Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room was flooded with the quiet hum of your old laptop, the screen dousing your room in artificial light. The cold light danced around the various objects strewn around, warping the shadows and dulling all colour. Through your sleep-blurry eyes you could make out the time in the bottom right of the screen, not that you had any mind to check that it was well past midnight.

The screen flickered as you opened another webpage, blinking back exhaustion as the shadows around you shifted.

Currently you were partially tucked into your bed, leaning on pillows stacked against the headboard of your bed. A blanket half covered you, the charging chord of your laptop snaking through the covers. You were wearing your version of pajamas, which consisted of anything you found comfortable enough to sleep in. The dull black edges of the laptop barely stood out compared to the darkness beyond the screen, making it the only thing you could actually see.

It all was bathed in that same light, the eerie glow consuming the world around you. It was distinctly unnatural, but in a way you'd only notice if you weren't the one focused on the screen, as it too had consumed your mind. As the clock ticked on, 2am bleeding into 3am, you continued to plug away at your laptop. It appeared like tonight would be another unwanted all-nighter.

But none of those little details were important to you right now.

The reason why you were up at such a late hour was simple: you had a new hyperfixation.

And it wasn't one that came upon you slowly either. It was called 'Welcome Home', and despite only knowing about it for a week you were completely and utterly hooked. The designs of each character was the perfect blend of intricate and simple, bright and cheery without being overly saturated or harsh on the eyes. They all shone with love and care, and filled with personality.

How could you not get invested?

Not only were they designed well, but they all had such delightful personal descriptions, giving them that extra boost that endeared you so to the entire cast of characters. Truly it was impressive, how thoroughly you'd fallen into this new interest. And honestly, what's the harm in indulging yourself in it a little bit?

... of course, that was what you had told yourself ever since you settled down to sleep nearly 4 hours ago.

Ignoring the developing cramps in your hands from the awkward position, you grin as you spot something seemingly new, different. You'd gone through the entire website multiple times over, thanking your fortune that dedicated Welcome Home Restoration Team had already made an archive of all information known about Welcome Home.

Truly, it was a shame that less people knew about it. Sure, the Welcome Home website was rather new and, despite your continued fascination, the world of obscure and possibly haunted media wasn't very popular. But there was passion here! As clear as the sunny skies earlier that day. There was life here!

It was that which drove you to eagerly inspect that new detail you found.

It seemed inconspicuous at first, hidden in the 'Guestbook!' section of the website. The little pulsing icon of Home near the bottom left of the page had a few new details. Its eyes were no longer static, but flicking between the 'Visit Our Guestbook Page!' and the image of Barnaby and Wally doodling in a guestbook.

Had you been anyone else, you might have missed it. Perhaps chalked it up to your bleary eyes playing tricks on you, or your insatiable curiousity luring you towards disappointment. Though, had you been anyone else you would have actually gone to sleep instead of spending yet another night burying yourself in your interests.

Instead you hurriedly shot your mouse over the graphic, thrilled when your mouse cursor turned to a little hand, the sure sign that clicking it would cause something to happen. You had no time to contemplate whether this image of Home was truly new or not, as its pulsing turned to it floating downwards towards the bottom of the webpage, as if the little yellow heart-shaped balloon keeping it afloat had popped. As if it was teasing you.

Clicking on it with bated breath, you felt your intrigue swell further as the page loaded up.

The screen flashed white before settling on a solid black, the name of the tab titled a mildly ominous 'Silly Silly...'. Easily recognizable as a quote from a hidden message on the last page of the Guestbook, you wait as an image slowly faded in. You internally cursed at the slowness on the ancient laptop as the screen appeared to ripple as it loaded.

Once it did, it revealed a large spiral concocted of a mix of dark colours, with the nearly invisible crimson being the most prominent, followed by midnight blue.

It swirled clockwise in wide thin arcs, drawing you in as a silhouette with wide eyes faded in at the center of the spiral. The eyes reminded you of another secret page, with the shrunken pupils shaking as they stared out of the screen. The eyes seemed to get impossibly wider as the spiral got more intense, distinct enough that the faint pattern of it danced against the walls behind you.

The eyes clearly belonged to the fading in silhouette of Wally Darling, the lead character of the whole Welcome Home world. And, not that you'd admit it, one of your favourites.

The silhouette grew larger, ever so slowly, as you analyzed the page for any additional secrets. Any hidden messages hidden under the graphics or matching the black background colour, evening turning up your audio to see if there would be any sounds.

After staring at the screen while the minutes slipped by, you decide to investigate the webpage. First you drag the visual graphic of the spiral into a new tab, awaiting for the hidden message that was sure to come. When it finally loaded, laptop humming louder, it showed a jumble instead of the english you were expecting.

'48_65_6c_6c_6f_3f'

It felt wrong, seeing such an odd file name. It stood out compared to the typical hidden messages found throughout the graphics of the site, perhaps it was a mistake? Maybe you simply found this page too soon? Maybe the spiral wasn't important?

You shrugged it off as a mistake, as the tab's name was also underwhelming, simply read 'spirall'. You were just too good at finding these secrets!

Ignoring your disappointment as you switched back to the original tab.

The two eyes are still staring out, pupils dilating as they wildly flicked about. The silhouette had plunged the screen into an impossibly dark black, as the twin eyes overtook the rest of the screen. You watched in curiousity as the eyes, in apparent desperation, searched and searched and searched.

You didn't expect them to find what they were searching for.

The eyes flickered forwards several more times before settling on looking at your cursor. The pupils still shook as though flooded with adrenaline, but it was far less hectic, far less panicked. Experimentally you rolled the mouse back and forth, thrilled to find this new discovery.

You next dragged the visual graphic of the silhouette over to a new tab, excitement building as it loaded. The name of the tab read 'How..?' as the webpage plunged into darkness. Your eyes burned as you rubbed them to stay awake, limbs heavy as your body settled further into the pile of pillows you'd made for yourself.

And there were the two eyes, now appearing as the page fully loaded. They kept close watch on your cursor, following it as you clicked around and turned up the brightness, searching for more hidden details. The name of the file was as equally odd, yet another jumble of characters that almost had a pattern, but none you could understand in your current state.

'49_20_63_61_6e_20_66_65_65_6c_20_69_74'

Past that there were no more clues, just those two ever-growing eyes. Unnaturally wide and shaking, they screamed of terror, of obsession, of... elation? Hungrily they tracked the cursor, pupils almost pulsing larger whenever you dragged the cursor closer.

They fascinated you, the eyes that, had you thought over it, shouldn't have been able to react had it been a .gif file. They unnerved you, a deep sense of wrongness squirming in your chest, twisting against your lungs. The feeling grew as you kept shifting the cursor around, watching as the pupils tracked each movement, at times the mouse jerking further than you made it go.

You found your eyes closing against your will, breathing smoothing out as you deeply sighed. Your eyes watered as you yawned, only now did the heaviness of your limbs really hit you. Blearily you peered at the time, blinking a few times to really see what the small numbers said.

It was quarter past 3am.

Shit

With the last of your energy you took a quick screenshot and pressed the power button before shoving the laptop onto your nightstand, scattered objects cluttering to the ground as they were pushed off. Groaning as you were forced to shuffle out of the comfortable position you had slumped into, you decided to deal with it in the morning.

At least there was enough time for you to get some sleep.

You really did need it.

...

They were still there.

The eyes were still there.

Even though you had shut off your computer, at some point between settling down and truly falling asleep it had booted back up, password lock be damned. The room flickered from near-total darkness back to an artificial glow that made everything appear pallid, sickly. The sound of the aging laptop's gentle hum joined your soft breathing, rhythmic as if it too was breathing.

And there were the eyes.

Watching it all.

They were still staring at the cursor, large and curious. The shaking was there still, though more of a gentle tremor than before, pupils blown wide. They didn't wait for it to move though, not anymore. Instead, with unnerving pulsating pupils, the gaze intensified, more and more and more until finally, with a low buzzing noise, the cursor jerked left.

The movement was so small it was barely noticeable, and yet the eyes widened in wonder, in joy. The gaze focused harder, determined as the cursor lurched again, and again. Before long the movement grew smoother, becoming sure as it gained distance and precision.

It kept moving leftwards, inching towards the goal: the start menu at the bottom left of the screen. It hovered awkwardly over it for several minutes before finally, with a blink, it clicked and opened up the menu. It stumbled through the options before settling on the camera app. Your laptop gave a small ping as the app opened up, the tiny green light flickering to life by the camera of the laptop signalling that it was live.

The eyes finally stopped quivering once the camera was on, the mouse lazily drifting off to the side. They were blown wide once more, no longer focused on the cursor but instead the world beyond it. Exploring the scenery, the eyes flicked back and forth in awe. Even when dark, there was so much to see!

From that perspective the camera could see much of your room, and that was simply thrilling.

Starting from the left, there was your bedroom door, handle worn and decorated with a poster from a band you had known for most of your life. Though it was more like an abstract mix of dark hues and splotches of off-white, the eyes still absorbed the sight before moving on.

To the right of that was some shelving with various books, knickknacks and containers. It was both too dark and too odd an angle for the titles to be made out, and the knickknacks ended up appearing more like shadowy bumps peering over the edge rather than separate objects. There were few that could actually be discerned, including a short string of origami cranes partially falling off the edge, a cup with extra pens and pencils sticking out, and a ball of yarn with a crochet needle sticking out.

The eyes studied the sight, seemingly approving of it before moving on. Though the rest was far less interesting, considering the brief time the eyes spent studying them. There was a clothing hamper in the corner, a closet with the sliding doors currently shut, and a few more posters on the wall, none which looked like more than some vague blobs trapped within rectangles.

On the ceiling there was an old fan fixture, two chains dangling from the main body, one with a small bird attached. The distinct shape revealed it to be a cardinal, small and wooden with a scratch covering its one eye. And on the floor, of what the eyes could see, was a pile of clothes previous thrown down before you had climbed into your bed to laze about.

The last thing the eyes could inspect from the current camera position was you.

The eyes at first only glanced at the pile of pillows and blankets that made up your bed, choosing to study the rest of the surroundings before flitting back. Half lidded they danced around the lump of your form, catching the chunky striped pattern of your largest blanket and noticing the fuzziness of it, but not truly seeing you.

They softened, lazily glancing around your room with less intensity, less desperation.

That was, until you moved.

You were asleep and simply rolled over.

It shouldn't have mattered.

It was only natural that you'd shift in your sleep. After all, you were a side sleeper and sometimes the other side was comfier. That wasn't unusual, it shouldn't have mattered.

Truly, it meant nothing.

Your face was lax and peaceful, mouth curled in the smallest of smiles. Arms tucked near your chest, clinging to a hug-full of blanket as you deeply sighed, settling deeper into comfort. Your hyperfixation no longer held you prisoner, sleep dreamless.

But the moment the camera caught you in frame.

The moment the eyes could see you.

They didn't look away.

Chapter Text

There was a tree, large and towering, branches reaching towards the sky like a giant splayed hand. The leaves shone a vivid mix of magenta and lemon, fuchsia and a bonfire-orange. Radiant like a living sunset, the wind tumbled through the them, a sea of stained glass. The bark consisted of crimson stone, obsidian ridges likes sprawling spiderwebs, glittering in the clearing.

Swaying gently along the tree was a field of silken blue grass as far as the eye could see, soft and tangled. Isolated on a floating platform, everything surrounded by the sky above, a dead colourless void. It was so dark it ate at the edges of existence, the tallest of the tree fading away into the shadows above. Endless, it yawned above like a gaping jaw ready to snap shut.

Its hunger was palpable.

By the base of the tree sitting innocently on the jewelled roots sat an apple, ruby red and nearly bursting with juices.

It called out, a brightening halo of light shining upon it, making its red flesh glisten. It looked delightful, lustrous, incandescent. Perfectly round with a singular brilliant green leaf, it seemed too perfect to be real.

And you couldn't refuse it.

Hands stretched out and moving sluggish, the air like molasses, you felt an overwhelming compulsion to reach the apple. Yet the grass had, unknowingly, grown around your feet and ankles. Clinging too tight for you to move, the strands of grass kept growing upwards, snaking around your calves, then your thighs.

Your struggles stopped when the living grass wrapped around your torso.

It slithered skywards, unnaturally strong and as cold as ice. It tightened its grip as you fell forwards, still reaching towards the apple, more and more desperate as the field consumed you. The darkness above grew heavier and heavier, baring down with a weight you could feel shoving you deeper into the grass.

With renewed vigour you fought through the living plants, dragging yourself as the world compressed, squeezing you in its jaws. Its teeth, nonexistent yet tangible, dug into your arms, twin skewers piercing your wrists.

The apple drifted away, vision blurring as more teeth bit into your shoulders, the same icy sensation flooding into you. The grass above your head, burying you alive as the jaws clamped down on your legs, pinning you in place. Your vision was absorbed into the joyful light blue, everything beyond the grass hungering darkness.

It twisted around the points the teeth of the sky had been, wrapped tight like thousands of tiny strings of twine, before you fell.

Tumbling deeper into nothingness, you tried to scream.

But you couldn't open your mouth.

Ring

Looking around as wind rushed around you wildly, the only thing that could be seen other than yourself was the strands of grass dangling from above. Melting into your skin at your shoulders and wrists, knees and feet, the sensation was uncomfortable but distinctly free of pain.

The strings snapped tight, sending you tumbling as the apple returned, glowing and massive beneath you. Its smell was overwhelmingly sweet, bordering on nauseating as you tumbled closer and closer. The red was too bright, the stem sinking into itself as a hole opened in the apple.

Ring

Then another, and another, waxy skin peeling away as the apple's flesh pooled out, dark brown and rotting. It oozed, deflating as stench filled the void, so strong your eyes watered. You gagged as you kept falling towards it, the remaining walls of the giant apple towering as you were seconds away from colliding with the leaking bubbling remains.

RING

...

The first thing you heard that morning was your alarm.

Loud and shrill, you had picked it specifically to annoy you out of sleep. It rang cheerfully in your ears, the awfully repetitive tune filled with energy you yourself lacked so early in the day. Instinctively you curled inwards, dragging the blanket up over your head to block out the sound. Your other hand blindly reached out for your phone.

Pawing where it should be, the alarm grew louder until it was practically screaming its tune.

You realize that it wouldn't stop, your phone no longer plugged in and charging by your bedside as it should be. For a few minutes you laid there lifelessly, until the stale taste of last night's dinner and your aching eardrums convinced you to move.

You never were a morning person.

There was some ruffling sounds before your feet hit the ground with a solid thump. The hunt for your phone had begun.

Your sluggish movements were punctuated by a yawn, eyes half-lidded and mind slow despite your motivation. The sound echoed from within your room, yet the precise location seemed to elude you. Perhaps it was how loud it had gotten, or because of the lack of sleep, but you spent those minutes stumbling around cursing.

Your head pulsed with a forming headache, the pulsing making the sound ever more aggravating. Nearly all your thoughts were focused on shutting off the alarm, though some clung to the last remnants of the dream you just had. Digging through the laundry basket and checking all your pockets proved fruitless, as did shuffling through the mess on your desk. It wasn't until you checked your bed, more specifically under your bed that you found the device.

Shutting it off with a huff, you groaned at the mess around you.

Getting up at 8am was far too early.

Nevertheless you were up, regrettably so. A growl of your stomach drew you towards the kitchen, which was far more like a kitchenette than an actual kitchen. Missing the beloved dishwasher appliance you once had the privilege of having, there was a small fridge, a stove and oven unit, and a faulty microwave. The counter space was sparse, as too was the storage.

The kitchen was directly beside the entrance way, the rest of the main living space becoming a fusion between a living room, eating space, and a place for all your hyperfixation-fuelled projects, also known as your office. Though it was furthest from your room, it was barely a few steps away before you were making some pre-packaged oatmeal with an apple. It was the most appropriate of what you still had left in your small apartment, but it was a good excuse to eat healthy!

Sitting down in your pajamas, you checked your phone's schedule as you dug into your meal.

Today was going to be a busy day, most of it blocked out for time to analyze and edit your photography. Just as well, as there was a distinct lack of sunlight beaming through your windows and tiny droplets forming on the glass.

It had been good insight on your part to spend the last few days exploring outside for the perfect pictures.

Your apartment, a small 1 bedroom, was located outside of a small fishing town. Owned by Rosie, a kindly older lady that had taken you in, part of the deal for letting you stay there was that you continued with your photography passion. And fortunately you were somewhere that never lacked a view.

