn’t delighted with the effects the wasp poison had on Finney. Not like he was when he sprayed that poison into Finney’s mouth and eyes during their first meeting. All those days ago, after knocking Finney out and bringing him into the basement…

Finney was perfect, docile even when he was trying so hard to glare at him. He allowed The Grabber to touch him— to play with his hair. And, if The Grabber wanted to, he was sure that Finney would have allowed him to do more than just that. A lot more.

But, The Grabber didn’t do anything more. Because it wasn’t time to do that— they hadn’t completed the other stages of his carefully crafted game that ensured he could do that part.

As The Grabber’s gaze flickered between the boy and that knife in his clutches— he began to regret not doing more when he first got Finney into this basement. Because, if he died right now, he wouldn’t have got to experience Finney in a way nobody else had done before. He wouldn’t have seen what kind of broken boy Finney really was when The Grabber stripped away his defenses— when Finney couldn’t do anything but cry, plead or curse.

Finney stumbled slightly, causing the concentration contorting his features to increase. Concentration that he needed— because he needed to walk. He needed to get over that hole in the floor and towards the monster that had tried to kill him. The monster who should have fucking killed him instead of spraying wasp poison into his mouth.

But, at least, the wasp poison gave The Grabber an advantage. Because the boy was unsteady. Maybe more unsteady than The Grabber was. The Grabber could only hope he was right— that Finney wasn’t playing another trick on him. That he was feeling the effects of the wasp poison he sometimes took all day for his naughty boys to recover from.

But Finney wasn’t like the others— right now was just another time he showed The Grabber just how different he was to the other boys he kept down here. Because, while the other naughty boys would be struggling to sit up on that dirty old mattress, Finney was struggling to keep his feet underneath him.

The Grabber gazed at the boy who was making his way towards him at a pace that The Grabber suspected he could have reached for his crutches or even picked up the axe to make the boy cower and retreat. But he didn’t.

Instead, slowly like he was uncertain about the action he was about to take, The Grabber began moving his hand, allowing that limb and eventually his arm to glide through the air until it was outstretched. Until it was reaching out of the boy he promised himself he would ensure he felt nothing but pain.

“Come here, Finney,” The Grabber encouraged with a small, wicked smile, trying not to let his eyes stray towards the hole in the ground as his fingers twitched and beckoning the boy towards him, “Come to daddy,” he said in an almost mocking voice.

A voice that caused Finney’s lips to tug downwards into a frown as The Grabber began shuffling closer towards him.

“You’re not my dad—“ Finney began, raising the knife in the air with a confidence that almost unnerved The Grabber, the tip of the blade reaching out to swipe away the offered hand when—

“A-ha!” The Grabber suddenly hissed as his hand pounced int eh air, expertly dodging the knife and, like a snake, wrapped around the boy’s wrist, “I gotcha!”

And then, before the boy could even begin to struggle, The Grabber have the wrist a harsh tug towards him. Or, well, towards the hole.

The hole that Finney’s feet didn’t even resist falling into. After all, he was already mid-stumble when The Grabber grabbed him, so it was quite easy to feed the boy into the hole.

“Mother—“ the rest of Finney’s shocked word that seeped from his mouth was lost as he plummeted into the hole—

Thud

— and eventually removed from the tip of Finney’s tongue once he reached the bottom of the pit.

“Oops,” The Grabber said in fake shock, rising a hand to cover his painted mouth that was a perfect ‘O’ shape, “I hope you didn’t break anting,” he called down into the hole.

The hole that was dark. But now it wasn’t too dark that The Grabber couldn’t make out the boy. The boy who had sank lower into the hold that The Grabber did. Or maybe Finney didn’t— maybe the hole just consumed Finney in a way The Grabber didn’t let it consume him.

After all, when The Grabber was in that pit, most of his upper body was protruding from the top. But with Finney…

The Grabber doubted that, without help, Finney would ever be able to raise the tip of his finger above the rim of the pit.

The Grabber smirked down at the boy in the hole— the hole that now acted as a prison that Finney dug for himself. Finney looked so small (small in a way that nearly had The Grabber’s mouth salivating), all the way down there, grasping at the dirt clinging and sometimes crumbling from the wall and trying to push himself upright. Or maybe he was just trying to stand. Because, now that The Grabber really looked… the boy looked, maybe, too small.

Or maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe Finney just looked too small in that hole because his body didn’t threaten to shatter and burst the walls like The Grabber’s did. Maybe he just looked almost like an ant in that hole because that was what he was. To The Grabber, who was an adult, it was like he was a giant and every child always looked like an ant to him.

And now that Finney was down in a hole… he just looked unusually tiny. Less than an ant… but still a problem and an annoyance.

A problem that he could now easily solve. After all, with Finney secure in that hole he would be too disorientated to claw his way out of like the man did before, The Grabber could move and gather his weapons. And then, he could ensure that Finney was out of the way. Safely tucked away and unconscious or not, The Grabber needed him to, for once, be good.

Something that The Grabber really should have known better than to hope Finney would be any time soon. Because, just as The Grabber moved away from the hole that now housed Finney and the black phone— just as he had nearly clawed all the way to the mattress…

He heard something.

Scrape…

He heard… someone.

Thud

Finney, he heard Finney. Trying so hard to climb out of the hole he never expected to find himself trapped in. But now he was—

Scrape

— and he would be until…

Thud

Well, until The Grabber decided he shouldn’t be.

Thud

Until he decided it was time to fill that hole with something other than Finney.

Thud

Until he—

“Aargh!”

The Grabber’s eyes widened at the sudden weight that flung itself onto his back, knocking the wind out of him and sending him tumbling onto the floor. But not for long.

After all, The Grabber couldn’t allow himself to—

“Ugh!”

Get distracted. Like he was doing right now.

Now, he was scrambling to get up off the floor that was coated with too much grime instead of trying to block the knife he saw out of the corner of his eyes from slashing his neck.

Because Finney was aiming at his neck.

A fact that only became shockingly clear when The Grabber’s hand shot out, blindly flaring in the air for a moment as he and the boy’s hands glided around each other in their air like they were performing some deathly, elaborate dance.

A dance that wasn’t a partnership where they were working together in harmony. Instead, they clashed like a large rock and a wayward ship during a storm. Warm wetness ran down The Grabber’s hand, his flesh becoming sliced and exposed in some places thanks to the knife.

The knife that was getting nearer and nearer to its target until—

The Grabber’s hand knocked into the blade, giving his skin a few more nicks before he shifted his body, feeling the body clinging to his grip him harder for a moment before The Grabber’s hand shot towards the boy’s wrist…

And caught it in his grasp, “I gotcha,” The Grabber breathed out with relief mixed with a hint of disbelief as his hand finally made contact with Finney’s, his hold on the boy increasing until he was certain that, beneath the sounds of their heavy breathing, he heard Finney’s bones creak under the pressure he was applying.

The pressure he was unsure it it was wise to increase right now.

“Naughty boy,” The Grabber tutted, shaking his head with disappointment as the boy tried (and failed) to tug his wrist free from the man’s grasp.

But, when that didn't work, quickly, and quite impressively, the boy changed tactics. He slipped of The Grabber’s back, lowered his feet to the ground, still allowing the man to take some of his weight before—

He tried to grab the fucking knife that was still in his grip and not The Grabber’s. Because The grabber only had the boy’s wrist in his clutches— not the object the boy had wrapped his fingers around and was clutching onto like his life depended on it.

But his life didn’t depend on it, something the boy hadn’t realized yet.

But The Grabber’s life did depend on it. It depended falling back into the right hands — his hands — and ensuring it never returned to Finney’s possession ever again.

The boy was fast, but The Grabber was quicker. And stronger.

