The thought that none of this was real felt strangely comforting. She decided she would go to bed, get some sleep, and in the morning she would tell her mom that she was having a hard time dealing with Marley being missing and that maybe she should see a doctor. Payton took several deep breaths and stood up.
The awful meaty taste was still in her mouth. She needed to brush her teeth.
She squeezed the paste onto her toothbrush and regarded herself in the mirror. She still looked pale and exhausted, but she wasn’t sweaty and feverish-looking like she had been before. She brushed her teeth and tongue, scrubbing away the taste of blood and animal fat. She rinsed with water, then swished some minty mouthwash for good measure.
That was better. She was going to get better. She just needed to ask for some help.
She splashed her face with warm water and started to dry it off. As she rubbed the towel against her throat, she felt something jump inside her neck.
She looked in the mirror. Lumps were rising beneath the skin of her throat, moving around and rearranging themselves. Her skin stretched, and her veins bulged.
No, Payton thought. This isn’t real. This isn’t real because what I thought happened before wasn’t real, either.
But the image in the mirror told a different story.
Payton put both hands on her throat to make sure what she was seeing wasn’t an illusion. Some of the lumps were the size of grapes. Others were nearly the size of golf balls. They moved under her fingers when she pressed on them, darting like they were trying to avoid her touch.
She felt some kind of solid matter making its way up her throat, making it hard to breathe and impossible to yell for her parents, for someone to do something. She felt so alone.
Except she wasn’t alone because of the intruding presence inside her.
She looked back at the mirror. Now there were lumps on her face, too, large ones, moving around, distorting her features, straining the taut skin until it threatened to split.
Her eyes bulged. Something was pushing hard behind them. She had never felt such intense pressure. Her eyes protruded out from her eyelids, opening so wide that she could see the orbs in their entirety, the whites, the dilated pupils, the bursting blood vessels.
Pulpy red slop seeped, then spewed from her eye sockets so forcefully that her eyeballs were propelled from her face like cannonballs blasting from a cannon. One hit the mirror with a wet slap while the other one landed with a splat in the basin of the sink.
Pressed together into a soft, solid mass, the bits of flesh and tissue squeezed from Payton’s empty eye sockets like fresh sausage being extruded from a meat grinder. The slop fell to the floor in long tubes. She could see nothing, but she could feel the pressure in her head building even more as it became fuller and fuller until she feared it might explode.
The meaty remains of Payton’s best friend poured from her mouth and sprayed out of her nostrils in a sneeze that splattered the red compressed innards onto the white bathroom tiles. Still, the pressure in her head grew, throbbing like a huge hammer was pounding her skull from the inside.
It was a strange sort of relief when the fleshy paste started squeezing out of her ears, too. The pressure reduced, leaving Payton so light-headed she couldn’t stand. She had never fainted, but she feared she might. Unseeing, unhearing, unable to make any sound except a soft whimper in the back of her clogged throat, she collapsed to her knees on the bathroom floor. She fell into a mound of body-temperature meat mush. Her fingers groped through slivers of skin, gobbets of organs, fragments of bone, all that was left of the friend she had turned her back on. Payton couldn’t scream, couldn’t cry, but in between bouts of spewing out more crushed human remains, she did manage to whisper one name. Marley.
Payton sat up in bed with a start, stifling a scream. Her stomach roiled, and her diaphragm spasmed. Her mouth filled with bitter saliva. There was no way to hold it back anymore. She was finally going to lose her lunch. Violently.
She jumped out of bed and ran. She stopped at the bathroom door for a second, but then kept running. For some reason, she didn’t want what was going to come out of her to be inside the house, not even if she flushed it down the toilet. The remains of the pizza that churned inside her felt polluting, contaminating. She wanted it gone. She ran downstairs and out the front door.
Once she was out on the porch, she took deep breaths of fresh air in hopes that it would ease her nausea. No such luck. She ran to the edge of the porch and retched into the bushes.