The trees were brighter here, the air fresher than it had been in the city you were raised in. It wasn't uncommon, if you waited in the right spots, to find white-tailed deer roaming around your home. There were birds aplenty, from the smallest of finches to king woodpeckers, whose size had originally stunned you.

Up the road from where you were was a small creek and a trail through a forest, though your friend had explicitly told you to never stray too far in. Last year there had been multiple bear sightings, and she did not want you to go 'mysteriously' missing.

The town, though small, had a flourishing tourist season. And that was where your photography came in handy. Unlike the locals, a group you still struggled to truly feel apart of, the tourists were unused to such sights. You had been too, before you had moved.

That was a while back.

You tried not to think about it.

Rosie had been thrilled when you showed her a collection of your landscape photos, claiming they were something special. Perhaps it was because the area was new to you, but whatever it was had helped you get a job, a living. As long as you delivered a certain number of new photos a month Rosie would let you stay.

They sold well in the store she ran after all.

Filled with all sorts of pieces from local artists, Rosie had managed to foster a strong community appreciation towards creativity of all sorts, even that as mundane as your own. It also was a tourist destination spot, known for high quality and unique items.

But Rosie could be picky, and foolishly, while drowning yourself in your new hyperfixation, you had neglected your job.

So today, as much as it hurt, was to be dedicated entirely to preparing this month's batch of photos for her.

Simple, right?

And yet it never felt like it.

Before retiring to the bathroom to prepare for the day you snatched your laptop from your bedroom to bring it over to the desk waiting in the living room. Surprisingly warm, the laptop screen dimmed and camera light flickered off as you carried it out. Not that you noticed, too busy making sure the trailing power cord didn't get caught on anything.

Once settled down the colourless screen was replaced with cheery rainbows as the homepage for the 'Welcome Home' website appeared. The happy visage of Wally blinked awake to greet you, eyes blank and body stiff as expected. The only thing that was amiss, when you finally looked at the device, was that it was on.

"That's odd," you muttered, rubbing sleep out of your eyes.

Hadn't you shut it off last night?

Shrugging it off as a lapse of forgetfulness, you planned out the day in your mind. Snatching a basic outfit of a t-shirt and some comfortable pants, you quickly brush your teeth and shower before returning to the task at hand.

Filtering all the photos you've taken.

The files were contained on a combination of your phone and an expensive camera you bought a year before moving. The office chair beckoned you, the image of Wally gazing out as you officially began your work day.

Settling down at your desk, you decided to go through your phone first. It was smaller and easier, and most of the images were of small sights you saw while going out for supplies or food. Times were it would be odd or inconvenient to carry around your expensive camera.

Plus it meant you could plug it in sooner, and judging by the low percentage it very much needed to charge.

Time ticked by as you swiped through the images, selecting and adding a small note to each one you did and didn't want. For those you hadn't decided to keep or abandon, you tagged them as 'backups' just in case. Sometimes there would be photos you thought were interesting but Rosie claimed were "slippery criminals avoiding the rule of thirds".

Other times you thought an image was too sparse or lacking, and she'd compliment the use of negative space. Or the patterns in the branches, or some other little detail you had overlooked. All part of the learning experience!

Some were also tagged with 'inspect further,' so you knew to go back and take a higher quality image with your camera later. Very important when it came to turning your photos into framed pieces to sell.

Time ticked by surprisingly fast, images blurring into one. Overall you were happy with what you had, grateful that your phone's camera was so reliable. Your favourites was a collection of images taken at different times at the same spot, a series that was bound to catch someone's eyes. Then there was the usual assortment of sunset photos.

People always loved those.

With a sigh you turned back to your laptop, plugging in your phone to upload the image files. Now that you had organized them, it was time to truly see which ones were good enough to blow up to the right size. All part of the process Rosie had explained to you. It was important for avoiding pixel-infested prints.

But first, you had to exit the 'Welcome Home website. You didn't notice the spike of static on the screen nor how Wally's eyes widened as you did so, distracted by your phone asking if you really wanted connect and share files.

That didn't normally happen.

Hadn't you set it up so it always accepted your laptop?

That wasn't the only strange thing. Because when you glanced back up at the screen you realized that a section of the screen was frozen.

It was a small square really, barely more than 6 centimetres in height and width, found on the left of the screen. You didn't dare move the cursor over it, half-clear visions of last night's investigation stopping you. Your fingers tapped a nonsensical rhythm against your thigh as the glitched square looked back at you.

It was a section of the colourful background found on the website, of stars and flours, pebbles and butterflies, of Home and eyes.

Somehow, you had never really noticed all the eyes in the pattern.

There were ones on the butterflies wings, there were some tossed in with the colourful cobble stone path leading to the little doodle of Home. They swamped a section of blue, so numerous they nearly overlapped each other. They were scattered around the envelops, near a toy ball, trailing all about where the doodles got too hard to make anything out past the most basic shapes.

Somehow, they had noticed you.

Your breathing picked up. All the eyes in the pattern looked out towards you, watching and waiting, bouncing eagerly to the cursor before staring back at you. Bouncing the balls of your feet, your phone vibrated as it received a notification. The image of it was suspiciously similar to the envelope currently frozen on your laptop screen.

A shiver ran up your back and you took a deep breath, trying to reason a way out of your growing paranoia.

Your laptop was old, far older than what you should be using. Sometimes aging pieces of technology do odd things, like freezing up and mixing up button input. But hey, it still worked! ... or did, up until today.

But why were the eyes watching you?

"... I'm just being silly," you muttered, body stiffening.

Your phone notification was probably just your email, right? And the playful appearance just a trick of the light reflecting off the screen, just that. It was a new update that left the notification on screen, and the image of the envelope definitely wasn't growing larger the more you ignored it.

Wasn't it too convenient though? For all these things to just coincidentally happen at the same time?

Eyes darting between the two screens, jaw clenched, you sternly tell yourself to get a grip. Sure, your lack of sleep left much to be desired, but it couldn't be that bad! Nothing was wrong, why would it be? Why should it be? You shook your head and grit your teeth, turning off your laptop. If it wouldn't work with you, why should you work with it?

...

It didn't shut off.

Why didn't it shut off?

The screen blinked black before fizzling into waves of static. The frozen patch was now distorted, the eyes and colours churning together into a spiral. A sickly sensation bubbled in your stomach as the spiral steadily took over the screen, the eyes stretched thin and long but still distinctly looking at you.

The light of your laptop's camera no longer needed to be on to see.

You gawked, pressing again and again at the power button in hopes of shutting it down. You even pulled the plug, but that did nothing as the spiral kept intensifying.

You were drawn in, unable to look away even when your mind screamed at you to do so. It was hypnotizing, inciting in a way you'd never known possible. Almost as if it spoke your name, whispering words you longed to hear. You leaned closer, eyes wide and mouth slack as it changed.

There, in the center of the screen, came a bright red line. And another, and another. Forming recognizable letters, it slowly spelled out a sentence. Straight and angular, the letters seemed oddly familiar, as if you had seen the handwriting before.

You didn't process it at first, until you finally did.

That was Wally's handwriting.

That was his handwriting.

"I'm so happy to finally meet you, neighbour!"

Chapter Text

You were frozen, heart pounding in your ears.

The words were superimposed on your eyes, so bright it burned, so red you couldn't stand it. The spiral kept spinning, fading from darker to brighter, osculating in size, calling to you. A line, ever so slowly, etched itself under the word 'you', underlining it with a flourish.

It was childish, the letters were nearly all upper case and various degrees of crookedness. The l's backwards and the i's dotted with little hearts. There were doodles of smiley faces being drawn on the borders where there was still enough space, their eyes that same bloody red. The entire screen was filled with the message.

It was chilling, you watched paralyzed as the words danced in your eyes, the spiral mist in your ears. Your hands were stuck gripping the arms of your office chair, knuckles stretched pale and tendons sticking out. A tremor wracked through your frame as you tried to look away, finding that you couldn't.

You couldn't look away.

There was a growing sound of static, fuzzy and muted as if heard beyond a wall. With it came a steady series of thumps, pounding in the background. It was like a heartbeat, low and heavy, thundering in your skull. Your breaths came out as strangled pants, gasping for air as your mouth filled with cotton.

Shakily you forced your hand to move, gritting your teeth as it inched towards the laptop. Oddly, it was easier to move forwards if you only moved your hands towards the laptop's touch-pad. Otherwise, it felt like pressing against some massive wall of compacted felt. It swallowed up your hand, growing more resistant the closer your hand gets.

With a cry you lunged forwards, feet stumbling and chest tight.

And you slammed the laptop shut.

The sound echoed throughout your apartment, bouncing off the walls and looping in your ears. You hadn't realized the weight of the air around you until it was gone, skin no longer tingling, lungs no longer burning. Your breathing was still irregular, but it was returning back to normal.

Without pause you snatched your phone and bolted, barely stopping to put on shoes before the front door slammed behind you. Your sneakers hit the ground with resounding thump, startling the birds into taking flight into the morning sky. The air tasted wet and smelt of dew and earth. Stumbling down the stairs onto the pathway from your home, you let out a sigh of relief.

What the hell was that?

You couldn't stop blinking, eyes burning from being forced open for however long you spent staring at the screen. One hand fidgeted with the bottom hem of your shirt, the other squeezing your phone tight. Both were still shaking, adrenaline rushing through your veins.

What the absolute hell had that been?

You weren't one for believing in ghosts, not seriously at least. Ghost stories were fun to you, the possibility of life after death a curiousity. They were interesting to ponder, making you ask yourself what you'd do as a ghost. What would it even be like to be a ghost?

But you dismissed the idea of ghosts based on two main circumstances.

First, if everyone became a ghost, there simply would be too many ghosts on the planet. Did ghosts have a time limit? Were all ghosts living on a slightly different ghostly realm overlaying your world? Do they stack atop of one another? Surely only some people can become ghosts, or else there'd be centuries, millenniums worth of ghosts wandering about! And that got even more complicated if all living things could become ghosts!

Secondly, if ghosts were real surely they'd be able to tell people that. With the development of science, which was moving so fast nowadays you stopped trying to keep up, certainly someone would create a device of some sort that would allow ghosts to communicate. Although, you mused, all the theories of what ghosts are capable of are based off folklore, so it's entirely possible they communicate in ways we can't even understand.

There was another reason why you didn't believe in them.

You didn't want to be haunted.

Someone, maybe a high school teacher? Once told you that the more you believe in something, the more likely it was to happen. Truthfully, you thought that was rubbish. A privileged perspective at the very least. But, after you binged a bunch of horror movies when you were younger, you accepted some of that advice.

If you didn't believe in ghosts, they would have no power over you.

It was clear you were being haunted, but it begged the question. Why you? And were you being haunted by a ghost? What sort of ghost mimicked the handwriting of a character from a franchise that maybe never even existed?

Maybe your mother was right. You really were destined to drive yourself mad.

...

Too caught up in unwinding your emotional state after the whole fiasco, you hadn't paid attention to where you were going. Fortunately for you, your feet lead you down the familiar path to the closest town and to your mentor's shop.

Truly it was the best outcome. Hopefully it was a sign that the day was going to get better.

At the very least it couldn't get any worse.

You felt a sense of comfort at the familiar sight, your mentor Rosie's artistry shop standing proud ahead. It was a converted house, two stories high and screaming warmth. The building was painted a bright red with white trim and borders, a style common in the area, though not in the city you grew up in. The front had the entrance in the middle, with the walls on each side having large windows to show off the displays. The porch was larger than most, stretching the whole width of the building.

There was a bench and complimentary seating on the porch, as well as a bowl of water for any animals that needed it. Off the overhang of the porch dangled wind chimes of all different styles, including a few hand-made ceramic ones. Your favourite was in the shape of a small purple snake-like creature with cat ears, with a small glass bobble at the base. Made to catch the eye of kids you suspected.

Overall it was homely, a sort of place that seemed to have its own sort of magic. A charm that made the worries of the outside world fade away.

You loved it here.

And you were lucky enough that Rosie gave you the chance to sell your photography here with a bunch of other artists from the area. While not displayed in the front windows, the two of you ended up making not just wall-mountable prints, but also calendars of your photos, and with Rosie's insistence, a few notebooks with the photos plastered on the front.

It might not be the most traditional job, but art was highly regarded in the area, and the tourists that came through loved to grab mementos too. It worked out, fortunately. Because if you were being completely honest? You were never prepared to take on an actual job.

Sorry mom.i

As you marched up to the door you plastered on a smile, waving to a small group of folks knitting together on the porch. The door swung open with a ding, telling the world where you were. The familiar sight of artworks, from paintings to sculptures to pieces more abstract, filled your vision.

And there, behind the front table sat Rosie. Her skin was dappled with age spots, freckles dusting her cheeks and arms. Her thick salt-and-pepper hair was tied up in a messy bun, odd strands sticking out and curling around her face. Her eyes, kind and crow-footed, were a dull seafoam today, contrasting her clay-toned skin.

Her most standout feature was what she was wearing.

Rosie was an artist of all sorts of trades, but specialized in creating unique jewellery, which included what she was currently had on. The thick silvery necklace was decorated with large dangling triangles, made of pieces of sea-glass bordered with silvery metal.

The bright oranges, yellows, and occasional green went well with the shawl draped over shoulders, black shirt loose and flowing. On her wrists were various bracelets, ranging from simple black chords to thick wood-carved ones.

The sight of her brought a genuine smile to your lips. Nothing ever seemed to wrong when Rosie was around.

She beamed as you approached, throwing her hands up in welcome. The elaborate collection of jewellery jangled with the movement. She was already moving out from behind the counter to greet you.

"Heyyy Rosie," you drawled, playful and sugary sweet. "I was wondering if I could ask a favour from you?"

"What, no hugs for your favourite artist?" She laughed, spinning to show off her hand-made shawl. "What do you think of my newest piece?

In addition to making jewellery, Rosie was an accomplished crocheter. The shawl spoke of her skill, shaped into the spread out wings of a giant crow. The feathers were a gradient of dark greens, blues and purples, matching the oil-spill effect the real birds had. The edges were decorated with a ridge of indented white, adding beautiful contrast.

You returned her hug as your mind drifted, flashing to the eyes, to the red-drawn message. Though you knew Rosie would be understanding, it hurt knowing you'd disappoint her. You couldn't help it. You looked up to her as a mentor, she did take you under her wing without judgment after all. She believed in you when you'd lost direction in life.

She filled the spot in your life as a nurturing figure you so craved for.

Your parents had never filled that role well.

"It's about the batch of photos you wanted. It... turns out I'll need more time to finish them up."

Her smile didn't falter, but the beat of silences made you queasy.

"What is it this time? Not enough inspiration?" Rosie gestured out the window. She was teasing, but the words made you wince. "The whole world is filled with beauty, just look outside! You have to get out of that head of yours sometimes. It'll help motivate you, you know?"

"It's not that this time," your face wavered. "I actually took a surplus of photos this time around."

"So then what's the issue?"

You looked with heating cheeks, gaze wandering. "It's... well, remember that laptop I brought with me?"

"What, did that dinosaur finally go extinct?" She ruffled your hair fondly, tutting. "I told you, that thing was on its last legs, I'm surprised it managed to last this long."

"Well, in my defence-"

"Defence? Hun that thing was being powered through sheer will alone."

You rolled your eyes. "And stubbornness. Don't forget that."

"You, stubborn? No, it couldn't be!"

You both laughed, anxiety lifting. Rosie was a master of making people feel more at ease. The bizarre morning felt more and more like a dream being forgotten, slipping sand in the eddies of your mind. This was the real world, here and now. You took a deep breath.

The sun broke through the clouds outside, the warm golden light flooding the room through the large bay windows. Even the weather was better.

Everything would be okay.

"So," you spoke after you both stopped laughing, "that kind of means I can't do any editing until I get myself a new laptop."

"Just promise me you'll get yourself a laptop from this century, okay? You can hold off on submitting your photos until then."

"It really wasn't that old!"

Rosie snickered at your words. You continued on, unfazed. "Have I ever told you you're the best?"

"You know it! Now you run off and get yourself all sorted out." She made a shooing motion with her hands, returning back to her spot behind the front table. "You can't leave the people without any of your wonderful pieces for too long you know! Consistency is a great strength to possess."

"Will do! I'll see you later Rosie!"

The jingle of the door-chime faded as you left the shop, now rejuvenated. You'd never been too good with confrontation, but with Rosie it was easy. Sure, you still felt awful about missing the deadline, but it was no longer weighing you down. It was just... unpleasant.