So, even when the boy saw that The Grabber was reaching for the knife too. Even when the boy decided that if he couldn’t use the knife— then nobody could…

The Grabber simply override his decision. He simply moved his hand to the boy’s fingers that were now trying to imitate stone… and began prying them off.

The boy made noises of protest, of confusion before his other hand that was no longer reaching for the knife (the knife he realized that if he let slip from one hand— The Grabber would swiftly intercept it before it even grazed the other waiting hand) tried to fight off The Grabber’s unrelenting fingers.

But when that didn’t work, he tried something else.

An action The Grabber was dumbfounded by when he saw it.

Because, he was used to his naughty boys using their bodies to protect something— normally their heads or stomachs when he was giving them what they deserved (even when the refused to admit it was what they deserved).

But this… this was different.

And, in any other situations, The Grabber felt like he would have, maybe… laughed?

Because the way Finney moved so his body shielded the knife from The Grabber’s view. The way he then began curling his body over the air hovering around the knife before he tilted his body until all of his weight was on The Grabber’s arms.

And the way Finney slowly sank downwards with The Grabber’s arms that couldn’t withstand the weight of the boy of the pull of gravity…

The Grabber had never seen anything like it before.

The way Finney both tried to stop The Grabber from getting the knife (or well, just seeing it) and put himself closer to the weapon that could easily snuff out the light in his dark orbs with one wrong move (or one very right move from The Grabber) left The Grabber unsure how to feel.

Because, on one hand it was ridiculous. And on the other hand it was—

Chomp

The Grabber didn’t scream, but a harrowing cry did burst from his lips when he felt those teeth that were like a million tiny knife stabbing into his flesh. Tiny knifes that didn’t let go when The Grabber wailed in a way that could be counted as defeat. Instead, those too-strong teeth dug deeper, and deeper until—

An inhuman sound slipped past The Grabber’s mouth that was frozen in a stretched out ‘O’ of agony when he felt those teeth burrow under his skin— and try to contract together.

“Let go!” The Grabber demanded, having no choice but to release one hand from where he was attempting to pry the knife from Finney’s surprisingly strong grip.

The Grabber’s order fell on ignorant ears who seemed so focused on making The Grabber hurt that he didn’t care about the things the Grabber was willing to do to him to force him to obey.

So, The Grabber was left with no choice. Finney left him no choice but to begin slamming his hand, alternating between a closed fist and an open palm) against whatever part of Finney’s body he could reach.

But, still, Finney didn’t let go.

And still, The Grabber could feel the sensation his skin beginning to tear, even if he didn’t feel any pain emitting from the gruesome looking area thanks to the pills the doctor prescribed him.

The Grabber let out a groan that sounded more like a howl as he increased his punches and slaps. Until he grew too desperate. Until the boy’s bobbing head that jerked with every hit and every jolt of movement gave The Grabber an idea.

Gave him something other that hope to cling onto. Gave him a fighting chance to stop the boy before he tore a chunk of flesh from him.

Before he took something else from him.

As quick as lightly, The Grabber's hand that wasn’t restringing the boy’s wist darted towards those oily locks, instantly finding purchase. The Grabber didn’t waste another second before he ensured he had a good grip on those strands before he—

The boy let out a groan. A groan that, if it wasn’t muffled by the piece of flesh stuffed between his teeth, might have formed a word.

A word that The Grabber would ignore, even it it was doused with pain and reluctance that would have made delight surge through his veins.

Finney only allowed the harsh and insistent tug of his hair to move his head an inch backwards before he shifted his head slightly like he was trying to dislodge the hand…

Or maybe he was just moving to get a better grip so he could—

“You fucking—“ The Grabber cut himself off as Finney’s teeth scraped underneath his skin and got one step closer to his mission of closer his mouth, releasing another battle cry from his lips before he continued, “F—fucking motherfucker!”

Finney seemed to grunt in agreement.

And then… The Grabber was left with no choice.

He had to do this. He had to end the game early. He had to end Finney’s life — but, unlike with Samson’s life he unexpectedly cut short — he wouldn’t use an axe.

He would have to be resourceful. He, like Finney had done when he created that fucking trap, would have to use something already in the basement.

Something solid… and always reliable.

Something Finney couldn’t grab and take away from him— or even squirm away from.

Because the floor was everywhere. And, soon, The Grabber knew that Finney’s brains would be coating the grime and adding to the new layer of blood, flesh and bones The Grabber would need to clean from the basement floor.

But, just as The Grabber made his decision, Finney gave in.

It was like he had read his mind— read his future and decided he didn’t like it.

Something that The Grabber was certain that, if Finney did somehow manage to survive this, he would come to regret.

Suddenly, Finney tore his teeth free form his flesh, only taking droplets of blood and some of his saliva away with him as he separated from The Grabber’s arm and allowed the man to tug him backwards…

And, eventually, slam him onto the ground with an unforgiving hand.

“You naughty boy,” The Grabber spat the words like a forbidden curse as he glared down at the boy.

The boy who still hadn’t released his grip on the knife.

But that was okay. Because, soon, he would. The Grabber was certain he would.

The Grabber released his grip on the strangely still boy, moving his hand only half way towards his belt when the boy parted his lips and said something that almost made The Grabber break out in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Almost.

“I was good.”

For a moment, The Grabber considered the boy’s words before he decided to humor him and hopefully crush his hope, “You were good,” he agreed with a curt nod of his head as he peered down at the boy whose face was now covered in many small cuts thanks to his close proximity to the knife they were struggling over, “Before, when you first came here, you would good,” admitted with a frown before he gave the boy’s wrist a harsh squeeze, “But now, like the others, you’re a naughty boy,” he corrected the boy.

Finney let out a small huff that might have been a scoff if he had a little bit more air in his lungs as he stared up at the man who had the power to kill him so easily.

“I... was good,” Finney uttered like a fact he just needed to convince The Grabber was true, “I let go,” he reminded him, sending a slow and pointed look towards The Grabber's grip on his wrist— towards the bite marks The Grabber couldn’t even see the to deep impressions the teeth made due to the amount of blood pouring from the incisions.

The Grabber stared down at the blood gliding along his skin for a moment before he allowed his gaze to sweep towards the boy.

“I made you let go,” The Grabber growled out as he, once again, corrected the boy.

“Did you?” Finney asked, arching a bloodied eyebrow as he stared up at the man with an almost… smug look in his gaze.

The grip on the boy’s wrist tightened, but he didn’t even flinch.

“So?” The Grabber pettily spat out, face twisting with disdain as he arched a challenging eyebrow.

“I let go,” Finney breathed out, swallowing before he parted his lips and breathed out in a voice that was almost a whisper, “I let you keep your hand,” Finney uttered like a fact before he warily continue, “But I could have made you loose it—“ he cut himself off at the look that suddenly slammed into The Grabber’s face.

But, he had already started. So he had to finish what he started, didn’t he? After all, maybe he already suspected what his destiny was— maybe he knew that it would involved the same amount of pain whether or not he finished that sentence.

“Like you lost your…” Finney paused for only a moment before he gained the courage to spit the word from his mouth, “Foot.”

Fury ignited in The Grabber’s eyes, his hand forgetting its previous destination of his belt and immediately shooting towards its new target— Finney’s neck.

The boy’s neck that seemed to almost welcome the hand that suddenly curled around it and squeezed.

Beneath his calloused hand, Finney’s pulse was erratic. But his face… it was calm. Too calm.

And The Grabber needed to change that.

“You,” he spat the word from his mouth like it disgusted him, leaning closer so his spittle could fly from his lips and splatter across Finney’s face, “Could never do something like that,” he uttered like a fact he actually believed was true, “Not to me,” he declared like it would make it true.

Finney grinned, tilting his head as much as he could as his eyes sparkled with a taunt, “But I did.”