Patyon had never vomited so violently or for so long. Clutching the stair railing to hold herself up, she spewed and spewed until she feared she would soon be vomiting up her own internal organs.
Surely, she thought, there could be nothing left inside her. But then another wave would hit her, and there would be more.
Finally, there came several minutes of dry heaving. At last, she was empty.
She tiptoed back into the house and locked the front door behind her. Her goal was to get back in bed without her parents noticing she had gone out. She was not in the mood to answer anybody’s questions. All she wanted was to be left alone and to leave the terrible experiences of this day behind her.
Lying back down, she felt marginally better. She was weak and sweaty and shaky, but at least her stomach wasn’t tossing like a ship in a stormy sea. And emotionally, there was something cleansing about the nightmare pizza having been purged from her system. It felt like a fresh start somehow. Payton closed her eyes, hoping she could sleep the night through.
But there was a noise.
It was a rustling noise coming from outside in the vicinity of the bushes where Payton had emptied herself of the vile pizza. It’s probably just squirrels or one of the neighborhood cats, Payton thought. It would stop soon.
The rustling didn’t stop. Instead, it got louder, making it impossible for Payton to sleep.
She got out of bed, went to her window, and opened it. The sound was definitely coming from the bushes where she’d been sick.
But wait. What if it was Marley?
After this thought, the horrible what ifs began to unspool in her brain. What if Marley wasn’t coming back to joyously greet her friend? What if Marley was mad at her for not trying to save her? For not telling anyone, even the police officer, that she had seen Marley fall? Payton knew from experience that Marley had a temper and held grudges against people when she thought they had wronged her. What if Marley was out for revenge?
Another even more horrific thought spread like a stain in Payton’s head. What if Marley had fallen into the vat of boiling sauce and died, but had somehow managed to come back, like in the dream she had just had? If it even had been a dream. What if what was outside was not really Marley but somehow what was left of Marley?
The doorbell rang.
Payton’s heart pounded in panic. She had to get away, but how? Unable to think of another choice, she opened the window and climbed out onto the ivy-covered lattice on the side of the house. One piece of wood shattered under her bare foot. The lattice clearly wasn’t strong enough to support her for long. Still, she clung to it with a white-knuckled grip.
She had climbed out of the window with the thought of shimmying down the side of the house and running away. But now she realized that going down the lattice would put her right next to the front porch. Right next to Marley.
There was no place to go but up.
The lattice shook and squeaked as she climbed toward the roof. She grabbed the gutter and pulled herself up. She was so terrified she could hardly breathe. But even though she was afraid of heights, she was even more afraid of what was standing on her porch.
It’ll be okay, she told herself. I’ll just sit on the roof till she’s gone, then I’ll climb back through the window into my room.
She flinched as she heard the doorbell ring again.
* * *
Marley stood on the porch, waiting for the door to open.
Being missing had been kind
of fun. No school, no responsibilities. But hiding out in the pizza factory had started to get old. She missed her boyfriend, missed regular meals, and missed sleeping in her own bed. She had gone to see her boyfriend first, and now she was going to let Payton know she was okay. Those visits were the first two phases of becoming un-missing. Then she would go back home for the required tearful reunion with her parents.
Thunk!
The sound came from the other side of the house. Marley ran down the porch steps to investigate.
It was dark around the back of the house, so it took Marley a moment to make sense of the shape lying on the ground. But then she saw it was a girl about her size. Her neck was twisted, and her head was tilted at a painful-looking angle. Payton’s eyes, wide open in a frozen look of terror, seemed to be looking right at Marley. But Marley knew Payton wasn’t looking at her, would never look at anything again.
Marley screamed.
Scott Cawthon is the author of the bestselling video game series Five Nights at Freddy’s, and while he is a game designer by trade, he is first and foremost a storyteller at heart. He is a graduate of The Art Institute of Houston and lives in Texas with his family.