Rosie's shop was still a walk aways from the main downtown hub, isolated enough to give it a cottage-y feel without getting people lost. You really needed to check out the laptops on sale, so you decided to head to town. Hopefully there would be some cheap laptops, the cheaper the better if you were being honest. Your bank account couldn't handle the expensive ones.

Sure, the promise of high performance and a light-up keyboard was extremely tempting, but your job wasn't too performance heavy. Just some light touch ups, cropping the edges, or changing a few colour values. Sometimes with the more experimental pieces you'd add some neat effects, but that wasn't the bulk of your editing work.

To waste time, you decide to take some pictures with your phone.

You followed the trail beside the main road, old railway tracks that had long since been out of use. Up-kept by the community, you closed your eyes to listen to the nature around you. Bird songs overlapped, twittering and whistles mixing with the rustling leaves and occasional patter of squirrels. You could hear the rumble of cars on the main road, the roaring paired with the splash of tires running through puddles.

Your heartbeat slowed and mind cleared, lulled to rest by the world around you.

Opening your eyes, you began your hunt for the best new photos.

You took images of a field still filled with fog, the wheat-like grasses fading off into the distance. Of birds that flitted by, flapping wings captured spread wide, feathers gleaming with dewdrops. Of late spring flowers in various stages of bloom, swaying in the wind.

Pictures of the sky above, where beams of sunlight danced between the splotches of blue peaking through clouds of soft whites and greys. Of the plants growing between the rusted metal of the old train tracks, wooden beams falling apart to time. And of little curiosities, like leaves that grew in spirals and rocks in half-made circles.

You even managed to catch some photos of a flock of sparrows flying in a group, each image capturing a different shape the flock made. That had always fascinated you, how the little birds never seemed to hit each other, as if they knew where the next would be before it did.

Rosie was right, the world was truly beautiful.

... and dirty, you noted with a groan. Your shoes, simple sneakers, were partially covered with wet dirt. Your feet made odd thwapping noises with each step, the pebbles between the train tracks sticking to the soles. And the fog, though nowhere to be found by the main roads, was still nestled in the forested path, lightly dampening your clothes just enough to make it annoying.

At least it wasn't raining.

You were nearly at the town now, only a 20 minute walk from Rosie's. Typically you would ride your bike, the far quicker option, but you left that morning in such a hurry that you simply forgot it. Since today was meant to be spent editing, which you could no longer do, you didn't have much else to do, so the long walk was rather nice.

Idly you decided to check the images you'd been taking. At first you only payed attention to the actual images, pleased at the results. But soon you noticed something odd. The file names weren't the usual mix of numbers representing the date and time. They were... wrong. Unsettling. Alarming.

Wrong.

But familiar, in the way that made your stomach roll and your heart skip a beat.

'4e_65_69_67_68_62_6f_75_72_3f_20_48_65_6c_6c_6f_3f'

Eyes wide, you swiped to the next picture, finding the same thing had happened.

'49_20_6c_69_6b_65_64_20_73_65_65_69_6e_67_20_74_68_61_74_20_70_6c_61_63_65_2e'

You swiped.

'49_27_6d_20_73_6f_20_68_61_70_70_79_20_74_6f_20_73_65_65_20_79_6f_75'

Again you swiped.

'43_61_6e_20_79_6f_75_20_73_65_65_20_6d_65_3f'

Again.

'49_27_76_65_20_62_65_65_6e_20_6c_65_61_72_6e_69_6e_67_20_61_62_6f_75_74_20_79_6f_75'

Again.

'44_6f_6e_27_74_20_79_6f_75_20_77_61_6e_74_20_74_6f_20_73_65_65_20_6d_65_3f'

Again.

'57_68_79_20_61_72_65_20_79_6f_75_20_69_67_6e_6f_72_69_6e_67_20_6d_65_3f'

And Again.

'59_6f_75_27_72_65_20_73_6f_20_6d_65_61_6e'

Panic gripped your lungs, a wave of nausea hitting you.

Why wouldn't it stop?

You shut off your phone and nearly throw it, barely stopping yourself. It was official. You were haunted. Haunted by some weirdo ghost that only knows how to keyboard smash, apparently. How bizarre was that? And here you'd gotten your hopes up.

Internally you beat back your fear, with logic as your weapon.

It had to be some sort of bug, or maybe your phone stopped formatting the title of images correctly. Your phone wasn't that old, but old enough that it was susceptible to a weird virus? It was entirely possible. Viruses were hard to deal with, but at least they were real.

Unlike ghosts.

Your heart still fluttered in your chest, body both heavy and not as you make your way to the store. Maybe while you searched for a new laptop you could ask the person there to check it out? That shouldn't be too big a deal? Hopefully?

You really hoped it could be fixed.

The nausea still remained, deep seated in your guts, forcing you to slow. Gingerly, as if it would grow teeth and bite you, you turned your phone back on. Looking at it now, without the jolt of being caught off guard, it didn't seem that scary. Just... odd.

Honestly, why would a ghost ever haunt you anyways?

You were just being paranoid.

"I'm being so stupid over nothing." Quieter, you muttered, "I should really stop watching those analogue horror analysis videos before bed."

Of course, your phone didn't respond. You chuckled at the absurdity of the situation. But the sound died as your phone buzzed.

In your hand.

After you spoke.

It was a notification.

A small colourful envelope danced on the top of your screen, made of bold primary colours. It stayed where it should, at first, how notifications usually arrive on your phone. But it didn't leave, shaking as your phone buzzed again, another notification.

You turned off the screen and shoved your phone in your pocket.

It buzzed again, the vibrations travelling down your leg. And again, and again, and again, until it was constantly vibrating, desperate for your attention. The pounding fear of this morning came back. You didn't want to get sucked into that spiral again.

You almost were sick.

The phone started pinging, the last of the birds leaving the area as the sound grew louder and louder. The forest was silent around you, too silent. Or maybe your phone was too loud, buzzing and chiming in your pocket. It grew too much, overwhelming your senses.

If you were being haunted, the ghost was a full on jerk.

Finally you pulled it out, the screen already on and shining at full brightness. Little red marks danced around the edges, cartoon exclamations as there was more writing. More of the same dreadful writing. As you read it the phone stopped blaring, and the buzzing stopped. As if it knew you were squinting, it turned its own brightness down to a comfortable level.

The red letters pulsed on screen, big and bold and demanding your attention. The words were simple, but weren't random.

It wasn't just a message.

It was a response.

To what you just said.

'STOP IGNORING ME"

Chapter Text

In your hand was your phone, outstretched over the counter as the young man, a kid really, looked unconvinced.

"You want me to fix your phone? It looks fine to me."

You groaned.

"Usually when people ask for that sort of service, their phone is like. Wrecked, you know? Like absolutely totalled. Non functioning. And this puppy right here," he gestured to your phone, "seems to be working as it should."

"Can't you look at it anyways?"

He leaned back, checking the clock. It was, unknown to you, a Sunday. It wasn't uncommon for shops in town to be closed on Sundays, a tradition left over from people long gone, and this one wasn't. But by the way he was acting, eyes half closed, chin resting on his hand before you started talking, he probably wished it was closed.

You couldn't blame him, since you'd probably feel the same if you were in his shoes.

But still, you really needed him to just check your phone.

You ruled out haunting, as those seem to be more physical based, not just through electronics. And possession? Was it possible for electrical devices to be possessed? What was the difference between the two anyways? As far as you knew, possession was a ghost actively taking control, while haunting was more passive. You tried not to think about it.

At any rate you wanted it checked out to see if it was a virus before you went dousing it in holy water.

Phones aren't cheap.

"I'll tell ya what, I'll do a quick cursory scan to see if anything's buggin' out. But shop closes in an hour and I wanna leave early. Sound good?"

"Thanks. Be careful with it though." Sighing, you hand over your device, feeling an old swell of discomfort as it leaves your grasp. He took it, swiping through the main pages and checking what applications you had open. It was awkward standing there, watching him shift through your phone. Your phone was your livelihood. It was natural to feel protective of it, even if it felt more invasive than it should.

He halfheartedly fiddled around with it for a few minutes. He turned it off to restart it, switched a few settings to test how they were working, and eventually seemed to settle for opening and closing various apps to see if they were crashing. Blowing strands of hair out of his eyes, he glanced between you and the phone before setting it down.

"I'm telling you, nothing's wrong with your phone-"

"Are you sure?" You interrupted, edges of your vision getting blurry. "It was doing all these weird things earlier, it wouldn't shut off and no matter what it did it wouldn't stop buzzing and all the images are weird and I really need it for work and if it keeps doing this I'll need to buy another phone but I can't afford another phone and another laptop. Please isn't there more you can do? It has to be broken in some way, it can't not be broken-"

His wide eyed stare stopped your rambling, voice dying in your throat. The heat of unshed tears prickled at the back of your eyes, not yet dripping but threatening to. You mentally hit yourself, you had to pull it together. At your distress though he changed his tune, either out of pity or kindness you couldn't quite say. His eyes were softer.

"Hey, you said it acted up when you took photos, yeah? Mind if I take a few?"

You nodded, looking around the shop as he busied himself with the task. The store was a fairly standard office supply store, with the section you were currently in dedicated to electronics. There were a few rows of laptops, tablets, phones, and other small trinkets, cables and accessories. The shelving was a head shorter than yourself, allowing you, if you wandered, to peer over to the next isle.

The floor was squeaky under your shoes when you adjusted yourself, fighting the urge to hum as the clerk kept shifting his eyes to you, looking away when you caught his gaze. So you counted the amount of colours you could see, mentally cataloguing them, comparing the contrast.

The floor was an off-white tile flecked with small grey marks. Scuffed in parts and worn down near the entrance, it was a good neutral for the space. The shorter shelves and desks were simple constructs of white, maintaining the illusion of cleanliness. Although, looking at some of the more neglected spaces, you could see the build up of dust.

The ceiling was less of a ceiling and more of an exposed space, showing the old beams and ducts keeping the place running. The lights, long florescent reminiscent of those you had in your past schools, dangled several feet off the ground. This made the space above dark, the only light illuminating it reflections of the world beneath it.

And there was a final detail that made you lose count.

Red.

It was everywhere.

On the beams of the tallest metal-framed shelves, on the small carpet by the entrance. It was accented in thick stripes on the clerk's counter, and used as the background colour in promotional advertisements up in the front windows. His uniform was red with a black back, even his name-tag, the name itself too poorly written to be legible, was bordered with red.

It was all red.

That same red.

You swore that it hadn't been like that last time. That it had been blue or green or even a less common orange, not red. It was too much red, too much of a reminder. Turning away from the clerk, you tapped a rhythm on your thigh with your fingers to help calm yourself down, glancing at the section of chairs on the wall furthest away from you. You counted them, counted the number of black chairs, brown chairs, and the number of chairs you'd expect hard-core gamers to have.

6, 3, 4. More chairs than you expected.

You jumped when a hand grabbed your shoulder.

"So, I went through and checked all the pictures I took, and there's nothing wrong with them. Like, you mentioned the file name formatting was all jumbled right? Messing with your work or something?"

He paused, waiting for you to nod.

"Yeah, well, from what I've seen it's all normal. Either you downloaded these pictures or renamed them yourself. There's not much other explanations." At your gloomy look he winked, an impish look curling his face. "If you really wanted to hang out, all you had to do was ask."

Your cheeks warmed up as he laughed as you stuttered a response, mind busy elsewhere.

His teasing look faded, and his prompt for you to take the phone was left untaken.

"If you really think it'll help, I can hook it up to scan it. That'll cost you some though."

It was tempting, far too tempting, but the moment you saw the connection cable your heart lurched, skipping a beat. Your mind flashed back to your computer, the hypnotizing spiral that made you so weak. Your phone had, until it was connected, been completely normal before that moment. You looked around at all the computers here, all the different phones and tablets. You couldn't risk it.

Shaking your head wildly you muttered an excuse. He was obviously confused, already asking if you were alright as you yanked your phone away from him.

You bolted.

...

Steeling yourself, you decided to go through the images the clerk had taken. The first image that appeared when you opened the app was normal. It was a blurry image of the counter, a finger covering part of the lens. The shadow seemed odd, but you shrugged it off. Might've been some specks of dust, nothing too alarming.

You couldn't fight off the slimy feeling growing in your chest when you looked at the next picture.

It was a simple one of the store entrance, glass doors and time signage standing proud behind an empty cashier counter. But the sign, what was supposed to be black with white text showing the opening and closing time. It had changed.

Over it was a doodle.

It was simple.

Red.

'24/7'

The next few pictures were similar, with tiny red doodles that hadn't been there when he took them sparsely decorating them. The one that stood out to you the most, beyond the odd number of question marks pointing at certain objects, was a selfie the guy took.

Covering most of the screen was in bold red letters a simple question. It was enough to make you shut the screen and put it down.

'WHO??'

You shivered, hand wrapped around your middle in a facsimile of a hug. Your stomach rolled with a realization that made your skin feel too tight, hands clammy. You tried to keep walking normally until you could reach somewhere more private, not wanting people to watch as you struggled with the emotional tornado wrecking your mind.

That implied that it knew what you looked like. And you very very much did not like that idea.

And that was an understatement.

The knowledge that it knew what you looked like made you feel like throwing up. Your brain was stuck on that fact, like it was a splinter wedging itself deeper and deeper into the folds of your very being. It knew you, it was watching you. Your steps were uneasy as you automatically made your way back to the trail to your home.

You couldn't stop the thoughts.

How long had it been watching? Was it watching right now? Did it ever stop watching? What did it want? What did it want from you, specifically? Why did it only want to see you?

You shuddered, feeling the prickle of being spied on, being stared at. It sunk into the back of you neck, remaining there no matter where you looked, where you turned. Paranoia was growing, gripping your shoulders, tighter and tighter, higher and higher. Your heart thudded in your ears, a constant drumming like a ship off to war.

The phone kept buzzing, occasionally chirping for your attention.

It wouldn't stop.

You could picture in your mind, what it would be like to tell someone about it. Tell them that there was this thing, too reactive to be a virus, that kept taking over your phone. Automatically your mind supplemented the other person with the store clerk you just fled from.

"Oh hey, wanna talk to the demon in my phone? It won't leave me alone."

Humourlessly your brain continued with the scenario, mental image of the man. Jovial and unconcerned, his words were oddly grating, the banter bitter in your mouth.

"How joyous for you both! Sadly we cannot help you here, but I bet the church could help!"

"Even if I'm not a church-goer?"

"Especially if you're not a church-goer, it's a two-for-one deal for them!" He howled as your brain-scenario was interrupted with a buzz.

Not again.

Glancing down you saw the red-etched words, taunting you. It was paired with a little drawing of a sad face, the left eye larger as if the person drawing it stabbed the spot for emphasis. Where had that been when the clerk had your phone? Why were things different when he had looked?

'That wasn't you.'

The message dissolved as another took its place, another face doodled on. This one similar, with a little tear added to the sad face.

'I missed you.'

Frustration welled up in place of terror as you slammed your finger into the screen. Poking it over and over, you let the action consume you. It helped release your anger, your fear, your hatred for this stupid situation that shouldn't be physically possible. There was even another person who should have been witness, but the issue mysteriously vanished!

It was almost enough for you to think yourself mad.

Almost, but not quite.

Because the clerk did see the file name change, even if it stopped happening when he took new photos. Which meant that it wasn't entirely in your head. Not quite, not yet. But that also meant it couldn't be a virus, because what sort of virus can detect who is using the phone?

None.

A hacker maybe?

You clung to whatever logic you could, in face of the absurd.

Your poking slowed as your mind wandered, emotions fading as you tried piecing together the clues you ignored. Ignored for a reason, that was. Because as much as you told yourself that it was all random, illogical, stupid little coincidences, your heart knew better.

There was a pattern. Faint and dull, like foot steps left in the snow near the tail-end of a blizzard. Indents whose existence proved meaningful, while giving only the vaguest of details. Nothing about who, or what, left the prints. Nothing about why they lead the way they did, or even which way was forwards.

It was kind of like that, but in this case, you felt like you knew who the who was.

But it was ridiculous, preposterous. Ludicrous even, but moreso than that, it was absolutely unbelievable.

And yet, it made sense, in only the most twisted of ways.

Did you dare think it?

With a shuddering breath you looked down, ready for what was to come. Your chest still puffed as you fought off a new wave of panic, the phone beginning to buzz again, reawakened after the prodding you put it through. Your muscles were stiff, jaw aching from being clenched tight.