The Grabber’s jaw twitched, his hand ripping away from the boy’s neck like it had been burned before he—

He would have slapped the boy, he really would have. But, just before he could, a flash of movement caught his eye. Movement… heading straight for him.

The Grabber darted backwards, hand unconsciously slipping from the boy’s wrist as that fucking rocket flashlight sliced through the air— right where The Grabber just was.

The Grabber growled… and the boy scurried to his feet.

“Finney!” The Grabber yelled, throwing himself forwards and into the boy’s shaky legs until—

Thud

They were back on the ground— they were both back on the ground.

And Finney still had that knife.

And he would use it, The Grabber knew he would.

Because Finney wasn’t good— he was naughty.

And, like all the other naughty boys that came before him— the naughty boys whose words floated into his ear, festered in his mind and turned it rotten…

He only had one aim.

Escape.

(And, maybe, kill The Grabber too.)

Chapter 15: Hindsight... it's Obvious

The Grabber could never let that happen— never.

But he did, one time. Just a few nights ago, he did allow Finney to escape from this hell-hole. Just for a moment— but that moment felt like at eternity woven with fear and panic. And the need to punish himself for letting his dropping eyelids slip closed— the one thing that he was never supposed to do when he was waiting for his boys to start the game.

The Grabber had been held in the uncomfortable embrace of slumber, allowing his snores that he had been told sounded more like growls seep into the air and tell Finney that it was safe to go. Because, when the monster was asleep, he couldn’t get him… right?

Now, The Grabber was awake— and the boy couldn't slip out of the door.

(And, even if he managed to do it, it would be over The Grabber’s dead body while Samson’s disembodied barks poured through the phone to belatedly warn his owner.)

Just like he was allowing the boy to begin to slip out of his grip.

“Stop,” The Grabber almost pleaded with the boy.

But the boy didn't’ listen, he only continued trying to wiggle away and—

Thud

The Grabber groaned as the boy’s desperate limps started lashing out, sending hits and kicks towards the man until—

“Ah!”

He delivered one perfect, swift kick that held enough power (and was precise enough) to make The Grabber’s grip to loosen.

And, when his clutches loosened, Finney took the chance to try to scurry away like a rat.

But, thankfully he didn’t get far.

Thankfully, he only made it a few inches before The Grabber regained his grip and Samson…

Well, Samson helped. His blood helped make Finney’s stability on the floor coated with grime and an amount of warm liquid it had never been covered with before waver.

And his body— well, his body acted as a barrier that Finney didn’t have the chance to over come. Because, just as soon as he slammed into Samson’s body and his mind began to whir trying to come up with a way over, under or around the obstacle…

The Grabber began tugging him backwards— back towards him.

The Grabber grinned at the boy who almost didn’t seem to know what to do. Fight against The Grabber’s grip with his flaring limbs… or fight against the body riddled with an army of maggots that seemed intent to help Samson and create a gruesome surface so slippery the boy struggled to find purchase on it.

Now that The Grabber was awake and alert as he could be with his strange cocktail of drugs flowing though his veins, he wouldn’t allow the boy to escape like he did last time.

(And, thankfully, Samson was helping him this time. He was really helping him.)

And the boy must know that too— he must know by the look in The Grabber’s wide eyes that didn’t even show a hint of tiredness that this wouldn’t be like last time. Now, if the boy wanted his freedom, he would have to snatch it from The Grabber’s unrelenting and calloused hands.

Something that no other boy had done before him. Something that The Grabber feared the boy would somehow find a way to do— because he was different. He was special in a way that The Grabber hated.

(And kind of made him wish that he had taken this boy on as his apprentice instead of his latest and possibly last victim.)

Finney sent one last, futile kick towards The Grabber, expertly missing his target before he seemed to realize that his latest attack wasn’t going anywhere…

He wouldn’t be able to win that way.

(And he did have a chance to win, everybody in this basement knew that fact.)

So, slowly, Finney twisted his body so his back was pressed against Samson’s stiff corpse, effectively propping himself up so he could face The Grabber.

And The Grabber? Well, The Grabber removed his grip from the cuff of Finney’s jeans he wasn’t really certain how he managed to hold onto. And, in the time it took for Finney to blink, his hand had moved. It had snaked along the boy’s clothed flesh until it found a suitable place to wrap his fingers around to secure a grip.

A grip that The Grabber was certain would be difficult to shake off.

But, as Finney glanced at the knife in his hand, the smile that had been spreading across The Grabber’s lips faded. Because that could easily remove the hand from his leg. A hand that was one of the only things left tethering him to this basement.

“Don’t do this, Finney,” The Grabber once again tried to the boy’s sense of fear he knew the boy still possessed towards him, a dark promise shimmering in his eyes as he added, “You really won’t like what will happen if you hurt me.”

The “again” was left unspoken. But Finney heard it hovering int eh cold air around them.

“I know what will happen,” Finney uttered like a fact he knew intimately, “You’ll kill me,” he uttered in a bland voice that didn’t even waver as he predicted his future.

His future that he was basing on his past. After all, The Grabber had already tried to—

“Slowly,” Finney added in a low voice that was filled with a solemn sense of acceptance.

Acceptance that The Grabber didn’t’ really understand when he heard it. After all, if Finney accepted his fate he predicted… why was he still fighting when he was so certain that his death was already written stars?

“You’ll make it hurt— because I hurt you,” Finney mumbled, eyes briefly flickering down to the ground, trying to catch sight of a foot he couldn’t see before his eyes snapped back to The Grabber’s face, knowing it was wise not to keep that face that wasn’t as inexpressive as a mask in his sight, “And because you promised to do that before,” he pointedly uttered the word, head jerking slightly towards the mattress he was standing in front of when The Grabber first swung that axe at him.

Swung and fucking missed.

The Grabber hummed, slightly pleased with the boy’s reasoning. But, he was even more pleased when he knew that he was going to prove the wrong. Even if the boy wouldn’t believe him, he would. He swore he would.

Just like he swore on his mother’s grave that—

“I won’t kill you.”

The boy stared at him, eyes scanning over the flesh his makeshift mask didn’t cover up as good as his real mask did. Finney’s gaze swept over every pore and every flicker of expression before he gave a small, nod and parted his lips…

And accepted The Grabber’s words with a simple—

“Okay.”

For a moment, The Grabber’s face spasmed with surprise before he got his features under control.

“You’ll really believe me that easily?” The Grabber chuckled, arching an eyebrow as disbelief dripped from his voice as his eyes flickered around the room where so many reasons to hurt and kill the boy were scattered about.

“I wouldn’t like being killed,” Finney gave a small shrug as he pointed out, eyes never leaving The Grabber’s, “And said you won’t do anything I won’t like.”

The Grabber paused for a moment before he allowed one last chuckle seep past his lips, “That’s not what I said,” he muttered with a smile as he shook his head.

“It is,” Finney said with such conviction that, for a moment, The Grabber was almost inclined to believe him.

Almost.

The Grabber rolled his eyes, throwing a quick glance down at the knife still in Finney’s clutches, “We both know I didn’t say that,” he uttered like a fact before he began reaching a hand out towards the voice, “Now give me that knife so I won’t have to do something you won’t like.”

Finney bit his lip, seemingly thinking about his options before he glanced down at the weapons in his hands.

Weapons— because Finney had two. While The Grabber just had one canister of wasp poison that wasn’t really a weapon.

“I’d like it if you let me go,” Finney said before he tightened his grip on the hilt of the knife and the rocket flashlight, a hint of desperation mixing with pleading filling his eyes.

“I don’t care what you like,” The Grabber growled out, practically spitting the latter word from his lips as his eyes reignited with fury, “Now give me that fucking knife, you little shit,” he demanded, hand tightening around the boys ankle and threatening to just tug him close enough to try to wrested the knife from the boy’s grasp.