Elley Cooper writes fiction for young adults and adults. She has always loved horror and is grateful to Scott Cawthon for letting her spend time in his dark and twisted universe. Elley lives in Tennessee with her family and many spoiled pets and can often be found writing books with Kevin Anderson & Associates.
Larson was bent over his desk writing up a report on a manslaughter he and Roberts had cleared that morning. Roberts wasn’t helping at all. He was berating Powell for bringing a Limburger cheese and liverwurst sandwich for lunch. Larson had to admit the smell was pretty bad, but Roberts wasn’t being paid to be the scent police.
Larson was nearly done, even without Roberts’s help. He was filling in the last section when a folder landed on his desk with an audible slap.
“Heard ya’ll were waiting for these here results?”
The heavy drawl lifted Larson’s gaze.
One of the new detectives, Chancey—Larson wasn’t sure if this was a first or a last name—stood next to Larson’s desk. He was tapping one of his cowboy-boot–clad feet on the scuffed floor.
Chancey was an angular guy with a jutting jaw and bony shoulders, dirty-blond hair that hung over his eyes, and a grin that looked even less genuine than his drawl sounded. Chancey had joined the squad while Larson was in the hospital. Larson had heard the guy was just supposed to be a fill-in for Larson while he was gone, but for some reason, Chancey was still here.
“This something I could get in on?” Chancey asked. “Looks hinky to me. Is it a cold case?”
Larson flipped open the folder and scanned the top page inside. He shook his head. “It’s just something I was following up on. I’ll let you know if I need your help.” He gave Chancey a fake-friendly smile and pushed the folder aside as if it was nothing.
Chancey shrugged and wandered away from the bull pen. Larson opened the folder and studied its contents.
He started frowning as soon as he began reading. What in the world was going on here?
Larson had sent thirty samples to the lab. He’d expected to be told they were blood samples, and he’d expected them to be thirty different blood samples.
He was only half right. The samples were blood, but they weren’t different. Well, they were different, but they weren’t from different individuals.
The blood samples, according to the report, were from the same person, but they were all from different time periods. This meant someone—the same someone—or the same something, had bled in that pit every year for decades. Huh?
Larson picked up the phone and punched in a number. After a ring, a woman answered in a sing-songy voice.
“Lab, Tabitha here.”
“Hey, Tabby. I’m looking at the report you sent over.” He tapped the pages in front of him. “Are you telling me that something has been coming in and out of that ball pit for over three decades, and it’s been bleeding?”
“It’s weird, for sure,” Tabby said. “But yeah, the blood is from the same person, but each sample has degraded differently, indicating a different year for each one. You’re onto something funky, Larson.”
“That’s one word for it. Thanks, Tabby.”
Larson hung up the phone and leaned back.
Something bigger was going on here, bigger even than having baffling glimpses into the past. He needed to find out more about the building where he’d found the pit. Maybe solving this mystery would lead him back to the Stitchwraith. Strangeness seemed to radiate outward from the freakish thing. Whether the Stitchwraith was evil or not, Larson wanted to find it and get to the bottom of whatever the heck was going on.
* * *
Jake pushed through the shed’s doorway. He carried a lumpy bundle wrapped up in the folds of his cloak.
Although the previous night’s rain had stopped, the sky was still heavy with gray clouds. The sun was trying to break through them, but so far, it wasn’t having any success. Very little light made its way through the doorway into the small space when Jake stepped inside.
Even in the murk, though, Jake could see that the girl was no longer curled up on the floor. She was sitting up.
Jake closed the door and slowly approached the girl. He tried to hunch a little so his size wouldn’t intimidate her.
But he shouldn’t have bothered. The girl looked up at him with no fear at all.
“Hi,” the girl said in a sweet, scratchy voice.
She’d said “hi” as if she was talking to a normal kid. So Jake responded as if he was.
“Hi. I’m Jake. What’s your name?”