A new message appeared.

As you expected, yet the sight of red-marked letters still made you falter. Truly, it was the worst colour that could have been chosen.

Red represents danger, aggression. It represents fires that scorch without reason, blood that pools without warning. It represents power, the power to control. It's the colour with the shortest wave lengths, the most obvious and eye-catching. It's demanding and intrusive and it made the words scream in your mind, the sort of wail that made your blood rush and hackles raise, survival instincts scratch and kick.

But Red also represented love and passion, though you loath to admit that currently. It represented unfiltered sweetness, candied apples and wrapped hearts both wearing the colour proudly. It stood for good luck and strength, a sign that good things could come, if only you were open to it. It was a colour that stood for confidence, for it had nothing to hide.

Personally, in this context, the red represented attention. The plea for it.

You flexed your fingers and flicked the screen towards you, reading the messages that seemed to flood in.

'I know you're there Neighbour'

'That wasn't nice'

'Where did you go?'

'I can see you'

'Stay here'

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. Paranoia was an angry beast in your stomach, growling and clawing, shredding your insides. It paced, a tiger too small for its cage, writhing with teeth like steel knives, sinking in, injecting more fear. You beat it off with measured breathing as you read the next message, one you'd seen before.

'STOP IGNORING ME'

There was a pause, the individual letters dancing on the shadowy black background, cheerful despite how ominous it was. The letters faded as a new message appeared, slowly printed as if by hand. You couldn't fight the knowledge that you recognized that handwriting. You had seen it. You knew who it belonged to.

Still, the more hints that proved that the owner of that handwriting might actually be the thing behind this the more you didn't want to think about it.

The next message was ready.

'PLEASE ANSWER ME'

The 'please' was steadily repeated in the blank space, filling up the void. The letters overlapped, each vying for your attention as the letters deteriorated into scribbles. All you could see was red. It was everywhere, drawing you in, filling your eyes, filling your soul. It tasted of too-old apples, of fruit left to rot. It smelled like dust and sharply metallic in how it flooded your system, making your eyes wince and stomach roll.

It felt like loneliness, deep rooted sadness. It was a reflection of your own fear, distorted in its origin. It feared not what could happen, not like you. Instead it feared something else, something you hadn't thought of until now, where it now roars for you to listen.

It feared something that had already happened.

And it knew the cost of ignorance.

...

You didn't notice the eyes, forming in the jumble of lines. Little eyes of black scleras and red pupils, peering out at you. They were hungry, pupils quivering. They absorbed the sight of you, of the sight around you. Eating away at the light hitting the screen. They couldn't focus, chomping down on bits of the sky, grazing on the leaves of the trees.

They simply couldn't help themselves.

They were absolutely starving.

Chapter Text

You didn't know it yet, but you had a problem.

It would be a lie to say it wasn't thrilling, to some degree.

In a twisted, mangled way.

It was electrifying.

To be noticed.

To be seen.

...

The screen looked up at you, and for the first time, without squinting or shaking or internally screaming, you were looking back.

The 'PLEASE' grew stronger still.

Experimentally you drew a small circle in the center, dragging your finger against the surprisingly cold glass. The red message reacted quickly, smearing away from your circle as it was erased, vanishing like it never happened. With the new open space you made a squiggly shape, and a triangle, curious about how it would work.

You weren't given any choice in colour, but it seemed that didn't matter. As if it had been chosen for you, your shapes were medium blue, a similar shade to the back of a European robin. The two colours contrasted each other nicely, carrying tonal values similar but not too different, enough to be distinct without being difficult to understand.

And it was undoubtedly a more calming colour than the bloody red, and almost pleasant to look at too. If red exclamation marks hadn't begun littering the screen, with the mimicked shape of your own being drawn along side them. They were rushed and clumsy, crooked and at times barely more than streaks. It proved obvious eagerness, restlessness.

Had it not fed the pit of fear within you, it would almost be cute.

Your next challenge was, unintuitively, to figure out how to remove what you've already drew. There were no symbols showing a draw or erase tool, there were no buttons or text boxes or anything of the sort. It was just the screen and you, and whatever was drawing in red. Everything that should have been on the screen was gone, you couldn't go to another app, you couldn't even see the time or battery charge.

Double tapping did nothing but leave two dots. Holding down on a preexisting doodle also did nothing. Through trial and error, mostly remembering things that had worked in the past, you tried figuring it out. The one funny thing about it, if you allowed yourself a moment of lightheartedness, was that it seemed to sorely confuse the thing drawing in red.

Each attempt was more random, the results barely legible. Red question marks appeared, sometimes joined with a little 'what?' pointing at your marks. It was oddly reactive, as if it was trying to learn from you, adapt and understand your motives.

It was unnerving.

Eventually, you simply turned it off.

...

You forgot the screen doesn't turn off, not when it didn't want to.

And now that you had finally responded, it seemed that it wouldn't turn off any time soon. Admittedly fascinating, the sheer levels of determination, the complete and utter control over things that didn't make sense. You didn't notice the seeds of investment taking root in your mind, still small, undetectable. But as long as a plant roots, it can claim a home.

You needed to know more.

The screen was wiped blank, free from the blue of before. It was exciting, now knowing how to communicate with the thing. It was hard to believe how easy it had been. You now could truly and actually respond.

But...

What did it want from you? What if it was trying to trick you? How dangerous could it be, communicating with something that defied your expectations of reality? Could you really trust it, if it claimed it wouldn't hurt you? How much faith could you invest in the unknown? How much curiousity did it take for it to kill you, the metaphorical cat?

Most importantly, did you even have a choice?

At your silence, minutes ticking by faster than you were aware of, a new red message was drawn on screen. It was hesitant though, each letter being written painstakingly perfect, even being erased at one point to be redrawn when some of the letters were too crooked. The red looked almost... toned down? It wasn't as bright, more like an artificial strawberry.

'ARE YOU OKAY?'

You couldn't help it. You laughed.

It was a quiet laugh, one born from disbelief and turning to a form of relief. What the hell? This thing had been haunting you, demanding your attention, sending you messages that gave you borderline panic attacks. It had hijacked your life in less than 24 hours, and would throw a fit if you didn't entertain it.

And now? Somehow? It had the audacity to pretend to care for you? You were glad you had travelled home before this little experiment, because you definitely looked a few degrees off from sane at the moment. Your laughing grew louder, uncontrolled as you stared at the writing, unconvinced.

A little upset face was drawn underneath.

You cracked up more, throwing the phone down and wrapping your arms around yourself. What had your life come to? It was ridiculous, beyond what you could imagine. You were beginning to think it was all a crazy nightmare, or hallucinations caused by a lack of sleep.

You decided to rest first and make a plan before continuing. Surely it could wait a little longer?

It totally wasn't because you were completely, and utterly terrified of what it could do.

...

It had been two days since you last sent anything to the thing in your phone. It felt weird not checking up on your socials, seeing what people had posted, the cool new art posted by your favourite artists. You tried using your laptop but it was still weird. No longer spiralling, it would only boot up to static, showing a dark space that looked suspiciously like an empty room.

Well, they say that a break from electronics can be good for the soul! Personally, you found there were only so many things you can busy yourself with before the lack of it was a thorn in your side, hooked in deep.

Each day, whenever you weren't asleep, the phone would ring and buzz and scream for you every hour on the dot. Sometimes the outburst would last a few minutes, sometimes it would last nearly half an hour. You took habit of leaving your apartment when it happened, or if you weren't in the mood you'd shut your phone in the cabinet in your bathroom, leave it, and clamp your hands over your ears.

It was a dysfunctional relationship, to say the least.

Though, you thought, any relationship with a eldritch thing threatening you constantly while possessing all your personal communication devices would be dysfunctional. It was just part of the natural dynamic. It was especially worse when, like in this situation, that eldritch thing is mad at you.

While you were scared of what that anger could turn into, you were more afraid of what would happen if you didn't put an end to it. Whether communicating with the thing would put an end to its fury or not was a whole other debate you simply didn't have the energy to consider. Abandoning it wasn't an option though, you shuddered to imagine what it could do to someone else. And you couldn't deal with the guilt of that possibility.

Your self-preservation was torn between flight or fight, settling down on freeze until it got too much.

So, on the third day of ignoring it in hopes the entire situation would fix itself, you found yourself digging out your phone from the bathroom cabinet, unwrapping it from the tangle of towels around it. You kept your fingers blocking the camera lenses up until you were settled on your couch, 5 minutes to 2pm.

Internally you'd begun a countdown to the hour. Each minute dripped by like thick honey, ever so slowly dripping down, down, down, until it pooled in a sticky puddle. In this case, the puddle consisted of your ever mounting anxiety, an emotion you'd grown miserably familiar with. It clung to your heart, stuffing your organs, drowning your mind. It coated you like an unwelcome shield, its protection false, a sweetened lure.

You counted the various sounds you could hear, half-distracting yourself and half-hoping you could put off the inevitable. You could hear the hum of electricity caused by your old fridge chugging away in the corner of the kitchen, a low droning sound that acted as a backdrop to your apartment. You could hear the faint sound of birds outside, mostly chickadees and finches, even the stray caws from a murder of crows.

And you could hear your heart thumping away, spiking faster as the seconds passed. The blood rushing through your ears, filling any voids it could, slithering to capture your awareness. You could hear your breathing, stuck in a loop where you had to manually remind yourself to breath, as if the air was being forced out.

You could hear the phone ringing.

You startled, gazing down at the phone as it began its usual fit of pings and buzzing. You were admittedly curious, or perhaps apprehensive, of what may happen. But you had built up your strength, regardless of how flaky it felt, to confront the thing in your phone, so that was what you were going to do. Putting it off any longer would simply be too dangerous.

A message appeared, scribbled like it wasn't meant to be read. It came in waves, barely settling down between sentences, the vibrations making it shaky. The screen flickered twice before you were able to read it, though it was all just a jumble, not a single real word made.

'PGKIJDQWT? YJGTG CTG AQW??'

'YJA FKF AQW NGCXG??'

'FQP'V NGCXG OG CNQPG'

'RNGCUG EQOG DCEM'

'rngcug..'

'rngcug fqp'v ngcxg og cnqpg'

After a tense pause the screen flickered twice again, this time repeating the same message over and over.

'PGKIJDQWT'

'PGKIJDQWT'

'PGKIJDQWT'

It continued on for a few minutes, the phone being swept up in a storm of red. Sometimes it covered the entire screen, soaking it in a deep blood red. Sometimes it faded, leaving an inky black that reflected no light. The notification pings would stop for a minute before the turmoil begun anew, the vibrating nearly pushing the phone off the edge of the table.

It stopped when the camera saw you.

You forgot that it could see you.

Two eyes glared back, locked on and unwavering. You felt an icy chill run down your back, infesting your spine. They didn't blink, didn't move, didn't do anything except watch you. The pupils were blown wide, almost fully overlapping the whites. The phone had stopped making a racket, and the new silence felt louder than it had, impossibly more intense. The emptiness in your ears was vast, prickling like static.

A new message appeared, ever so slowly, the eyes not leaving your own.

'WHY DID YOU LEAVE?'

You gulped, haltingly bringing your hand down to hover over the screen. The eyes moved away, giving you some distance. But it also gave you perspective, a new point of view. Wherever the thing was, it wasn't just a black void. It appeared like it was a darkened room. Something about that made you deeply uncomfortable, because it meant that your phone wasn't just an interface of sorts, like displaying your phone on a television.

It meant it was more like a camera.

A video.

A two way view, with only a screen as a separation.

Caught between rushing your response and thinking it over, you ended up drawing a little sad face, tears coming out its eyes. You drew an arrow pointing at it, titling it as 'Me'.

Nothing happened.

Gingerly you picked up the phone, awaiting a response.

It drew a mad face.

Woops

Now that you had confirmation that the thing was pissed, you struggled with what to say. Should you reassure it? Because you sure as hell didn't feel like doing that. Should you apologize? After all, you did ghost it for days after first contact. But on the other hand, you weren't the only one that needed to apologize. That thing was creepy! And had no respect for that little, tiny, totally unimportant thing called personal boundaries.

Should you wrap it back up in towels and throw it through the window of the nearest church you could find? You'd never been particularly religious, but if that was what it took to be free, some part of you was tempted. Possessions and exorcisms, you'd seen enough films with them to know how they go, and it would be hilarious to have one performed on a phone.

But then again, you were also oddly... against that idea. Not out of fear of possible revenge, but rather out of a sense of being... well...

Your life had grown stale, solitary. Rosie was a dear mentor and someone you looked up to greatly, and you indeed felt indebted from all the help she's given you, but you two weren't extremely close. Besides Rosie, you were acquaintances with various folks from town, budding friends with a few artists in the area and a bakery you loved. But it wasn't the same. It didn't fill the void that having a friend you knew better could. It didn't ease the feeling of being alone in a world you struggled in could.

That was your fault though.

A part of you that you didn't want to recognize, a part that frightened you of its possible depths, it longed for connection. And, regardless of whether you consciously wanted it to or not, it latched onto the thing in the phone. It had proven, in the last few days, to be consistent in contacting you. Whether that was a good thing or not was still unknown, but at least it was consistent!

When was the last time you talked to someone from home? Your home before this one? Was it not sad that you sought acknowledgement by something that may aim to kill you?

The angry face morphed into a simple question. 'WHY?'

You barked out laughter, halted and airy. It almost sounded like a cough, with how sharp it was. It was a bad habit of yours, the nervous laughter. It made everything feel even less real, glossy as if through fog or behind glass.

Why?

Why?

Why??

How could it not know?

You could yell with how frustrated you were, barely holding back a stream of insults at the sheer audacity. The urge flowed through you, molten metal injected into your veins. You stopped yourself purely out of self preservation. Who knew what it would do, if you kept treating it so badly? Who knew what it was capable of?

Looking down, it had drawn more question marks, confused. It was stupid, you thought. How the hell did it not know why? Was it dumb, or was it just oblivious? How unaware could it be to its own actions? You might sometimes stumble over your own words or misunderstand what other's say, but at least you knew what a threat was! And didn't say them!

Especially not randomly to someone you didn't know!

"Fuck Off!" You shouted, throwing the phone on the other side of the couch. It bounced off the fabric of the arm, landing tilted on the cushion. You could still make out some of the screen, and your laughter returned at the sight. It was a sharp laughter, cold and bitter. The eyes were wide as if spooked, everything from the screen erased with a simple note.

'THAT'S NOT A NICE WORD!'

You snorted as you read it. Was it trying to reprimand you? Seriously? You flipped it off and, to your gleeful spite, got another reaction from the phone. Equally as surprised, the eyes boggled out from their nonexistent sockets, pupils small and quivering.

'YOU SHOULDN'T DO THAT. IT'S RUDE!'

You howled, the absurdity catching up to you. Tears dripped from your cheeks, salty and hot, your nose clogging and breathing irregular. Your laughter was bordering on manic, fuelled by everything that had been happening. A bonfire of emotions, burning hot, burning loud, building and building as your mind flashed between what-ifs and could-bes.

It rose to a peak, threatening to explode into an inferno. The flames were born of despair and horror, unease and frustration. Ultimately birthed by the choice the thing made to endlessly haunt you. It was spewing scorching sparks of hopelessness, glittering in the cavernous void of your racing mind.

What could you say? What could you possibly ever say to make the thing understand? You figured it wasn't possible to piss off the uppity haughty phone possessing thing much more, so you kicked back and threw your arms over the back of the couch, lazily keeping eye on the screen.

The eyes were weary, but stopped shaking, now keen on studying you in your more relaxed position. It flickered between you and the distance separating you, making sure you won't move. As minutes passed its curiousty lead the eyes to look around, absorbing your living quarters.

It got bored of the silence faster than you thought it would.

'LOOK AT ME'

'TALK TO ME'

That was... different.

Your mouth was full of cotton, it felt like someone stuffed it. Your tongue was thick, heaviness making it hard to shape the worlds. But you were getting used to the feeling of pressure surrounding you, pushing down on your body, compressing the very air around you.

It was the feeling of the thing watching you, you realized. The sensation of the eyes piercing your soul, pinning you down to examine you, an exotic butterfly. It was unnatural, slick oil coating your insides. But it was new, exciting, unknown.

It was thrilling.

"Why are you doing this to me?" You tried out the words, tasting them as you spoke. Your tone wavered, volume unstable and voice cracking at the start. The phone buzzed, bright red flickering twice in joy. A large smiley face was drawn, as if encouraging your cooperation.