And, at this point, he didn’t even care if someone was injured (to maybe even killed) during the struggle.

He just wanted that knife back in his possession.

He wanted everything to be right again.

And his didn’t want this naughty boy. Not anymore.

Finney blinked at the man, then at the hand encircling his wrist and then, finally, at the knife.

The knife that he sent a curt, terse nod down to before he parted his lips and uttered a simple word that filled The Grabber with relief, “Okay.”

Relief that was quickly snuffed out when he discovered what Finney really meant when he agreed to give him that knife.

When he discovered the sight of the knife in the air, free of the hand that imprisoned it and forced it to work against its master.

Its master that would have welcomed the knife back to him with open arms. That is, if, it wasn’t flying towards him— aiming for his head.

The Grabber instinctively jerked back, trying to dodge the knife…

And failing.

The sudden feeling of wetness coursing down his face told him he had failed. But he hadn’t failed too badly. He hadn’t lost his life.

The knife clattered to the ground as The Grabber reached an slightly shaky hand to his face to—

Creak

Panic instantly raise to his heart, wrapping around it and threatening to make it pop like a balloon as The Grabber’s head snapped towards the source of the familiar noise.

Towards the door.

The open door.

The Grabber had been so concerned with trying not to allow the boy to use his own knife against him that he had let something slip away from his attention.

The boy whose own blood was dripping down his face. But, if he made it up their stairs— if he made it out of the house…

An ambulance would be called for him— the small cuts littering his face would be dealt with.

The Grabber would be dealt with— in a way he really didn’t want.

The Grabber leaped towards the door— towards freedom that was quickly escaping him.

Freedom that moved further away from him when he tried to land on his feet— and couldn’t.

Because he didn’t have feet anymore. He just had a foot. A foot that caused him to stumble to the ground, giving The Grabber an irritating and painful reminder of what he lost.

His other foot — his phantom foot — sliced through the ground and searched for a sense of stability he would never find again as it tugged the rest of The Grabber’s body downwards. The Grabber caught himself before he could be tugged underground by a foot that was invisible as his past naughty boys.

And then, The Grabber changed tactics.

Because he couldn’t allow this to stop him. He couldn’t allow that to stop him.

He planted his hands and knees on the ground and crawled like he had never crawled before. He was almost like a snake as he slid across the floor, leaving a trail of something akin to cleanliness behind him— a stark contrast to the grime that sat on the edge of the pathway.

Finney was fast. But, for once, The Grabber was faster.

Maybe it was because of the wasp poison. Maybe it was because of the weakness and exhaustion The Grabber had caused the body to be inflected with due to the lack of food a boy his age needed to sustain himself. Or maybe it was because of a reason The Grabber knew— but didn’t have time to ponder about yet.

“Finney!” He yelled out as he crossed the threshold of the basement, eyes snapping upwards to catch sight of the boy that was half-way up the staircase.

The boy’s whose name he just shouted out— while police who searched for him were just outside the door. The door that wasn’t soundproofed, not like his basement’s door.

Finney continued climbing the rickety staircase, the wooden steps creaking under his weight and urging him to hurry up. And The Grabber—

Ring

The Grabber became something else. Something not even close to human as he remained close to the ground. Like a bat out of hell, The Grabber nearly soared up the staircase, seizing any bit of clothing of flesh he could before—

Thud

He tugged.

Thud

He dragged.

Thud

“Get off!”

Thud

He didn’t stop.

Thud

Even when Finney’s struggling became sluggish as his head ricocheted off every wooden step—

Thud

The Grabber didn’t stop.

Thud

He continued heaving the boy down the staircase, bringing him closer and closer back towards his doom.

Thud

Back towards safety.

Thud

Back to Finney’s personal hell, that so far, he had only had a taste of.

Thud

A personal hell that could get so much worse.

Ring…?

Chapter 16: The best at what he Does

The Grabber dragged his latest naughty boy back into the basement, sweat dripping down his forehead and threatening to ruin his not so carefully applied face paint from the effort it took to crawl and drag dead weight.

Dead weight that The Grabber knew a few ways to make lighter.

But dead wait that was no longer fighting him. And, if The Grabber didn’t know better, he would have thought the boy was unconscious.

He wasn’t— but he nearly was.

Finney was on the cusp of embracing the darkness his body and mind tried to encourage him to flee to, The Grabber knew by the way Finney’s eyes lids fluttered closed before a determined furrow appeared in Finney’s brow and he found the will for force his lids open again.

But, before The Grabber fully tugged Finney into the basement, he paused. He removed his grip from Finney’s leg and shuffled towards Finney’s upper body— towards the outstretched arms raised above the boy’s head. Towards the rocket that was somehow still clinging onto Finney’s waning grip.

The Grabber’s hand darted out, snatching the rocket from the boy. The boy who let out a small, confused whimper at that action he probably didn’t understand the significance of. Or maybe the sound was from the pain blooming in his head.

The Grabber didn't slip the small but dangerous rocked into the pocket of his trousers like he would have done to the previous trinkets and souvenirs he collected from each of his naughty boys. Instead, he flexed his arm, aimed and—

Clatter

The rocket soared for only a moment before it dived to the ground— the ground outside of the basement.

For a moment, The Grabber’s gaze lingered on the rocket he cast out of the basement before he allowed it to drift back towards the boy.

The boy he felt he would need to deal with again, very soon.

Because Finney wouldn’t be like this for long, would he? Soon, he would be up and trying to run away from his new life The Grabber was trying so hard to create for him.

And The Grabber couldn’t allow that to happen. He wouldn’t allow himself to waste anymore time trying to capture or fight off Finney when he had other things to deal with.

When he had Max to deal with.

The Grabber regained his grip on Finney, continued crawling backwards until his knees made contact with blood. Samson’s blood.

The dog’s blood was already coating Finney’s hands and knees. But it was the first time today that Samson’s cold blood tried to seep through The Grabber’s trousers— the first time it caused a shiver to run down The Grabber’s spine.

But, as he shivered, as the guilt he tried to hard to push down tried to claw its way back to his heart, he caught sight of something. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of something.

A solution to nearly all of his problems.

A chain— a leash to tether the boy safely away from him and Max.

And, as The Grabber’s eyes swept away from Samson and towards the wall, his eyes seeking out the perfect place his mind had already come up with to secure the boy to.

The place he normally attached Samson to when he was down here, guarding the door and watching his master as he removed badness from the world, was the perfect place. Yes, it was near the door— so near that Samson sometimes teased the naughty boys he was witnessing their destruction of with stepping over the threshold of the basement and then returning— at his own free will.

But, if the door was closed like The Grabber knew it needed to be, he was certain that Finney’s fingertips wouldn’t even be able to grace the cold and dirty handle of the door that took payment in The Grabber’s blood sweat and tears to ensure it was soundproofed.

Because Samson normally only lingered in the part of the doorway closest to where he was hitched to the wall. And Finney, even if he managed to surprise The Grabber again and force himself to his two feet, wouldn’t be able to make it further than Samson did. The Grabber was certain he wouldn’t, even if he stretched the chain so much it creaked and quivered with the strain Finney was creating, the chain wouldn’t extend.

Finney wouldn’t be able to fool the chain into breaking to giving him what he wanted. Not like he had managed to fool The Grabber (who was reluctant to admit that was what the boy had done).

The Grabber had dragged the boy into the basement— just enough to claim that Finney was in the basement. And just enough that the door (unfortunately) wouldn’t scrape him when The Grabber moved to close it. Something he began doing when Finney’s movements died down and it nearly looked like he was about to give in and allow his eyelids to close.

But Finney didn’t. And The Grabber didn’t want to waste another second waiting for something that, deep down, he knew Finney was too stubborn to allow to happen.