“Jake,” the girl said. “That’s a nice name. I’m Renelle.”
“That’s a nice name, too,” Jake said. “Very pretty.”
As he spoke, though, Jake felt funny about the girl’s name. It sounded wrong to him, like it didn’t fit her or something. But that was silly.
“Thanks,” the girl said.
Jake watched her and mentally repeated her name. Something sounded off about it, like it was a half-truth.
The girl smiled at Jake.
Jake stopped worrying about her name. He squatted down next to her and dumped the canned goods he’d foraged onto the floor next to her. She immediately reached out, grabbed a tin of tuna, and tugged on its pull tab.
“I’m starving,” Renelle said as she scooped tuna from the can with her fingers.
Jake couldn’t stop smiling. She looked so much better! Color was back in her cheeks. Her eyes were bright and animated.
Renelle had obviously finger-combed her hair and straightened her clothing while Jake was gone. Her face was cleaner, so she must have spit-scrubbed it.
Weirdly, it looked like Renelle wasn’t as skinny as she’d been when Jake had left her, but that was obviously impossible. Jake figured that Renelle’s renewed energy made her look more substantial than she had when she was passed out.
While Renelle ate, she looked around. “Where are we?” she asked with her mouth full. When she realized what she’d done, she giggled and covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry.”
Jake laughed. “It’s okay.” He looked around the shed. “We’re near the railroad tracks. I wanted to get you someplace no one comes to, away from those men.”
Renelle’s pretty blue eyes widened. “What men?”
“The two men who looked like they wanted to hurt you.” He hesitated. Should he tell her what he thought? He decided he should. He wanted them to be friends, and he was always honest with his friends. “I think they were your dealers?”
Renelle had finished the tuna, and she was reaching for a can of peaches. She stopped and sucked in her breath. Her gaze darted toward the door. “Where are they now?”
“Don’t worry. I took care of them. They’re not going to find you here.”
Renelle returned her gaze to Jake. She shivered once but then nodded. “Tha
nks.” She popped open the peaches and began slurping peach juice.
Jake was amazed that Renelle didn’t seem at all bothered by his appearance. She was treating him like an ordinary boy. “You’re not afraid of me!” Jake blurted.
“You helped me, and besides …” Renelle ate a peach slice and looked Jake up and down. After she swallowed, she said, “I’ve been on the street long enough to know that what we think of as monsters—things that might look like you—aren’t the real monsters. Most real monsters are people, especially guys who think they can push around girls like me just because I don’t have a place to live. But you? You’re not a monster. You just look different.”
“I’m glad you think that,” Jake said.
He watched her eat. He wanted to ask her questions, but he wasn’t sure if it was polite.
Renelle finished the peaches and licked her fingers. She looked at Jake. “You’re wondering why I’m a druggie.”
Jake shook his head, but she was right. He did wonder.
Renelle crossed her legs and hugged herself. “My mom died when I was thirteen.”
Jake sat down next to Renelle. He thought about touching her hand, but he wasn’t sure he should. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know what that’s like. My mom died, too. It’s awful.”
Renelle touched Jake’s cloak. “I’m sorry, too. Yes, it is.” Her gaze drifted off past Jake’s shoulder. “That was just two years ago, but it feels like forever. I was really close to my mom, and when she died, I was a mess and no one was there for me.”
“What about your dad?” Jake asked.
Renelle shook her head. “He was all wrapped up in his own grief, and he couldn’t deal, you know? He disappeared into his work, got obsessive about it. He couldn’t help me.” She sighed. “I tried to cope. I really did. But I finally couldn’t stand the pain anymore.”
Renelle smiled at him. “You’re really nice. My dad didn’t understand at all. He hauled me off to one of those schools for kids who get in trouble, and he left me there. When I got out, he was still wrapped up in his work. I stole some of his money, and when he found out I’d done that, he kicked me out. Told me not to come back.”
The Puppet Carver Page 14