"THANKS FOR ASKING NEIGHBOUR!!"

It drew more smiling faces, little doodles of 'hello!' dancing joyfully.

"I'M WALLY"

You froze, eyes wide. That was the exact thing you didn't want to hear. You didn't want to process it, you didn't want it to be true. Because it couldn't be true, it was impossible.

It couldn't be true.

It wasn't possible.

It wasn't possible

It couldn't be true.

He wasn't real.

He couldn't be real.

It wasn't possible.

And yet?

"I'M WALLY DARLING, PLEASED TO MEET YOU!"

Chapter Text

The sun was shining with its golden rays bathing the plants in warmth. The trees swayed gently, leaves now fully out of their buds. The grasses were growing thick and long, the clovers dappling the front yard with wild violets and dandelions. Butterflies were drifting in circles, joined on the ground by grasshoppers and chirping crickets.

Nature was at peace, the wind content.

And your world was falling apart.

It was crumbling, unravelling, bringpeeled apart, layer by layer. It was a tough scab, being tugged off, cold exposure to skin too new, too raw. Cherry tinged and smarting, flinching away from the strange, the unrecognizable.

No thoughts flowed through your head, stuck trying in vain to hold up the decaying walls. The dust of rot filled your lungs, the taste of existential dread. It clung inside your throat like a film, sinking into your flesh from the inside out, betrayal from within.

Your vision was dark around the edges, staticky and sharp. It seemed so stupid, you were being so stupid! You had known, you had known! Deep down you had, all the clues pointed to that truth, but it didn't make sense, it couldn't be real. The imagined cannot become reality, that was simply how things worked.

How could you live in a world where literally anything was possible? Truly and actually possible?

How could you live in a world that wasn't safe?

You were well versed in what was and wasn't possible. As a kid you'd dreamt of flying, drawing yourself with wings, sketching out contraptions that would let you become one with the sky. It was something your child-self had longed deeply for, to fly not within something, but by yourself. It was a longing for freedom, and it was a part of you that had been buried under acceptance that it just wasn't possible.

It had been soul crushing for everyone to tell you time and time again your dream could never become real, but you learned that they were right.

There simply were some things that could happen, and some that would never happen. And the more outlandish an idea seemed, the more it sounded like a story, the less possible it was. That didn't mean crazy things didn't happen, it would be foolish to think otherwise, but there was a difference between unlikely and flat out impossible.

Like flight. In the early 1900s there was a newspaper clipping deeming that humankind would never creating flying machines, not for another million years. And yet, within the year the first flying plane had flown, proving that prediction wrong.

But this was different. This was a puppet from a television show that, as far as you could tell despite your many nights scouring the internet for all and any hints, it had never existed. Or, it was just increadibly well-hidden lost media. Considering the Sesame Street crack-monster tape that people knew only from collective memory before it was found under suspicious circumstances, it could still be real.

And yet here he was, the impossible, waiting for your response.

THIS IS WHERE YOU INTRODUCE YOURSELF, NEIGHBOUR

Its—his?—eyes never left yours, corners curled in amusement. Glittering with expectation, large pupils drawing you in, invested. They were quirked upwards ever so slightly, indicating that, had the eyes been attached to his head—were they?—it would have been tilted in curiousity. It was a gesture you know well, both warming and not to see it mirrored by something—someone? Your brain still struggled to think of him as not a character, but a real being—that had been haunting you.

It was oddly human, relatable.

You shivered.

His red writing flowed smoothly onto the screen, the letters winking up at you altogether too cheery. It kept away from his eyes, leaving enough space so he can clearly gaze out at you. It was interesting to ponder how relevant the eyes were to his sight. Would anything blocking his eyes obscure his vision, or would it only block yours? Where was it exactly he was seeing from and why was he so keen on watching?

The glint didn't leave his eyes as he continued, rolling past your silence with a gracefulness both confident and unnerving.

I SUPPOSE YOU NEEDN'T TELL ME. AFTER ALL, I ALREADY KNOW SO MUCH ABOUT YOU

"...what?" Your response was delayed and nearly silent, his words ripping into the breaking fabric of your walls. "What did you just say? What do you mean, 'you know so much about me'? Who told you?"

In place of laughter he doodled a smiling face with an increasing series of 'Ha's around it. They repeated for as long as you assumed he would have laughed for, had he the ability. It felt almost mocking, watching the screen slowly fill with red 'Ha's as you waited, heart pounding and muscles tight.

WHAT DO I MEAN? I MEAN YOU'VE SHARED SO MUCH WITH ME ALREADY!

"No I haven't? When? What the hell are you talking about?"

YOU'VE SHOWN ME YOUR LIFE, NEIGHBOUR. I'VE SEEN YOUR TOWN, YOUR FRIEND, YOUR HOME, AND YOUR FACE!

You paused, the urge to flee swelling up. In your chest it felt like there was a trapped bird, wings beating and beak pecking. The tips of its feathers brushed against your ribs, tiny claws reaching and grabbing for a threshold, something to hold onto. Faster it fluttered, heart speeding up to match.

How long had he been watching you? Constantly? Was it the entire time he was on your phone, or did it start before that? How much has he seen, how much does he know?

Your brain was flooded with a series of questions, each one more desperate than the last. You wanted to interview him, needed to, but before you could formulate a real sentence from your racing half-formed thoughts he interrupted, almost smug.

Strangely, you found it impossible to speak while the red writing appeared.

IT TOOK TIME, BUT I LEARNT HOW TO NAVIGATE THROUGH THIS THING, IT'S RATHER CONFUSING. FROM ALL YOUR PHOTOS I KNOW THAT YOU ARE AN ARTIST TOO! ISN'T THAT FUN?

"What the fuck? You've been going through my phone?!" You shouted, voice reverberating through the open space. He was drawing a picture of home in red, adding all the little details he could. But once he heard your voice he stopped, eyes narrowing in annoyance.

MY MY, YOU REALLY MUST STOP USING SUCH BAD LANGUAGE. WHAT WILL YOUR NEIGHBOURS THINK?

"I'm not the one that's stalking people, so answer my damn questions!"

He ignores you, a new message appearing. This time the letters were more slanted, the supposed teasing tone more like biting, nearly threatening. With it came two stick people smooshed in the bottom corner so small it was difficult to make out. The one was crying, tears running down their cheeks as the other was handing them a large lollipop, smiling.

You could tell which one was which from the giant blue swirl representing his pompadour on the not-crying stick figure's head.

THAT'S A TRICK QUESTION OF COURSE. DID I TRICK YOU? I KNOW YOU HAVE NO NEIGHBOURHOOD HERE. THAT'S SAD. I'M SAD FOR YOU

Your mouth hung open, unable to think of a response. Was that an insult? An observation? Pity? It was hard to tell, especially with the lack of tone and every single message by him being sent in the blocky, child-like sprawl. The red too was distracting, but slowly you were getting more used to it. Familiar, but not in a way that made you feel any more at ease.

I KNOW, WHY DON'T WE BE FRIENDS? I ALREADY KNOW ALL YOUR HOBBIES AND INTERESTS, AND I KNOW YOU DON'T LIKE TO TALK TO YOUR FAM-

"SHUT UP!! Just shut up!" You threw yourself off the couch with your hands clenched, fingernails digging into your palms. "You don't know me! You don't know my life! You're just some- I don't even know! Some sort of possessed doll tracking down a new victim? Some hacker behind a screen terrorizing people for fun?"

It was too much, too overwhelming. The carpet under your socked feet felt weird, too soft in some spots and too hard in others. You struggled to catch your balance as you got away, needing more and more and more space from that infernal device. The attention was too much, too sudden, too everything.

"I don't even know what the hell you are! Just leave me alone, that's all I want okay?"

The phone was quiet, the screen blank as you made your way towards the kitchen and out of view. The silence was heavy, crushing even. Each sound of your footsteps felt like elephants stomping, far beyond what it should be.

Regret that wasn't your own washed over you, soaking through your skin and permeating your very bones. It was oppressive, a too-tight jacket. It was a plight, viciously choking out your own emotions, smothering them to death. Your anger simmered, your fear dampening as you felt sorry for what you said.

But you weren't sorry.

You counted the kitchen floor tiles as you paced back and forth, always turning 180 degrees when you hit the forth tile. Your vision was fuzzy around the edges, like dark shadows were slowly invading. Your joints felt stiff, unusually stuff, more akin to bending wire rods rather than feeling like your own limbs.

And even though the front door was just right there, right where you could see it, just where you could almost reach it you somehow... couldn't get to it. Your body physically wouldn't allow it, arms dangling near limp and hands stuck clenched. Your legs kept marching you back and forth, pacing to fill the silence, pacing to fill yourself.

You strained, eyes wildly searching while you tried moving towards the door, each time internally cursing when your body turned away from the door once more. There was something you were supposed to do, but your memory was starting to fail.

You searched wildly, scanning the kitchen cabinets in front of you. There was something you needed desperately to do. But you couldn't remember. You turned, looking down to count the steps, struggling to maintain your breathing. What could it be? Where could it be? You turned again, looking at the stove, looking at the fridge as you passed it.

Shouldn't you remember it?

Well, if you couldn't remember it mustn't have been important.

You paused, thinking.

You forgot something, didn't you?

Did you?

What had you been looking for?

...

You sat on the floor unprompted, practically melting on the spot. With your back leaning against your kitchen cabinets and your leg stretched out in front of you, it all seemed unimportant. You giggled a little, finding it funny how odd your legs looked, loose like rags and turned weirdly. You found yourself slouching sideways, spine no longer supporting you as you slid down, arms splayed out uselessly.

You were calm. You were relaxed. What were you so worried about?

The coolness of the tiles soaked through your clothes and it was reassuring how real it was. You didn't have to worry about it deceiving you, lying about the nature of its existence. It was solid, present, and a soft pale dove-grey lacking any distinction other than its reliable nature. The most important distinction, in your mind, was that it was reliable.

What could be more important than that?

Being reliable? Pushing through difficulties to be there? Sure the floor wasn't sentient, for what house was truly sentient? But it was still reliable, you never worried about it breaking under your feet or crumbling under the weight of the furniture. It still pushed through difficulties, like when you stacked half of your belongings haphazardly on the couch as you laid the carpet down.

At what point did you ever worry about that though? Why were you thinking about the floor? Wasn't there something you were supposed to be doing? The nagging didn't stop, but your brain was hollow. Thoughts were difficult, lumping together in unrecognizable oozing globs of worry and nothingness.

If you couldn't remember, it wasn't important.

The regret felt sharp, narrowed claws digging into your skin. It wasn't yours, squirming alive and feral. You still couldn't move your arms or legs, but it wrapped around them for you, pulling your legs close. No longer twisted oddly, your muscles ached. How long had you been there?

...

The phone rang.

It was new, it was different. The phone's ring was the same as old rotary phones, similar to those you've seen in the oldest of old movies you've watched. It was high pitched, distorted in the way it seemed to get louder, more insistent. The ringing was inconsistent. Sometimes it merged together into a continuous stream of ringing. Sometimes it was distinct short bursts with long pauses, as if the person on the other end kept on calling you.

You felt drawn to it. You felt as if you should be afraid, but strangely you couldn't actually feel fear. The prickling around your limbs grew as the ringing continued, encouraging to move. Part of you wanted to listen, oh so desperate to answer the phone. Too desperate. The prickling became frantic, demanding you pick up the phone.

But your phone didn't ring like that.

Your thoughts were stuck behind a haze of fog, unreachable.

Wasn't there somewhere you needed to go?

The phone answered itself.

From the couch crooned a low static _noise paired with a series of thumps and scuffing sounds, soon followed by a voice. Smooth and soft, it was nearly flat and a little slow. It was calming, at first, when it called out to you. But it changed, not in tone or in inflection or even how it sounded, but in a way that gave you goosebumps.

It was the sound of blood rushing through your ears that changed. Instead of a gentle stream, basically unnoticeable unless you were in complete silence, it turned to a roaring river, a tsunami in a fractured bottle threatening to crack the longer he spoke.

"HELLO NEW FRIEND! WHY DON'T WE TRY THIS AGAIN? I'M WALLY, WALLY DARLING. IT'S SO NICE TO FINALLY MEET YOU!"

That static got louder. It was hard to speak.

"What are you... what did you do to me?"

His laughter was haunting. It wasn't v_enomous, it wasn't mean. It wasn't apathetic, but it was hollow. It was as if he was merely mimicking the concept of laughter, rather than doing it himself. Halted, awkward. It filled entire apartment, despite it being rather quiet.

Again he deflected your questions, seemingly unaware of your fear. Or uncaring, you couldn't quite say.

"WHY DON'T YOU COME OVER HERE SO WE CAN SEE EACH OTHER, WOULDN'T THAT BE NICE?"

You didn't move. You didn't want to move.

You did move. You didn't want to move.

"I'LL ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS IF YOU DO."

You body started to get up without your permission. Gangly, like each l_imb was stretched out long, longer, longer out from beneath you. Stumbling like a newborn fawn, you hold onto whatever you can as you step closer, socks slippery on the tile.

He waited patiently this time, confident his bribe would work. The phone only made a few small knocks and bangs as you steadily got to the couch, grimacing as you plopped yourself back down. You didn't look towards the phone, not wanting to see it change. No longer written messages, would it be blank?

"I WON'T BITE NEIGHBOUR, WHY DON'T YOU LOOK AT ME?"

Slowly, ever so slowly you turned to the phone, still leaning tilted against the arm of the couch. The eyes were still there, big and watching and not blinking. You wanted to look away, you so very much wanted to, but once you locked eyes it was no lon_ger possible. It was a staring contest, and those eyes had you trapped.

This time you could see him though, actually see Wally, and it was visceral. The sense of wrongness was overwhelming. He looked like a hand drawn picture like the art on the website, lounging on a plush c_hair too large. He was leaning on of the arms, in one hand the bright red speaker of a phone, the other hand busy fiddling with the curled cord, twirling it around his fingers. His one ankle was crossed over the other, idly bouncing as he gazed out, large smile on his face.

"SEE, ISN'T THIS NICE? DON'T YOU THINK THIS IS NICE?"

It was bizarre, seeing a hand drawn character move on its own. Even weirder knowing that he was still a puppet. A cartoon of a puppet, how odd was that?

He gave a little wave as you continued to stare, head tilted.

"NEIGHBOUR? HELLO? IS THIS THING ON?"

He pulled the phone away and tapped on the speaker, pretending it was a microphone that he didn't know was actually on or not. It was... harmless. Playful. He even looked away from you as he fiddled around with the phone.

Without his eyes pinning you in place you could finally _breathe. You took in great lungfuls of air. The static was no longer as loud. You could finally hear yourself think. And, even though he kept brushing off your questions, you needed to know what he did to you. What he could do, what he will do.

"Will you answer my questions now?"

He sighed, and though he no longer seemed as joyous, his lips were still quirked up in a much smaller, but still present smile. His voice l_ost a showmen like quality, almost whispered like he was dropping an act he was putting on. It was faster too, rushed like he didn't want to be overheard. Had it been an act?

"Oh friend, I had to do that to calm you down. You get so scared so easily, I worry about you. Are you okay now?"

You still couldn't move your body. What had he done?

He shook his head, tutting.

"You know, you've been a rather rude host. First you ignored me, then you were panicking every time I tried introducing myself, and now you're telling me to leave using some terribly crude words. Truly, that's no way to treat a guest."

You choked on his words, "a guest? Guest implies I invited you here, which I never did!" The audacity! The nerve! You never went to some mirror chanting 'Wally Darling' three times like summoning the Bloody Mary! And even if you did, that was a kid's game, it wasn't supposed to actually summon anything!

"See, there it is again! You invited me here when you clicked on Home on our website, didn't you notice the doors open?"

"It didn't do that? What, are you some sort of vampire with cryptic-ass reasonings for when you can and can't enter places?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean."

His foot stopped bouncing, his eyes downcast. The hand playing with the phone cable was gripping it tightly, his body posture stiff. He sounded genuinely confused, throwing you off. Dracula was huge before Welcome Home was made, and on the website's art gallery one of the puppets had even dressed up as one!

You opened your mouth to contin_ue, but he cut you off. He was shaking, huge eyes, tiny pupils locked onto your own. The frenzied look was back, the one that's been haunting you ever since that cursed night.

"Do you have any idea, how hard it was to leave that place? Do you have any idea how long I've been trying to talk to someone? And look, you haven't been ideal either, Neighbour, but I'm not leaving. I'm not going back. You're stuck with me, and that's final.