(Or maybe he wasn’t stubborn— maybe it wasn’t stubbornness that coursed through Finney’s body and made him get up and fight again and again. Maybe it was something that The Grabber didn’t know— or understand. Yet, anyways.)

The Grabber began crawling towards the open doorway, shoving away one of Finney’s stray arms that would have gotten in the way of his mission and earning a small groan of complaint for his thoughtfulness.

Creak

The Grabber pushed the door that wasn’t fully open, watching as it slowly began to close. But, when the door moved too slowly for his liking, he reached out again and—

Thud

Creak

Ensured it moved faster. Ensured it closed with a much duller thud.

And then, once the prison The Grabber had spent years building and perfecting, The Grabber turned. But his eyes didn’t land on the boy.

Instead, they landed on Samson— his best friend who would now provide him with more than companionship.

His best friend who he would take more than just his life from. Now, The Grabber would take away something that bound him to him— he would take away the thing that probably caused him so much joy to be given. Because it meant he belonged— to Albert.

But now, The Grabber was stripping that claim of ownership away from his loyal companion without a second thought or a hint of remorse.

Maybe because Samson was naughty— and his last action and betrayal and stained the image and tarnished all of the previous affection The Grabber held for him. Or maybe it was because this was necessary— because The Grabber found a naughtier boy than Samson. A boy who had caused more trouble and hurt than Samson did.

And that boy wouldn’t stay if The Grabber commanded it. Because, unlike Samson was most of the time, he was unruly and untrained.

(And Finney needed to learn— learn a lot of things.)

But, until he learned to listen and obeyed The Grabber, the man needed to force him to do it.

He needed to show him the way.

Or maybe he didn’t need to do all that. Maybe that wasn’t the reason he was unbuckling the worn collar from his best friend’s neck, the smile coating his face widening with each clink that emitted from the chain that acted as a leash.

Something akin to anticipation… or maybe it was uncertainty mixed with fear that was bubbling up to him every time that chain and its links danced and clashed with each other.

The chain wiggled in the air and snaked along the floor as The Grabber ripped the collar from the dog, smearing more of Samsons’ blood across the patch of floor The Grabber doubted he could ever removed his best friend’s blood from. Physically, he could remove that blood just like he removed every other spot of blood from this basement.

Blood in this basement that he wanted to remove, anyways. After all, sometimes, allowing some of that blood to stay and seep into the walls, floor and essence of this basement was beneficial to The Grabber. Because, it increased the terror in his naughty boys as they slowly began to realize their fate— they fate that they couldn't escape from. Because whoever that blood that splattered the walls used to belong to couldn’t escape and stop The Grabber, how could they?

But, every time his eyes caught on this spot on the floor, he was certain it would always be stained with phantom blood only he could see. But, maybe, if Finney ever saw that spot again — if The Grabber didn’t make them even by taking his eyes like Finney took his foot — he would see Samson’s stiff body sitting in a pool of stale blood that was littered with shredded flesh and particles and sometimes clumps of bone.

Samson’s head had been flopping, trying to lean against The Grabber’s arm or nuzzle against the flesh of his thighs when The Grabber had been forcing his fingers to flex and remove the collar that Samson had never been without since he took him in.

But, in death, the dog would be without it. Just like all of his naughty boys would be without more than their physical bodies in death. After all, The Grabber loved to take things from his boys— and sometimes, he kept those souvenirs very close to him.

So close that The Grabber was uncertain how nobody realizes the things he adorned his body with — the items he stole from his boys and then claimed as his own — belonged to someone else before. Belonged to someone the town had been searching so hard for.

But if they looked— if they really looked — those items The Grabber wore might have sparked a memory. Or a suspicion.

A suspicion that now, The Grabber didn’t need. So, he sent a mental reminder to Albert to cease wearing some of those particular items— items that would be in the forefront of everyone's minds now that his boys’ bodies were discovered.

Samson’s head gave one last limp jerk as The Grabber took the collar and chain back into his possession. Then, what was left of his head sank back to the ground.

Int eh back of his mind, The Grabber heard a low whine of despair. But he was quick to ignore that.

But he wasn't quick to ignore Finney when he heard another groan leave the boy.

Instantly, The Grabber’s head snapped to the source of the sound— towards Finney.

Finney who didn’t move. But still, his parted lips allowed another distressed and slightly confused noise to seep past them.

And, as The Grabber watched the way Finney’s chest stutter, the way his throat flexed to push another sound from his lips, that filled The Grabber relief. And something else— something that The Grabber didn’t have time to think about right now.

(Or act on.)

Slowly, The Grabber made his approach, inching closer and closer towards the boy he couldn’t take his eyes off— not like he was like this. The chain coated with blood scraped along the floor behind him, creating a path int he grime in a way that The Grabber never did.

Because, even while he was on all fours, his movements were light. A lightness he perfected after many years of sneaking around this basement, ensuring his footfalls were soft and quite as a mouse’s so he didn’t disturb the boys. The boys that he only wanted to look at.

But he didn’t want to only look at them for long. And it wasn’t long before the boys grew wise to The Grabber creeping around in the dark while they slept. But, soon after they realized the man who liked to lurk int eh shadows their spirits now called their home wanted to do to them after just looking, it was too late.

The Grabber would have no longer taken shelter in the shadows, just content on stealing glances when they realized. The Grabber wanted more— he always wanted more.

And when those boys realized that the danger that lurked in the shadows of the basement had spread to the kitchen. The kitchen where the monster didn’t feel a need to hide as he waited for one of his boys to join him like a magician patiently waiting for a member of the audience to join him on stage. When they crept up the old staircase that threatened to send so many youths plummeting downwards to their deaths with one wrong creaking step— they would see The Grabber’s true intentions. Or at least, one part of it.

The Grabber slithered closer tot eh boy, pleased eagerness sparking in his eyes when Finney didn’t even seem to notice his approach.

Or maybe the boy did, but he couldn’t muster the energy to react.

That thought made The Grabber’s smile widen with every movement that caused the distance between them to decrease until, finally, he reached the boy. And that smile coating his face was nearly blinding.

So maybe that’s why the boy’s face scrunched up when he caught sight of the slightly distorted face of The Grabber beginning to loom over him. Maybe that’s why he squinted and almost allowed his eyelids to flutter shut.

Or maybe The Grabber had, once again, accidental sprayed some of that wasp poison in the boy’s eyes again, ensuring it was difficult to see shit. Or maybe the trip down the staircase had injured and incapacitated Finney in a way The Grabber had failed to do before.

But, The Grabber didn’t feel bitter that was wasn’t solely responsible for this. Because he was glad that the outcome he had wanted was so close to being achieved.

And, once that collar was secured and he hitched Finney to the wall, The Grabber could begin to do some other things he really needed to do.

Things that had been delayed thanks to Finney. Finney and his need for a freedom he would soon realize was impossible— and his need to cause trouble for The Grabber.

Eventually, The Grabber came to a stop next to the boy laying on the floor and looking like he was trying to fight his way out of a nightmare he didn’t really know how he ended up in.

The Grabber released his grip on the collar, allowing it to thud to the ground next to him. And then, he looked.

He just looked at the boy who was at his mercy.

But, like always, he quickly became unsatisfied with only looking.

And he had to touch.

(Just a little bit— just to have a taste of what was to come.)

So, his hand trembling with unbidden excitement, slowly glided through the air as the man’s eyes kept his eyes trained on his target. His target who hadn’t even tried to shift away— who hadn’t even tried to part his lips and utter a plea that was far weaker than all the other boys’ begging for mercy… and eventually crying for their parents that they would never feel the warm embrace (or the harsh back hand) of again.

When The Grabber’s hand finally made contact with the boy’s unnaturally cold flesh that worryingly only held a hint of warmth, a flurry of butterflies suddenly burst to life in his stomach, fluttering around and trying to tug free the residue knot still twisting his stomach.

Because, finally, things were getting back on track. And soon, everything would go back to normal.

Or whatever the new normal would be with Max dead, Samson dead and a naughty boy still alive.

And finally, The Grabber was one step closer to getting what he wanted— to completing another part of his game.

At first, The Grabber only allowed his fingertips to brush against the skin of the boy’s cheek, a part of him still cautious around the boy that had tricked him so many times. The boy that had grown better at pretending— pretending to be unconscious and defenseless in a way that The Grabber sometimes craved.

But, the longer The Grabber touched the boy’s skin and didn’t even hear a fearful or disgust-filled hitch of the boy’s breath, that knot in his stomach loosened.

Because, maybe, this time, it was real. Maybe Finney wasn’t fooling him. Maybe The Grabber had really gained the upper hand— an upper hand he would do anything to keep.

And maybe, right now, that included not pushing his luck.

So almost reluctantly, The Grabber pulled his fingers away from the skin he was idly tracing and exploring, knowing it was for the best even as the butterflies in his stomach began to die.

And then, he dropped his hand to the floor— towards the collar. The old leather collar that was now tarnished by Samson’s fresh blood as well as the old, sometimes faded, splatters of blood from The Grabber’s naughty boys.

Finney’s blood didn’t get the chance to infect this collar. Not while Samson was alive, anyways.

Samson didn’t get the chance to nose at Finney’s cooling body (that would either wobble or refuse to move depending on when The Grabber killed him), ensuring the boy’s blood seeped into his fur, smeared against his collar and hid in his flabs of his skin that would fold and conceal the blood later. Samson didn’t get the change to confirm Finney’s death like he normally did.

Instead, Samson only got to nose at the signature nauseating smell of the basement with a new splash of blood mixing with the man who betrayed him seeping into his nostrils as whines stuttered from his throat during his final moments.

And, when his body flopped to the ground like a rag doll, his head had moved slightly under the weight of the axe, giving an impression of a slight nuzzle. And that is when most of this blood coated the moist leather collar.

But the small fragments of bones and flesh that The Grabber had peeled off the collar when removing it were from the axe attack— an attack that was, regretfully, necessary.

The Grabber moved the collar higher, causing the chain laying on the floor to let out a series of clinks before he gave the collar a small shake to remove any remaining pieces of small bones or flesh clinging to the collar that had somehow avoided being penetrated by the head of the axe. The Grabber wasn’t satisfied with that small shake— he wouldn’t have been happy wrapping this collar around Samson’s neck when it was like this— when he could see quite a large fragment of bone that had pierced the leather and was trying to make its home in it.

But, wrapping it around Finney? The naughtiest boy The Grabber had ever had both the pleasure and displeasure of seeing? He would put it on him. He would tightened it, ensuring the bone stayed put and didn’t fall, until the collar was painfully secure and the shard of bone was fighting against the boy’s skin to gain entry to his body.

But if The Grabber placed it on the boy’s neck— he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t inflict that about of pain on the boy. Because it wouldn’t just be an annoying, stab-like pain that remained still as a constant reminder of its existence. It would normally be a death sentence to the boy who had desperately demanded The Grabber’s attention far more than any other boy.

The Grabber was hit with a vision of Griffin Stagg and his fragile neck. His neck that blood poured out of at an alarming rate when The Grabber barely cut into the flesh.

That small cut wasn’t the cause of Griffin’s death, but The Grabber knew that it could be… eventually. If the Grabber could keep his hands and urges to himself, that is.

But for now, The Grabber had to keep his certain urges under control. He had to suppress them, let them fester inside him before he could release them.

The Grabber’s eyes scanned over the collar with one perfectly broken (and acceptably sharp) fragment of bone sticking out from the inside of the object, giving a almost pleased hum as he came to the conclusion that he was, for now, satisfied with being unsatisfied with the level of Finney’s discomfort. And the compromise he had to make to achieve that.

He would have to also make another compromise. A compromise that was another sacrifice.

Because, The Grabber liked to take souvenirs. And, right now, he was about to destroy the one he planned to keep after extracting it from Samson’s destroyed body.

Because the holes that allowed blood to flood between Samsons’ neck and the floor— the holes that could make the collar so loose that Samson could easily slip out of it after a long day of terrorizing the naughty boys with his owner…

Or could make it so tight that the one time The Grabber had used that hole to secure the buckle of the collar made Samson’s lungs jolt as whine for air that The Grabber, for some reason, hesitated to give him.

But, eventually, The Grabber gave his best friend the ability to suck oxygen back into his starved lungs.

And, for some reason, he never did that to Samson again.

Maybe because Samson didn’t deserve it. Maybe because he hadn’t been truly naughty— not like the boys The Grabber held in his basement.

Or maybe because the way Samson whined— the way he looked at him with the wide, pleading eyes that held a hint of betrayal and more than just a hint of desperation…

It made something akin to guilt claw at his heart and make the darkest part of him promise to never do that again. Never hurt Samson again.

But, it turned out that The Grabber needed to make a different part of himself take that pact too. A part of himself that he hated seeing in the mirror.

The Grabber frowned at the collar limply hanging in the air, making a note to add another way to make Finney hurt for forcing The Grabber to do this. To retrieve his knife from the grimy floor, to raise it in the air and aim it at the collar.

As sorrowful blood seeped out of the wound cut into his flesh thanks to this knife that was now secured in his grip — as that blood cascaded down his cheeks like a flood of tears — he did the one thing The Grabber seemed to be an expert at.

Stabbing.

But, this time, his blade wasn’t piercing the flesh of wailing boys that still sobbed for mercy even after the first fateful slash. Instead, it was piercing the collar— it was creating a new hole.

A hole to slip the buckle into and tighten it just enough to—

Another groan seeped from the boy’s lips, causing a surge of panic to hit The Grabber like a freight train as his eyes snapped back towards the boy on the floor.

The boy that still hadn’t moved. Which, if it was anyone except one of his naughty boys, might have caused a shot of worry to slam into him. Or maybe he wouldn’t feel that worry with just anyone else— maybe he would have only felt it about Max. His believed brother.

Who did everything wrong— but still wasn’t naughty. Not completely, anyways. Maybe he was just… disobedience.

But now, all he was, was dead.

And The Grabber knew exactly who was to blame for that.

The boy who had the strongest weapon in Galesburg at his disposal while in the basement. And he wielded it to kill Max.

Something he would pay dearly for.

The Grabber sent a glare towards the boy before he forced his eyes back towards the task he was half way through. Before he forced the knife to continuing punching through the leather until—

One corner of The Grabber’s lips twisted upwards with satisfaction mixing with relief when he saw the tip of that blade protruding from the leather. A perfect, clean slice.

Just like The Grabber practiced.

But, what eh also practiced until he perfected it was something else.

Something that always made his naughty boys cry out as they experienced an agony they didn’t think could get worse. But it could. With one simple flick of his wrist— one simple twist of the knife…

The pain could get a whole lot worse.

And the tear The Grabber made got bigger, it somehow got more vicious.

But this time, when The Grabber twisted that knife, it didn’t get more bloodied. And there weren’t any more fresh, worthless pleas and promises falling on The Grabber’s greedy ears as a new wave of warm, delicious warm liquid rushed out of a boys body to cover The Grabber’s hand.

The Grabber, like he always did, smiled at his handiwork. And, for a moment, he allowed himself to bask in it. Before, of course, he was remembering what he lost to create this.

And how much he still had to do to be able to revel in more of his handiwork.