His facade was breaking down, the edges of the _room getting darker, the shadows reaching out towards the puppet. Clawing closer as he got up from the chair, following him as he walked up to the screen of the phone. Instinctively you leaned back.

"You can't make me go back. I won't go back."

You didn't know what to say, you didn't know what he was talking about. The edges of him started to fizzle, getting chaotic as he pressed placed a hand on the glass. It was like the drawing of him was breaking down, with only his eyes never faltering. The roaring of static distorted his words, turning into a nonsensical jumble.

"Rngcug htkgpf, K pggf aqwt jgnr...

If he could cry, he would be.

You still couldn't move.

"Rngcug, jgnr og... "

...

Vx'a yv eolb, qezqls, ruixiz. O jpifua'x akl, J que oezksz gyv. LSC hypiayg xpk sjubk, qsv'z abyy zg eegf. Ech'k gesk pu oqrl, hwt'a lwfc glm ybo. Snverir ujubkf wbusf wn, zg wbusf hbvz etr.

Wmsujr... M vkle mile lmrw. XS hvrh gubs vycc...

Chapter Text

It had been a week.

A week since Wally revealed himself, a week since the big confrontation between the two of you.

And every day since has been awkward.

Even worse, Wally hadn't been lying. He was not going to leave you alone.

...

Every morning since that day you had awoken to the an upbeat tune you didn't recognize. It audio quality was fuzzy and you swore it skipped at times, as if it was coming from an old record player. The song itself wasn't extremely comp_lex nor too long, instead being quite repetitive. When you asked him about it Wally went quiet, appearing awfully sad you when suggested you didn't like it.

It was odd.

At least he had roughly realized appropriate times to wake you up, considering he would play that song early in the morn_ing regardless of whether you wanted him to or not. The first day had been the worst; Wally started it up at dawn when the sun was barely over the horizon, letting the song get louder and louder until you were forced to get out of bed to tell him to turn it off.

You, after missing out on half a night's rest and still dealing with the horrendous few days you've had, yelled at him for that. You were a night owl, maybe not a _super healthy one, but you naturally fell asleep later and woke up later. And very much didn't get up at 6 in the morning, thank you very much. He got better and played it later, still too early for your tastes, especially before you adjusted, but it was as far as he was willing to compromise.

He claimed that missing half the day was a great mis_take. He didn't seem to understand the idea of doing stuff once the sun went down.

Yet another odd thing about the puppet.

He also ended up, to your surprise, being a huge fan of watching you cook. You nev_er saw anything on the website stating that he was a cook, and yet he was enthralled, asking everything he could about the vegetables, fruits, seasonings, cookware, even inquiring about where you got it. Wally had bee_n under the illusion that the fridge summoned foods before you explained it to him.

You didn't know if the puppets even ate anything that wasn't sweets or baked, other than perhaps fruit. But you weren't going to let him talk you into a die_t consisting purely of candy and sugar, as most of his food-related suggestions ended up being pies, cakes, or otherwise unhealthy 'meals'.

He even began calling you around the time you made supper, asking you to leave the phone somewhere s_o he could watch.

At first you refused, not wanting to give up yet another layer of privacy. Which, in your _mind, was completely and utterly fair given the situation. Wally, on the other hand, felt slighted and was prickly with you for the rest of the day. Not that you sought him out, after the first few days the novelty of the situation getting buried under how he was strangely... clingy.

But some part of you eventually gave in. When he wasn't acting smooth, hair kept slick in his oversized pompadour and clothes neat and ironed, h_e was almost pitiful, pleading for you to leave him on calls so he could 'hear the outside world,' as he called it.

Sometimes when you didn't want to speak with him but he wouldn't stop calling—something he just would not stop doing—you'd leave the phone on your tiny Juliette balcony off from your liv_ing room, tilting the phone so he could see the field and forest around your home. He was always in awe, forgetting what he was trying to say, lost in the sounds of nature.

Wally had called it heaven.

When you asked him what tha_t

k that, considering you answered his calls on a semi-regular basis—you'd admit to often hanging up or answering and leaving the phone somewhere you weren't. You hated the feeling of his eyes—that he'd be satisfied with that. Sadly, the opposite seemed to be true.

He didn't just leave messages for you now, some omi_nous and some barely readable. He also would leave drawings, signed in his blocky, child-like handwriting. He began with drawing stick figures of the two of you, sitting on the couch, him joining in with cooking, you both sitting _outside. Those were your least favourite. Each time it sent shivers up your back, like it wasn't just a simple drawing, like there was something more hidden in them.

He claimed that there _wasn't.

Why did you bother asking?

Not all the drawing looked to be by him either. But he always dodged your questions about those ones, vibrant walls of bloody red _spirals that inspired trepidation.

You tried not to think about those ones.

He also drew sketches of your apartment. These ones were more accurate to your surprise. In fact, they were almost decent. He was a still-life artist, one that improved greatly with the use of references rather than free-hand. When you mentioned that to him offhandedly, he chattered on about h_is artistry and how much he missed his paints, his favourite medium to create with.

He told you how limiting it was, to only have one colour to use. How he eventually gave up on shading since he couldn't change the tone or opacity of the bloody red markings. He ran_ted about the difficulties the screen-based art-form.

When given the opportunity you foolishly asked how he was doing it. That stopped him in his tracks.

Wally got quiet. You thought at first he was stru_ggling to come up with an explanation that would fit on the screen. After a few minutes passed, you wondered if he would answer you at all. After an hour you gave up checking the screen and shoved your phone back in your desk drawer, because storing it there felt like you had at least some control over the situation.

He didn't call you later that day.

Perhaps you should have been concerned, considering how eager Wally typically was to interact, but you simply felt relieved. It was peaceful, not hea_ring the crackling ringing of a phone nearly a century old coming from your modern device. That night, you slept better than you had since you discovered that website.

It was conflicting, having him around. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't find it within you to actually get rid of him, even though you had theories on how to do so. You had grown... accustom to another presence in your home, eve if it was more eldritch than human. A thorn in your side that the skin healed over, slowly turning from pain to annoyance.

...

Today wasn't just for contemplation, it was the day you finally snagged yourself a replacement laptop. It was a wonderful day out, and y_ou finally picked out a laptop from the online catalogue to replace the one you tragically lost.

It was something you'd been looking forward to for a while, tired of trying to figure out your old laptop. Every time you opened it the spiral would flicker back to life, dark red and midnight blue, evergreen and burnt umber. It s_wirled and spun, the center pulsating in your heart's rhythm. The brightness would rise the more you looked at it, going from a subtle hint of colour to shining bright and saturated.

You still hadn't plugged it in to charge. It should be dead by now, unable to turn on. Instead, when you bothered checking in the fleeting hope that it would have fixed itself, the spiral would greet you once more. You were fru_strated at all that you'd lose with throwing it out, but it wasn't worth waiting any longer. Rosie was understanding, but you still had to actually do your job.

You got ready, putting on your trusty running shoes and grabbing your backpack as the slammed shut behind you. Sighing, you left, each step away from your upstairs apartment lifting your soul up. You felt light, cheery even. As you made your way to the garden shed, carefully stepping on the charming stone laid path, you felt a weight lift from your back. You could stand taller, your breathing was deeper and less laboured. Even the air tasted fresher, even though you often left the windows of your apartment open.

Leaving the phone behind had been a splendid idea.

Fishing out your keychain from your backpack, you flipped through the small collection of keys to get the little silver one for the garden shed. The metal was cool in your hands, the sight of a small pokeball bobble perilously holding on making you fond. There was another of a small owl with a plaid stomach and a little green bowtie, and another of a serpentine dragon curling around itself.

You never intended to make a collection, in fact the pokeball one you found completely by accident, laying abandoned on the city sidewalk. The string attaching it was no longer original, and there was a small chunk missing in the bottom. The owl had been a gift from your parents, a small something after visiting a museum when you were a preteen. Intended to replace the pokeball, you instead kept both in a small box under your bed until the day you had a real key-chain. It brought you joy that you could use them without a judgemental gaze cast upon you.

The dragon you got yourself later on, when you got fascinated in the world of ancient cultures and beliefs. It was representative of Ouroboros, a symbol of an endless cycle. From birth to death, rebirth and life, the serpent could never truly eat itself, teased by the taste of dead scales. Enough to keep it alive, enough to never truly die. Truly the historical complexity of the symbol was memorizing, so many people knew it!

It also reminded you of the sun and moon, how the two celestial bodies both revered and loved could never truly meet. Was it not fascinating, how the two manage to be just the right size and distance from earth to appear similar in size? Was it not interesting how the moon could never be more than a reflection, despite the sway of gravity it possesses?

The lock of the garden shed door opened with a satisfying click.

Tucking the key-chain away, you reached in and got your bike. It was a simple bike, not a true off-road one but inspired by them. The tires were thicker than the average bike, with deeper grooves in the treads to keep a strong grip on the forested path to town. Other than that, it looked like any other bike. Better than any random bike though, purely because you painted it your favourite colour one summer's evening. With a small reflective patch on the back and a battery operated headlight attached to the front with a little bell, it served you well.

You made sure to close and lock the shed behind you as you left, hopping onto the bike. The sun speckled through the green leaves above, dappling the dirt path in gold. Birds sang and crickets chirped, and the cicadas were starting to hum. The earth stil smelled fresh with dew, blossoming flowers and stray pines adding to the concoction.

It was fun racing on the path. It was clear enough that you would easily see anyone ahead of you instead of crashing into them, and it was wide enough that you could speed up without too much worry. The air rushed past your face, gusts sweeping your hair back under your helmet as you stopped pedalling to glide through the curved section, hand hovering over the break as it turned into a decline.

The bumps from stray tree roots added to the excitement, and you found yourself grinning to no one. You picked up speed down the hill, even if it wasn't too steep. The path widened here, courtesy of you and some fellow neighbours you hadn't met but also tended to the path. Playfully you leaned down to catch more speed, thrilled, exhilarated.

The trees thinned as the path opened up to _Rosie's land, the path branching into two. One lead to the front porch of the store, the dirt path turning to gravel with painted stones decorating the edges, and the other looped around the back to continue through the other patch of trees, thinner than were you came from.

"Looking good!" You hollered as you slowed down and waved to the knitting group on the porch, pleased as they lit up and waved back. You could smell the fresh loaf of banana bread one of them brought, and could see the pitcher of lemonade kept on a back table. While it was tempting to join, you didn't have time to stop. You wanted to get to the electronics's store quick and grab that new laptop.

Rosie's house-shop was painted on all sides, with there being a small garden in the back. The colo_urs stood out beautifully from the sapphire sky, with a circular window by the attic being handmade completely out of stained glass by the woman herself. It was of a blooming flower, the layers of petals overlapping to create new colours, including peach and violet and a stunning bright orange.

The rest of the ride went by faster, the roar of the road filling the air as you neared town. The dirt road turned to gravel, and then into a real sidewalk, forcing you to slow. Eve_n here, the clouds were sparse and the air fresh, far fresher than it ever had been in the city. Heading down to the main road, you passed the various shops aimed at tourists, though the locals enjoyed them too. Painted reds and greens, yellows and blues, all with either white or a complementary coloured trim.

Even the street lamps were decorated. Tall _metal poles with flared designed bases and ridges going up, the black helped them stand out from the rest of the town. Most had a small pole that stuck out 90 degrees from the main body, the ends curling inwards and tipped with a leaf or two. From these hung small baskets of hanging plants or colourful posters, although some had nothing at all.

It was picturesque, a genuinel_y delightful place to be.

But your destination was a little less painterly, more utilitarianin nature.

The store looked almost like a giant brick, the siding fading and paint peeling. The front at least was maintained, with the sign recently touched up and new deals advertised in the windows. There was a worker out cleaning the glass, leaving it sparkling. Unfortunately it wasn't the same person you saw last time, the clerk sticking out in your memory as being surprisingly accommodating, given that you must've looked a mess. A potential _friend, if the circumstances had been right.

Locking your bike in the rack and stepping in, you bee-lined towards the laptops. There was one in particula_r you had chosen, neither too expensive nor too weak for your job. You considered it a business expense and an investment. If you got a better laptop now that was a little more pricey, it would likely last longer. Or you hoped. As Rosie often said, though you wouldn't know from experience, 'things aren't made as strong as they used to be'.

The red inside was less overwhelming this time, but you still couldn't help but look away from _it. For the past week you've been turning away from anything red. It... wasn't a bad colour, truly it used to be one of your favourites. But it had been soiled in your mind. Each time you saw that colour you were reminded of him.

Not Wally himself, the character of Wally from the puppet show reminding you faintly of Bob Ross, no. It r_eminded you of the fear he inspires within you. The deep rooted panic that made your legs weak and eyes water. The messages that were so threatening, demanding, determined to get your attention.

It reminded you of how, at times, his stare became too much. When the phantom sensation of your limbs being pinned back and your mind being peeled open became unbearable. How you feel like a dead butterfly, cold and stiff as he tries to see through your eyes and deep within you, trying to find something beyond your physical body.

And how you become frozen, breathing no longer automatic and muscles no lo_nger your own. How your mouth gets dry and words difficult and how speaking becomes too great a task to take on. Even thinking about it made your stomach twist. When he did that it felt invasive, he was trying to pin down your soul to study, and you couldn't stand it.

When you tried telling him to stop, he quirked his hea_d and asked if you were okay.

It made you wonder, darkly, of two questions.

Did he know what he was doing to you? And simply act oblivious?

Or was he completely unaware and actually concerned for you?

You didn't know which was worse.

For him to not care was frightening, but _it at least meant you didn't have to sympathize with him. Wally was simply some... thing possessing your phone and old laptop. A ghost trying to possess your life. A parasite worming his way past your defences to take control of your mind, to become your puppet master, forcing you to become the puppet as he gained freedom.

For him to care was frigh_tening, because it meant that the situation was more going on than you knew. It brought new mystery and forced you to question his motives. You knew that meanings can get mixed up if both parties lack context, and you knew that just because someone was holding smoking gun it didn't mean they were the one that shot it. The brain naturally jumps to the easiest conclusion after all.

Regardless, you knew the _situation wasn't straightforward.

You sighed as you skimmed the laptops, finally spotting the one you wanted to buy. Smooth black and much thinner than your current _laptop, it had little to distinguish it from a typical modern lapt_op. Perfect from a professional perspective, but a little disappointing aesthetically. At least it meant you could get some new stickers to decorate the back with. Maybe try seeing if you could design one, w_ouldn't that be fun?

Looking under the table, you pulled out the right box and tucked it under your arm after briefly s_kimming over the details, making sure it was all as it should be. Nodding to yourself, you idled in the area checking out the different accessories. You decided to snag a new mouse while you were there, _it would make editing far easier and, admittedly, you wanted to throw away all the spiral had tai_nted.

When you closed your eyes you could see it.

This time, when you opened your eyes back up, it didn't go away.

Quickly you rushed throu_gh buying the laptop, hastily making you way through the register and popping all your things outside. _Answering the worker's questions distractedly, you tried to keep your eyes moving to avoid the spiral getting stronger, ever more present. Holding your backpack in your arms you left, happy at leas_t that it all fit without too much spontaneous tetris.

When you got outside you walked over to a bench near the store and melted into it. The spiral was floating in your vision, a mimicry of the one from the laptop. It darted wherever _you looked, and each circular object you spotted was another spiral, another one ready to burn itself into your retinas. A wave of dizziness hit you, eyeballs throbbing, feeling like two molten marbles replaced them.

You took deep breaths and counted back from 100, ignoring h_ow the spiral wasn't quite leaving. It was fading, slowly, but not fully disappearing.

It wo_uld be okay, it was nothing important.

You would be okay, it was leaving, you'd be fine.

It was all okay, why would it stick around?

...

qlx'g wp s aagds, szmg deiol Lxrlgegvl pnwh lw vUds pjcx? sfB'p aB t iimefo lrnaa, opxt Kva owkvq ggq ntrcg efbh nvgwjZte? ucakv'm sg vQjb, mu ss hwnm sa hdw jeav? rkwAgd vh issx efi ssvM db xkav?

uktciw igygvaj igz Zb pzm xir cb lpx sfcj, s aiseoh aa cajh w kptzr, gk optZ'j hdw ptbz?

Chapter Text

You could feel it.

Spinning.

Looping.

Twisting.

It was learning.

Ai kfuwv hmv yzm..

...