The Grabber lowered his knife, keeping his eyes trained on the collar as he expertly slipped the blade back into his pocket. Where it belonged. And where Finney defiantly wouldn’t be able to snatch it from him again.

And then, he got to work.

He shifted slightly on his knees so he was closer to the lower part of Finney’s body, sending cautious glances that became filled with less and less anxiety every time he looked at the boy and saw no change. The chain that was also a leash clinked with every movement he made, but he didn’t pay that any attention.

After all, he couldn’t afford to have his attention diverted. Now when Finney still wasn’t secure— not when he was still out int he open like this, still free to do the one thing all the boys wanted to do when be brought them to this basement.

Leave.

The collar hovered in the air for a moment, like he was still debating whether or not to attach it to this part of Finney’s body or his neck where the fragmented bone could pierce his flesh, knick an artery and end what the boy had probably thought was his suffering. The grabber could put a stop to all the future problems he knew Finney could cause if he put his mind to it.

But, for some reason, he didn’t.

For some reason, his fingers wrapped around the collar tightened, confirming his choice he would not back down from and then…

Well, then he really got to work.

He moved the collar downwards, slicing it through the air like it was a butcher’s knife. But when it came in contact with Finney’s flesh, it didn’t sever it. Instead, it quickly wound itself around the ankle with an ease that The Grabber doubted he would have been able to achieve without the help of a few head injuries that left Finney dazed…

But hopefully not too confused that, later, Finney wouldn’t be able to understand what was happening. And why it was happening.

Carefully, The Grabber smoothed his fingers over the material that Samson’s not so fresh blood was trying to seep into, feeling every bump and wrinkle before he felt something else. A bump that wasn’t like the others.

A bump that hadn’t been caused by accident or age.

Because Samson was dead, that wasn’t an accident. Just a regret.

And this fractured bone that half embedded itself in the collar after falling from Samson’s destroyed head, finding a home in the gap between the collar and the folds of Samson’s flesh. And, when that flesh contracted, not trying to dislodge the bone but trying to escape the one person who Samson thought would never hurt him. Which was quite foolish. After all, The Grabber had hurt other. He hurt his naughty boys that he got very close to in such a short amount of distressing and terrifying time and he killed his brother who Albert was close to in a different way…

So why did Samson think he wouldn’t hurt him. Or kill him? Because Samson wasn’t special. He was just Albert’s best friend and The Grabber’s right hand man and occasional accomplice.

And, when he did something that displeased him, wasn’t Samson always punished?

Why did he think that this time would be different?

But he never would have guessed how different it would have been. How his stomach wouldn’t rumble and cry out for food that his owner denied because he was bad— how the sound of his own skull being demolished and allowing his brain to burst free from the cracks sounded to his ears that always heard too much.

But the bone falling into place, penetrating the collar in this way after being manipulated and almost encouraged to move and wiggle by flabby flesh of Samson’s neck was accidental.

But, the choice to leave it there, to not pluck it free was very, very purposeful.

The choice to run his fingers over the leather, halting when they felt that unusual bump and then pressing on the material the the thing burrowing within it was very purposeful.

And probably painful. Painful enough to coax a small, displeased grunt from Finney’s lips.

The Grabber glanced towards the boy’s face, his finger still on the bump. And then, when his eyes had scanned over his features and memorized every twist— he pushed his finger down again. And then, he just watched. Watched as Finney’s face fluttered and twisted with discomfort that nearly bordered on pain, listened as another sound seeped past Finney’s gaping lips…

And wished he had time to do more. Much more.

But he didn’t. Not now, anyways.

So, reluctantly The Grabber hurled his gaze back towards the collar, slowly securing it so it snugly fit around the boy’s ankle.

And that, for what was probably the first time in his life, he removed his hands from one of his naughty boys’ flesh— without even hearing a single sobbing plea.

With energy that was gradually waning the longer he stayed in this basement that eventually sucked the life force out of everything, he grabbed the chain that was coated with a mixture of blood. Blood that was mostly deathly cold liquid that hadn’t solidified to a point where The Grabber could peel or scrape it off the chain links like some other particles of blood.

Blood that might get a wave of liquid added to its collection if that bone did what The Grabber hoped it did. If Finney’s skin was weak and foolish enough to allow it entry.

The Grabber took one last glance towards the collar (that he had never seen that small before) and the gruesome looking chain dangling from his tight clutches like his unmerciful belt had done many time before. And then, he pressed his lips into a tight, determined line, and began moving towards the wall.

The wall that held an attachment he had never used with one of his naughty boys before. But, like so many things that had happened recently, The Grabber was going to experience something new.

Something he didn’t know if he would like or not.

But he did know one thing, if Finney managed to rouse himself back to consciousness after his slow, controlled plummet down the creaky staircase, Finney wouldn’t like it.

And that was enough to cause a small smile to tug at the corner of The Grabber’s lips, even when the pills the doctor prescribed him were beginning to wear off and allow a stilted flow of agony to burst to life again.

Agony that The Grabber would ensure he wasn’t the only one who felt it.

After all, Finney Blake deserved pain, not The Grabber.

Because The Grabber was righteous. And Finney…

Well, Finney was just a naughty boy.

But, luckily for him, The Grabber knew exactly how to deal with naughty boys.

And how to make them wish they were never born.

Chapter 17: Distortion

His head hurt. That’s was the first thing that slipped through the haze in his mind when that fog encasing his brain finally began to dissolve.

The second was that he was cold. He was so cold he felt his own body shiver, bounce against the floor like an subconscious exercise that was trying tis best to keep him warm.

But this type of coldness, Finney had a feeling he would never escape from it. Because it had settled further into his body than the haze did— it had seeped into not just his mind but also his bones. And it had made a home there, festering in a way the fog in his mind decided it didn’t want to do.

Because things were getting clearer, even if black spots danced over his spinning vision every time he blinked away the tempting offer to give into he darkness that lived on the back of his eyelids. His mind was gaining traction, latching onto things that had once glided past it, unable to grasp onto it like it was air filled with nothingness.

But now, the nothingness in his mind was ebbing away, being replaced and injected with something…

With pain?

And with an unrelenting chill spreading across his body and worsening the longer he was aware of it— and discovered he was unable to do anything about it.

Finney shivered, his body finally following an once hidden instinct that was freed from the daze he was still particularly stuck in and began trying to move his heavy limbs to bring him warmth. Or try to curl in on itself to preserve the little heat that remained in his body.

But when he tried that, when his subconscious tried to make his hand obey it and move…

It didn’t. It just… flopped back onto the ground, destroying the inch of progress it made to raise.

Progress that, went unnoticed by Finney whose head felt like it was being held underwater while his mouth stranded in the driest desert in the world, didn’t go unnoticed by someone else.

Someone with a rough and somehow both delighted and exasperated voice, “Oh,” the wavering voice that flitted in and out of existence as Finney’s mind was dunked back in and out of the watery cloud it was shrouded in, “You’re awake.”

Finney blinked, staring up at the ceiling that was bubbling with colors before the dark spots came around and—

Oh. That wasn’t a black spot coming to invade his vision and attempt to send him to a watery grave. That was something else. Something white… and red.

Something round, but with streaks of brown hanging from the top of it.

Something that moved like the distorted light dancing across his vision… but it moved differently. With a purpose that was no like the other wobbly, distorted particles of light.

This light — this shape — was more… solid. But it still warped with every movement it made— with every time it jumped towards him and jumped away again.

“That didn’t take long,” the voice uttered, making the white blob streaked with red and wearing a halo of brown that now didn’t look as brown as it did before ripple and spread out int he air so much that Finney thought that the blurred spots of light and darkness would consume it.

But the white blob didn’t allow that to happen. It willed its fragile and frayed corners to pull together, to contract until it formed a deformed oval that shimmered and threatened to disappear if Finney blinked.