It had taken time for the spiral to fade from your vision, each time you thought it worn away it would ^just return, overlapping everything you could see. It glittered at times, tiny white specs flying around your head as the edges turned to shadows. It slithered t^oo, it felt like it was in your actual eyeballs, slitherⁱng around, a sⁿake ready to hatch.

You focused on breathing, and not the wretched sensations it brought.

When you couldn't look away, the ^mysterious nature of it too intriguing, it felt like it was whispering. Too many voices to make out, too little words to understand. The ^echoed and overlapped, both screaming and soun^ding of nothing at all. It wasn't even a s^ound you heard with your ears, it was noise that seemed to come from wⁱthin your head, from wi^thin the spiral. It left you in a daze, brain foggy and the world around you foggy.

It got worse the more you thought about the spiral.

But the more you tried not to think about it, the more you couldn't stop looking at it.

You weren't sure how long you spent on that bench, the edge of the wooden beam pressing into the back of your knees. The sky progressively got clearer, blue skies bright and the few existing clouds small and fluffy. The edge of your shadow slowly shifted until it was besides you, the witness of existence. Surely it had been hours, but to you it felt like minutes, time like sticky taffy.

It wasn't until a person with their dogs came walking by, the animals greeting you with wagging tails, that you got distracted. That was enough for the spiral to fade. Your mind rushed back, your thoughts returning as the world brightened in colour, the shadows less dense. Electricity rushing through your body, zapping your limbs back into use, lighting up your brain.

What happened?

That couldn't have been from sleep deprivation.

Grateful for the freedom you bounced up and asked if you could pet their dogs. Luckily they agreed, coffee-black eyes kind and smile soft, and you ended up having a lovely conversation with Ash.

Ash apparently had moved into the area after you did, and was taking up dog walking as a side job as they saved up for college. You told them about your experiencing moving, sharing friendly banter as they spoke about the difficulties adjusting to a life outside of the city. It was surface level, but it felt like they were getting some frustrations out that they needed to. You were glad you could help someone that accidentally helped you.

The one dog turned out to be an old rescue, an ever-so-happy mutt with a round face and triangular floppy ears. White with black splotches, it stood just up to your knee. They told you how their family got the dog nearly ten years back, and how excited they were to get such a gift. The dog was incredibly friendly and stuck close for attention.

The second dog was more laid back. Ash said it was an german-shepherd mix, just 8 months old and already doing great with training. For fun they pulled out a small beg of treats from their bad and ask you to hold the leash for the smaller dog so they could show off some of the funner tricks they've practised, which included doing a circle, rolling over, giving high fives, and most curiously the dog had already appeared to remember your name, for when asked to go to your name it came and sat between your legs.

You wished them good luck on their college applications when you parted ways.

After that, the spiral was nearly gone.

To spite it, you decided to treat yourself.

Heading down to a small bakery, you hoisted your backpack up and looked around, thankful for the lack of traffic as you crossed the road. The bakery was one you found a few weeks ago, and you'd been meaning to go yet hadn't found the time until now. It was a quaint family-run business, bought two fathers with three kids too young to help out. It brought a smile to your face when you spot it.

It was the corner spot of a small attached row of businesses, sitting there all pretty. Made of aging brown brick, much of it was walls of windows which gave anyone ample opportunity to peer within. A pearl pink awning stretched over the entrance and above the windows, shade and shelter to welcome people in. The sign above was an off-white with large cursive writing, with a fancy motif underlining the name. A similar motif was painted under more writing in warm gold on the windows, reminding the world all within was fresh and hand-made.

There was also a wooden planter in the front with herbs growing in it, adding to the delightful smell of baked bread and pastries. The scent was divine, akin to a warm hug, sweetly enveloping you and settling on your shoulders like a well-worn sweater. Through the windows, the trims painted a soft blush, you could spot rows of baking near the front and a sliver of the bread section.

Of course you weren't the only one drawn in to investigate.

As you walked in, bell on the tip of the door ringing, you spotted Rosie leaving the cash register. You smiled and waved as she spotted you, a bag of goods on her arms. Today she had a streak of orange in her hair, matching the bright sunset theme of her sweater, which ranged from bright yellows and dulled deep reds. With black pants and contrasting silver wrist bands, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy at her fashion skills.

It was one of her passions, and it was one that she indulged in frequently.

You stopped and got ready to chat, excited to tell her the good news.

"Hey Rosie, I finally got my ne-"

She cut you off with a partial hug, "I'm sorry dear, but I'm a quite the busy bee today! Though please, next time you can come stop by at the store, we've missed you there."

And before you knew it, she was gone, leaving in a whirlwind of energy you came to learn she always possessed. It was disappointing, but even just seeing Rosie and knowing she wasn't upset at your temporary pause in business was relieving. And made you all the more excited to set up your new laptop and get started.

Taking in a deep breath, you began perusing the bakery.

Not just the scent was delightful, but it all looked delicious too. There were loaves of all sorts of breads, with large white rolls and pumpernickel, ones stuffed with grains and some with added cheese on top. There were a variety of pastries, including some absolutely stunning lattice-topped tarts and pull-away flowers drizzled with chocolate and caramel.

The butcher-block counters had small covered towers with cookies and cupcakes, but what really caught your attention was apple strudel. Soft and flaky with crystal chunks of sugar glistening sweetly on top. Your stomach rumbled at the mere sight. Bingo, you found exactly what you wanted.

Grabbing waxed paper you took two, in case you wanted one for later. You also ended up grabbing a pre-made sandwich, one of your favourite types. Cheerfully you went to the register and bought it all, giving them some extra money as a tip. Your stuff was placed in a paper bag, the side claiming it was made from purely recycled materials.

You left the store feeling refreshed, slate wiped clean and worries dormant. It was a beautiful day, so why spend it locked up indoors? Watching some sparrows hopping around on the sidewalk you got back to your bike, unlocking it and carefully getting on.

Truly, it had been a successful day out. You got the laptop and the makings for a little picnic out, and you couldn't feel more proud of yourself. It was later than you thought, but you could afford to take a day for yourself. Your head still felt odd, like your brain was too rubbery, and your hands were colder than they should be.

You shrugged it off.

If you ignored it, then it would be fine.

Totally.

Lying to yourself is always the best solution.

Ignorance is bliss, and happy are the ignorant, and you missed being happy.

...

The bike-ride back was shorter than the trip there.

It was a nice ride back, the weather had kept up the entire time, even long enough for you to find yourself a spot off the trail and have a small picnic. It had been a lovely visit to town, getting such a big task checked off your to-do list and finding a wonderful way to treat yourself. Plus the short but reassuring bump-in with Rosie helped improved your mood greatly.

You had the feeling you forgot something, but it didn't matter now.

Because when you got back to your apartment your mood dramatically shifted. Nearly tripping off the bike, squeezing the breaks too hard as you were roughly shaken from peace, you searched wildly for the source. The windows of your living room were open, but you did that yourself to air out the place. As you neared, you could tell it was coming from inside.

That wasn't the issue.

The problem was the ringing.

It wailed like a si_ren, so loud you co_uld hear it without stepping foot inside. The pitch was distorted, climbing higher and higher a_nd higher before it dipped low, wobbling in the low tones before starting to climb to a painful pitch once more. You g_rit your teeth and threw the bike down, stumbling with the weight of your st_uffed backpack throwing you off.

You clamped your hands over your ears and ra_n up the stairs to the entrance. It only got louder the closer you got to the door, so loud you nearly weren't able to open the front _door without stabbing pains in your ears.

However y_ou were able to get in, hands held as tight as you could against your ears to block out the sou_nd. Your desk was nearly shaking, _the drawer having been rattled open with the sound blaring out from there. You tried shouting, but it was no use. Even as you scurried over the sound was piercing, the low droning and high pitched wail making a wretched song to burst your eardrums.

You tore your shoes off and lunged at the of_fice chair, keeping your ears protected the entire time as you slammed the drawer shut with your feet. The ringing stopped abruptly, and if your ears weren't plugged and aching you w_ould have noticed the screen aggressively flashing.

"WHAT THE HELL WALLY?" You cried, stumbling back into the chair as your chest puffed from exhi_laration and adrenaline. Everything was rushing past you, a wave of dizziness hitting you. Your vision f_lashed dark, tiny white dots dancing in the air around you. Y_ou shook your head, massaged your temples, even pressed the heel of your palms into your eyes to help it go a_way.

You blinked.

Stared.

There was something very, very wrong about what you were seeing.

Wally was pressed against the screen, arm pushing into the glass as he kept glanc_ing back, panicked. The hand agains_t the glass was shaky, the dark edges of his hand-drawn appearance breaking down and crackle. It got worse at the hand, fizzling and glitching as the frame-rate dropped.

And then, you screamed.

The hand was pushing out of the phone.

You jumped back, leaving the phone in the drawer, chest heaving and body shaking. You couldn't see the screen from here, but that didn't make your dread any less palatable. The dizziness came back in full force, leaving you stumbling until your back hit something, supporting you. Your legs were jelly, barely holding you up. You were frozen, mind racing and stomach ill.

Nothing happened for a few minutes, and you were wondering if it was all in your head. You took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. Y_ou must have imagined it! A little mistake of the eyes. Must be connected to you_r vision getting wonky. It was just your eyes acting up, _or a little glitch in your _brain. It wasn't another impossible thing happening right in front of you! Totally n_ot.

Oh how you wished that was true

Sneaking closer, hands g_rabbing onto whatever you could to stop the dizziness from overp_owering you, you tentatively poked the front of the drawer. Everything in you was telling you to run, excess energy flowing through you in waves, zapping your nerves into action. You itched to leave, now that the ringing _stopped things should be back to normal. They should, had you any control over reality.

Alas, you were never that lucky.

You stepped closer, eyes closing against your will. It was too _hard to actually look.

You froze.

The h_and grabbed you.

The hand grabbed you.

The hand grabbed you.

The hand grabbed you.

The hand grabbed you.

You _screamed, jumping back again. It swung but still held on, gripping your wrist tight. It felt soft, almost like dense plush. It felt wrong, like it was burning. You whipp_ed your hand back and forth in a futile attempt to dislodge it, yellow hand and arm with an exposed cuff of blue knit sweater refusing to let go. You mind short-circuited, overwhelmed with pure, unfiltered horror.

A droning noise emitted from the device, pulsing in your ears. It squirmed into your head, making nest in your brain. It slithered into _your fear, shifting and eating it. Slowly you stopped shaking your arm and stared wide-eyed and heart fluttering. The phone dangled awkwardly from where the hand's elbow should be, too filled with static and flashing colours to be of any help.

You steeled yourself and with your other hand gripp_ed the arm, tugging it off of you and chucking it at the wall.

It hit it with a satisfying thunk.

It fell to the ground with screen upwards, and the hand was still there. It was... smaller than it felt, not as sharp. The fingers had no real nails on them, though they had a simple semi-circle outline in a slightly darker yellow that you could only just make out. The _skin, if you could call it that, was hard to categorize. From a distance it looked like plain felt, but when it gripped you you had felt your hand almost... sink in. But only to a certain degree before it was solid, almost-warmth radiating from it.

A semi-solid fuzz akin to fur, perhaps?

It was hard to say. And, you thought bitterly, you never wanted to find out because something like this should never happen.

Because you knew he couldn't see, you gave the hand the middle fingers, mentally telling him to 'fuck off' repeatedly. It was incredibly satisfying, letting your anger and shock out. Because you knew that he'd get all upset and lecture you again. He was stuck up like that, or maybe it was built in from being part of a children's show.

The hand partially mimicked the motion, as if it couldn't stand to truly replicate it, before sinking back into the phone.

You laughed. Stomach-gripping, ground-welcoming laughing. What the hell? Was that for real? Your wrist was prickling and your hand was asleep, but otherwise you were fine. Your voice echoed in the apartment, your ears aching from the ringing still. You shook your head in disbelief, tiny tears forming in the corner of your eyes as you cracked up.

What the hell had that been?

What the hell was your life?

Wally's voice echoed into the room once you finished laughing, monotone spiking. The background thumps and buzzing made it hard to fully understand him. The screen of the phone was being aggressively filled with red, like he was scribbling in abandon, venting his own frustration. Though you paid little mind, still trying to process what just happened.

"Ha, you come back now neighbour? After abandoning me in there?"

He was upset, but you were pissed. And afraid, but you'd grown used to that feeling.

What was he even doing?

"I didn't abandon you, I left!" You stomped closer, giving into emotion. "I have a life beyond these walls! And guess what? not everything revolves around you!"

Fishing the phone over so you could at least see the puppet while you argued, you glared. As did he, eyes narrowed and pupils shaking, smile small and thin. Had it been on anyone else you would have considered it ominous, the look sending shivers down your back. Or perhaps it was because it was him that it was so unnerving.

He continued, pointing accusingly at you.

"Same to you, neighbour! How would you like it if you were trapped in a box, and all your control to the world is limited to someone who, despite your best efforts may I add! Does everything in their power to leave you helpless?!"

"Helpless? You're a fucking menace!" You both were scowling now, with you huffing and him standing tall by the screen, arms crossed and fingers gripping his sleeves. His room was more red this time than the last, as if it was dripping with it, fat globs running down the wall. He glanced around himself warily, but more focused on you than whatever he had been occupied with before.

Before he could argue back, you added a though that you've been entertaining, speaking it aloud for the first time. "And, for your information, if I really wanted you gone I would have destroyed that blasted phone you're in!"

His pupils shrank and he stepped back from the glass screen, gesturing placatingly and head shaking. The globs on the walls were running down faster now, oozing onto the ground. Wally was switching between looking at you and checking his surroundings, blue pompadour growing evermore dishevelled. Even then, the smile on his face hadn't completely left. Odd.

"Heyyyyyyy friend, there's no need to do that. Why don't we take a deep breath and calm down and think about what we're saying?"

You scoffed, fear residing. It was hard to argue that Wally didn't do some absolutely terrifying things, but it was hard to be afraid of someone you apparently had so much power over. At least, he gave that impression, but you were convinced it was an act. You didn't know the full logistics, but surely being part of the Welcome Home show had taught him some level of acting.

He was possessing your phone after all, so he wasn't completely helpless. And this little stunt proved he had more up his sleeve, something you really didn't want to entertain. You groaned, fingers tapping rough into your thighs. Maybe he had a reason, as crazy and convoluted as it would be. Maybe you should call an exorcist in case he actually was a demon.

Deep down you knew, it was already too late for that. You were in too deep.

"Look, I'll tell you next time I'm going out so you won't throw another fit, okay? But I'm actually busy, you know. I actually do have a life outside of here."

He looked less panicked, quirking his head. You muffled a snicker, he looked like that small dog you met earlier that day, hair flopping down like the dog's two quirked ears, eyes wide and curious. He even looked somewhat soft, just like that dog's fur. It did make you notice how the black lines of his hand-drawn appearance were sketchy and uneven.

"What were you busy with today? I know you're a photographer and that you already have tons of pictures taken, so it couldn't have been that."

"Pretty presumptuous, Mr. 'I-totally-have-a-life-outside-of-haunting-you'."

"Hey! You invited me here!"

You wished you could get it th_rough to him that you didn't mean to invite him, but it had been a conversation you two have had plenty of times already. Wally always insisted you were the host and he was the g_uest that you invited, even when you explained the speculative nature of the Welcome Home website, how so ma_ny viewed it as a made up mystery.

That confused him more than it helped your case, asking you why people would think he was lying to them. At that time, you asked him why they would think he wasn't lying to them. Why they would think he was real at all. He didn't have a response to that, just sad and quizzical over people's lack of faith in others.

"Anyways, speaking about being busy, what the absolute hell were you doing?"

He looked away, bouncing on his heels and hands behind his back. He pretended to whistle, no longer affronted and supposedly now innocent. It was interesting how fast he switched between being a sleep paralysis demon come-to-life and just... the quirky host of a show. Amusing, if it hadn't been a sign of how good a liar he could be.

"I have no clue what you mean friend."

"Sure, like I'd believe that."

"I promise, there was nothing amiss here."

"My phone nearly exploding from how loud you were blasting that awful noise is totally normal, you're soooooo right Wally." Your voice oozed with sarcasm.

Yet he looked pleased, nodding along with you.

"That's right friend! Nothing out of the ordinary was going on."

"And your hand coming out of the phone like a zombie from a grave is just a regular afternoon activity, why I know tons of people that do that." Again sarcastic, egging him into confessing.

He smiled, stating in a mater-of-fact voice.

"Of course! It's a very common hobby.