“You must have missed me,” the blob said, jiggling with each world that flowed from its red rimmed mouth— the words that floated into the air that was streaked with both too much and not enough color, “You must have missed my attention,” the blob added before it descended on him.

Well, the blob didn’t— the one Finney was trying to blearily focus on didn’t pounce on him. But something that swam into his field of visions, morphing with the white blob and then sprouted one thick string— the string that quickly quivered and then pounced towards him.

Finney flinched at the sudden unexpected movement, sending his world whirring like a toilet. But he couldn’t do anything but flinch. He couldn’t move away.

Because there was something cold beneath him, preventing him from flinching and jerking backwards into the darkness he could feel lurking behind him. But it was different than the darkness that lurked behind his eyelids.

The darkness behind him was different.

This thing reaching out of him was different— it caused a feeling he had never remembered experiencing this much surging with him.

Something like terror… and disgust.

But, for some reason, that strange cocktail of emotions felt oddly… familiar.

Just like this thing that, once was hovering in front of his face, gave a flight wave that eventually shook free five more strands.

“But you’re not giving it to me... " the voice fluttered out of reach of Finney's eardrums for a second before it came back it a vengeance, "What are you looking at?” The voice sounded confused and the thing that moved so fast it created a stilted image that only dissolved into the particles of air around him when it stopped moving.

“If you wanted my attention, it’s police to give me yours too, you know,” the voice said.

And, for some reason, Finney felt his gaze drifted back towards the white blob.

“That’s better,” the red thing coating the lower part of the white blob stretched out, curving upwards as a tickling sensation suddenly cascaded over Finney’s scalp, “Good boy,” the blob praised.

Distantly, Finney felt his lips twitch. He didn’t know if they twitched upwards to mirror the line on the blob’s face… or downwards to turn that red line he was gazing at upside down.

But he did know something. That sensation… that was nice.

So nice that he felt his body relaxing into the solid darkness lurking behind him.

Finney’s eyelids fluttered, but Finney couldn’t find it within himself to allow them to close fully. For some reason, his subconscious didn’t allow Finney to allow them to slip shut. So Finney didn’t. Something he was displeased… and relieved about.

The soothing sensation that made goose flesh to erupt over his body continued for what felt like a sluggish eternity before that strange voice returned. The voice that made the small bumps running along his skin multiply and produce enough offspring to overwhelm the world.

And then, almost as sluggishly quick as that strange tickling sensation appeared, it was taken away from him.

And the white blob soon followed, slinking out of Finney’s line of sight and seeping into the blur of color and darkness to become mistakable when the dazed and confused boy coaxed his head to fall sideways to follow the path the white blob must have taken.

Finney didn’t see the white blob, but he did hear something.

Squelch

Something that made his stomach twist for a reason he didn’t know why.

Squelch

Something that caused a flare of nauseating distress and fear shoot through his body and push away the fogginess clouding his brain.

That surge of emotion didn’t chase away all of the haze swimming around his mind. But it pushed away some— enough for Finney to remember something.

He was in danger.

A furrow creased Finney’s brow as he watched the distorted splatter of spots shift, ensuring more of those squelching sounds were brought to life.

Was Finney in danger now… or was he in danger before.

The answer escaped him.

But the strange and seemingly irrational feelings bubbling up inside of him didn’t. Those feelings made them selves known— made it impossible to push away like he weakly shoved his eyelids away from each other.

Those feelings fueled the impossible. They fueled a movement that was more than just a small climb into the air before weakly flopping onto the cold, hard ground.

But they also caused something else to happen. Something that happened only after Finney’s finger’s flexed on the ground, slowly groping the grimy surface and causing his arm to move further and further from his body until it was in a position that would be called stretching out. Or reaching out.

But, if the boy was reaching out for something— for help — he wouldn’t receive it. But he would receive something else.

The white blob to return.

It glided subtly through the blurring spots of lights, muted color and darkness like it was invisible. Or maybe it was just that good at blending in. Blending in so it could creep up on the boy in a way that, when it suddenly made it’s presence and appearance known, it caused the breath trapped inside Finney’s chest to stutter.

“Finney,” the voice sighed, a hint of a tune in its voice as the white blob twisted form side to side, “You can’t keep demanding my attention like this,” there was a chilly tut that soared through the air as the boy’s eyes focused on the white blob.

The white blob that, now Finney was really looking, he realized was more red than white.

A thing inside the boy’s chest jumped at that realization, trying to break free form the prison of bones and flesh that held it captive.

"… you naughty boy,” an absentminded tut skimmed across the air and landed right in Finney’s ears that felt like they were stuffed with cotton that suddenly expanded and decreased whenever it felt like it.

Whenever they felt like it wanted to allow the slightly muffled words through or when it only allowed the strange stuttering ringing to dominate his senses and drown everything else out. Like everything else wasn’t as important as the high pitched, warped cries that Finney felt reverberate in his soul every time his ears decided to focus on that. And only that.

The ringing grew louder for another moment, cutting off the voice’s words. But it didn’t really matter. Because even Finney’s sluggish brain could work out what those words were— or well, one of those words were.

Naughty.

A word that he felt burning into his flesh, plunging deeper and deeper with every time it was uttered. Even when he couldn't hear it.

For a moment, that no longer felt like an eternity, the tickling sensation returned to his scalp. But then it vanished, replaced by something else. Something sharp— something harsh.

Something that threatened to rip each strand of the boy’s hair from where it was embedded in his head with a series of short, spine tingling pings.

Pings that might turn into gruesome squelches if the flesh were clutching onto the roots of Finney’s hair for dear life, desperately trying to keep them from from leaving it. And, maybe, some pieces of Finney’s scalp wouldn’t be abandoned— maybe they could join the strands of hair this thing was threatening to take away with one harsh tug.

But, just as fear was beginning to make itself known, bubbling up inside of Finney and trying to create enough momentum to force a limb to move on its own free will, the sudden pressure was released. But Finney’s head didn’t flop to the position it was in before the thing took a hold of his hand. Instead, it still laid limply falling in the direction the thing dragged his head to.

And that caused a hearty chuckle to fill the chilly air. Before a series of small dull pats thudded against the side of his face. His face that twisted more and more to the side with each pat that didn’t feel like a pat the more he received. Instead, they began to feel like something else. Something like… slaps?

Finney’s brow furrowed as his head finally stopped moving and a hand was placed on his cheek, fingers smoothing over the dirty flesh coating his now flush cheek.

“Now you decide to be a good boy?” The voice questioned, the white blob with streaks of red running down its blurry face tilting its head to the side as those fingers prodded and inspecting the small damage it caused, “Now you stay where I put you..” Disbelief dripped for the voice before a more solemn, irritated chuckle burst from the white blob, “You should have decided to do that before,” there was a pause when those fingers pressed hard into Finney’s skin, “Before you killed Max.”

Max.

Why was that name familiar?

Why was this voice growing more and more familiar the more it spoke? And why, as the fogginess clouding in his brain was hurled further and further away, did it cause terror and disgust to seep into his body?

Why did it threaten to turn him—

“Naughty,” the voice chided like he was reprimanding his dog, “Naughty boy.”

A gust of warm air hit Finney’s face, making it scrunch up even more. But those pinched features were quickly wiped away when that hand returned to his head with a promise.

“But I’ll help make you good… just for a little while longer, anyway.”

Fingers lodged themselves between his locks, grabbing purchase on the oily strands before that sinister voice floated into the air again, making the boy shiver with something that wasn’t coldness.

“I’ll make you stay.”

There was a pause. A single, pause that made Finney’s heart stop.

“I’ll make you pay,” the voice promised before the hand in the boy’s hair tugged it upwards…

And then sent it crashing downwards again—

Ring!

Before he had a better idea.

A much better idea.