You gave up, you simply didn't have the patience, and you much rather leave than try getting him to confess. It was almost like talking to a brick wall. A brick wall made out of rainbows and nightmare fuel, but a brick wall nonetheless. At least he wasn't trying to quite literally break the rules of reality. In your living room. While you were there.

What had you life come to?

You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed. "I'm going to go set up my laptop. I had to buy a new one since you ruined my last one." Quickly you added on a final note before turning away, "Don't bug me."

"I... ruined it?"

"Yeah? That big-ass spiral hasn't left"

He was quiet, pensive. "Oh."

"Not so talkative now eh? After you realized your actions have consequences?"

He rolled his eyes. "You don't know everything. And seriously, that spiral should not be there."

"Oh, want me to prove it to you?"

He nodded frantically, leaning closer to the glass of the screen. He avoided placing his hands on it, whether that was to reassure you or not you couldn't say. When you didn't move right away he pointed towards your old laptop, eyes pleading.

He was serious.

You complied, because what was the harm? Obviously leaving Wally alone was a recipe for disaster, so satiating his curiousity now would be for the best. Plus, to a degree, you felt bad about leaving the phone in a dark space for the hours you were gone. You now understood he relied on you see the world, though he hasn't yet said why that was so important.

You wouldn't apologize, not yet. He scared you! You're allowed to be annoyed! ...and you'd make up for it later. Apologize and leave the phone watching sesame street or something of the sort, he'd probably like that? Or maybe Bob Ross, though you didn't know if the reminder that he couldn't paint would bug him.

Opening up the laptop, you made sure he could see it before checking his reaction.

Wally deflated, shoulders slouched and hands twiddling around each other. His eyes widened and his chest shuddered as he stared at it, creeping even closer to the glass to watch. His voice was shaky, certain pitches jumping too high or too low, sound masked behind a wall of static.

"Neighbour, how long has this been here?"

You shrugged and made a noncommittal noise, more curious to what he was going to say. He shot a look in your direction, one too filled with emotion to make out. The phone shook in your hand, the static growing distorted as his voice grew louder.

"It should not be there."

"It shouldn't be there"

"It shouldn't be there"

"It should not be there"

"It should not be there"

"WHY IS IT THERE?"

...

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Chapter Text

Wally wouldn't leave you alone.

After you showed him the laptop, leaving the phone tilted on the arm of the desk chair so he could look at it, things fell apart.The screen darkened, the walls leaking faster, almost looking like they were pulsing as scarlet oozed out. Almost like the walls were fresh wounds draining blood. Wally stood there, the outline of him steadil^y darkening until he was a silh^ouette of himself, a living shadow. With only his eyes left untouched, large and shaking as more gibberish po^ured from the microphone, too garbled to make sense.

"HXD UNJEN CQNV JUXWN. MXW'C HXD MJAN YRLT VH OARNWM. UNJEN CQNV XDC XO CQRB."

You were concerned, even moreso when the spiral appeared to respond to him. It shifted to more warm hues, scarlet and orange with strea^ks of dull gold all twisting into a steady rhythm. Like a warped heart, deformed and beating still, exposed and quivering. The screeⁿ a cracked open chest, gaping and still twitching. It was a morbid curi^ousity, a black hole devouring minds.

The inspiration for the saying 'L'appel du Vide', the call of the void.

It was the void that called, a never-stopping kaleidoscopic void, screaming out to anyone ^who'd listen. And Wally had been there, speaking into it right until the static overtook his voice completely, until you had left and stayed away from the laptop. Then he sⁱlent, with only sof^t crackling ambience filling giving away his presence.

You hesitated leaving, but even grabbing the phone didn't help. The fizzling static turned to a roar, the phone vibrating, the closest thing to a 'no' that he could give. You tried a few times, each time your ^worry growing. You'd grown accustom to him, and his c^onfidence, the constant weird power dyⁿamic. Seeing him like this, terrified and screeching like a wounded animal, it was scary, i^t was horrible.

You did the best you could to distract yourself.

At the very least it gave you time to do what you wanted to do originally; set up your new laptop. Largely ignoring the whole ordeal in your living room, you retreated into your room to unpack and start the process. It was sleek, still carrying the heavy scent of new plastic. It was fast, the loading screen taking merely seconds, and the setup process feeling just as quick. You had time to sort through your emails, though you rarely got any of true importance, and start getting all your editing software downloaded.

The silence from outside was... strained.

...

He didn't start calling you until the sun had set, diving past the horizon in a brilliant flash of colours. Until the moon, a sliver in the dark expanse, was glo^wing silver in the sky, twinkling stars scattered glitter. Until you were tucked under y^our blankets, yawning as you slipped into the land of the unconscious Until your hea^rt begun whispering nonsense into your dreams, a new world shaping around you.

That was when he began calling.

The first time you shot up with a gasp, wondering what was wrong. You rushed out, because Wally didn't call at night, he never did. He prided himself on it even, giving you a sense of privacy despite how much he'd taken over your life. You ignored the laptop, focusing on the phone as it rang, flic^kering to life when you picked it up.

Wally was back to writing messages, still garbled.

FJCLQ XDC RC'B FJCLQRWP HXD, RC'B FJCLQRWP KXCQ XO DB.

"Wally? Can you hear me?"

UNJEN! YUNJBN URBCNW

You sighed, moving the phone over to the table where you leaned _it against a book, eyes blurry from a lack of sleep. _The phone stopped ringing, the messages turning to completely illegible scribbling with a vague arro_w pointed at the general office area. You yawn and soon your attention dr_ifts back to your bed, eyes closing as you meander back to your bed.

It happened again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

...

It was 2am, and the phone was ringing.

You wouldn't answer it, not _like the several past times he cal_led, but the ringing was more of a courtesy at this point. A small heads up that he'd be contacting you, which you would have apprec_iated more if it hadn't been the fifth time he's awoken you that night. At least Wally was understandable again, each call less distorted than the last.

However you were dead tired, and not in the mood to entertain him.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, but we have plans tomorrow. You'll be there."

His little quips were vaguely ominous, but in a way you'd gro_wn accustom to. You came to understand that Wally was just... off with wording somet_imes, although that could be the _lack of sleep and your annoyance at being afraid so often. Maybe you were growing used to having an existential terror parading around your home. Maybe it was some form of stockho_lm syndrome.

Who knew?

You went back to sleep, falling into the pillows with a groan. The blankets felt so warm, so welco_ming, so soft and comfortable. Like it was made for you, each muscle in your body relaxing _as you feel yourself drift off, accepting the darkness welcoming you.

It was 4am.

"Friend, tomorrow we'll be burning stuff together, isn't that fun? I've heard it's verrrrrrrrrrry cathartic for stressed humans."

It was 5am. You were so tired.

"I know it's early, but I must insist you listen to me. Stick to my plan, alright?"

It was 6am. You shouted at him to shut up.

"Neighbour! You've slept enough, don't you think it's time to get up? Doesn't the idea of starting a fire intrigue you?"

It was 7am, and the sun was beginning to shine through your window. Each time you had tried sleeping once more, burying yourself deeper in the blankets. The crac_kling ambience signifying that he was still on the lin_e would last long after you fell back to uneasy sleep, Wally staying on for reasons unknown to you.

This time however, you couldn't go back to sleep, your bra_in sluggishly starting up, unanswered ques_tions piling up. You rub your eyes and roll over, counting up to 10 before pushing yourself up. Visions of the day prior played out in your mind, the sirens and the hand and the distorted _wails. The red and the spiral, how it looked like something alive.

Y_ou got ready for the day.

...

Through the phone, positioned to see your mo_rning routine in the kitchen, you could see Wally.

He was sitting in his grand chair, two mugs with him. One was set to the side, the other a steaming ceramic mug of yellow and blue stripes in his hand. No longer did he need his shiny red phone to communicate with you. Instead it had slowly been moving further and further off frame, until today where you could no longer see it. You couldn't help but wonder. Had he put it away, or was it tucked away close to the glass just out of sight?

The logistics of his world there was too confusing for this early in the morning. Gratefully you poured yourself some coffee.

"Rise and shine neighbour, so glad to see you up! I'd offer a cup of tea, but I'm afraid I can't make you one."

He was already dressed, the stripes of his multicoloured pants, royal blue sweater and ruby ascot greeting you. Settling back with his leg bent over his _knee, he was leaning on the side of the chair with his chin in his hand, pupils tracking your movement. You walked past, ignoring his all-too cheery voice as he watched you go by.

"Just give me a minute you pyromaniac."

He merely watched you go by, lips quirking at the nickname. For someone that had been bugging you to get up practically all night, it was weⁱrd how calm he was. You weren't complaining ^though, right now you were running off of pure willpower alone, your entire body ^craving more sleep. After the... events that happened yesterday, you found it quite difficult to have a good sleep.

Which was m^ade far worse but Wally's insistent calling. Seriously, how maⁿy times did he have to call you to tell you a variatioⁿ of the same message? It was like a vinyl rec^ord player stuck skipping lines, playing the same snippe^t over and over again with the slightest changes.

You almost wanted to leave just to spite him.

^But you didn't, because you really didn't want to give him anoth^er opportunity to climb out of the phone like that demon from a movie franchise you watched when you were far too young. Absolutely terrifying, ^seeing something that should never physically be possible happen right before your eyes. Even worse that he touched you.

And you felt bad, especially after knowing that ^there was something else going on.

Plus, you had so many questions.

You made a quick breakfast, raw slices of fruit mixed with a b^owl of cereal. Nothing fancy, probably the most lacklustre meal you'd made in ages, as the fruit was left over from a different day and the cereal was already out on the counter. Even the bowl was... ^probably clean enough. It looked clean enough after you rinsed it.

You ate quick, devouring the food while the coffee kicked in, caffeine giving you the boost you need to not faint from exhaustion. When you looked over, Wally ap^peared to be lost in thought, gazing into his mug, p^ensive. After you finished up, he called out to you.

"Hey neighbour, could you come here? There's something I want to try with you"

Wally was stan^ding by the glass, idly swirling the mug. He caught your eye and looked down into his drink, brow furrowed. He waited for you to put your stuff away and came over, chugging the last of your coffee before you did so.

He leaned forward, shooting you a confident grin, beckoning you closer. Gesturing to the cup that was now pressing into the screen, handle facing you. You heard it cl_ink, pottery against glass, familiar. You weren't too sure _what he was doing, pulling it away and shoving it aga_inst the screen again. He did it a few times, muttering words you didn't quite catch under his breath.

And then it happened.

Instead of a _little click the screen warped, turning a rainbow of pastel hues akin to a film of soap ready for b_lowing bubbles. It began bulging outward_s, the glass a swelling water balloon, the colours glistening within growing clearer and clearer as the handle s_teadily making it's way through.

Mouth agape you stepped back, faltering as the screen seemed to burst, the s_oft film covering it pop_ping. The mug lurched forwards, handle hovering in front of you, ready for the taking. The area around the protrus_ion was still milky, details blurry and colours muddy. You could still make out his face, pain_ted proud and delighted as he inched the cup towards you.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. The mug, from what you could see, looked just as a regular one would. The light gently reflected off the surface, smooth with some imperfections hand-crafted pottery was known to have. The paint was a shiny glaze, and now that you saw it closer you could see that the stripes were more than just yellow and blue, there were thinner purple stripes and some orange ones too.

It was reminiscent of his iconic pants, with the handle a solid dark indigo. Up close you could see the faintest swirl of sparkles in the glaze, trapped for eternity like stars in the sky. The entire handle was poking out now, calling out to you, tantalizing.

Nearly half of the mug was sticking out, colours even brighter now that the sunlight could illuminate it. You could even peer inside the cup itself, the insides a pepper speckled cream colour, filled with a opaque brown _liquid. Bordering on the hue of caramel, _it sloshed as Wally _shoved more of the mug through, _the tips of his fingers starting to poke through.

He was gripping it with both hands, one wrapp_ed around on each side, an offering motio_n. His pinkies rested under the mug, helping hold it up. It struck you as unusual, but fitting, oddly enough. It was an extra layer of carefulness, a delicate touch buried under his constant smile.

...it was still unnerving.

Once the mug was full through he spoke, loud voice startling you.

"I guess I was wrong before, silly me. Here Neighbour, I made this just for you!"

He was boastful, voice smug with pride. He waggled the mug, inviting you to take i_t. It was disconnecting, the playful gesture compared to the sheer ill_ogical nature of the situation. The glass screen rippled around his wrists, _mug fully out in the air, rings of distort_ed rainbows.

You could smell the liquid now, a light herbal scent with a hint of something floral. As it settled you could make out a slight purple tinge to it, the drink still hot as faint steam danced above.

"This is when you're supposed to take it."

Hesitant, as if it was aflame, you poked it. Your brain didn't expect _it to be real, your fingers flexing in surprise when he wiggled i_t again, bumping the handle into your fingertips. Automatically you grabbed it, realization lagging as Wally gave it a gentle pat once letting go.

It was bizarre, how your brain struggled to keep up with everything happen. It wasn't the same raw uncontrollable fear like yesterday. You were _wary, but not terrified, more bewildered than anything else. The sight w_as difficult to even watch, not because you felt wronged by it, rather because it was breaking reality.

The hands sticking out of the glass were both tiny enough to belo_ng to an image of someone barely 5cm tall in your phone and also large enough to belong to Wally as he would be in your world, hands just over half the size of yours, no_ticeably smaller. It was like your brain was flickering rapidly between viewing the hands in both manners, unable to pick which one was real.

You were _seeing two things at once, and yet it was a singular. It was sickening.

It was fascinating.

You couldn't look away.

Almost holographic, yet completely solid. The air fizzled around his fingers, rippling and wavy like it was pure heat rising from heated asphalt roads. You leaned closer, stud_ying the effect in wonderment. How did it work? Was it like a portal? What was the limits of size, if any existed? What was the limit of what could and couldn't go through?

Tentatively you reached _out and poked his hand, unable to determine anything about how it was happening, other than the fact it was happening. Wally stood there and watched you silently, keeping still beyond the occasional wiggling of his fingers.

Curiousity building, heart settling once the fear of being grabbed resided you reached closer to the rippling glass-like substance now making up the screen of yo_ur phone.

He shifted his hands to make space, head cocked and grin catlike. You didn't know what to expect when your fingertips brushed against it, but the it wasn't meeting a hard surface. _It was just cooler than room temperature, and as smooth as silk. You could see the rippling waving effect but could_n't register it, like it was something just beyond your comprehension.

You pressed harder, intrigue overpowering uncertainty.

Surely i_f he could reach through, so could you? You tr_ied pushing in with one finger, then multiple when it didn't work. Still, all you felt was the cool glass surface, completely opposite to what your brain was telling you should be there.

Wally gave you an apologetic smile and patted the back of your ha_nd to reassure you.

"I'm flattered Neighbour, truly, but you cannot do that."

"Why not? You can and the mug went through. Am I doing something wrong?"

"Silly silly, there are limitations to what should happen, and you coming here is one of them! Trust me, you should give up trying to get in here, it simply just won't happen."

You stopped trying, strangely hurt by what he sa_id.

"Why not?"

"Think of it this way. Do I exist as a concept in your world?"

You frowned at the wording, something was off about how he was speaking. Existing as a concept? He doesn't physically exist, but maybe he did because _there was the show? Did he physically exist where he was? He had to, didn't he? The idea... it made sense, in a way that was uncomfortable, reducing people down to mere concepts rather than living breathing b_eings, but... he wasn't wrong.

You nodded along, gripping the sides of the mug tightly. Was that why it was here? Because mugs existed in your world too? Wait... if his world was based off of yours, wouldn't everything exist there? Including people, such as yourself? Although, you mused, while some of the residence of Home were humanoid, they weren't confirmed humans. _Did that mean you'd turn into a puppet if you went there?

With a flourish of his hand he interrupted your thoughts, smile cocky.

"Of course your world knows about me. After all, I am the most!"

You couldn't stop the fond smile from forming, rolling your eyes playfully. H_e certainly was the most something, though you didn't know what. He giggled to himself after, pronouncing the word 'ha' rather than actually laughing. At first you'd found it unusual, incredibly so, but now it just seemed more him. Unique and almost ende_aring, had the circumstances been different.

Though, you would admit only to yourself, hearing him laugh was comforting after last night.

His eyes were half-lidded, but his pupils still were la_tched onto you, observing your every move. He seemed pleased at your reaction, preening under the attention. There was a moment where neither of you moved. You didn't want to change the subject, curiousity pumping t_hrough your veins, molten with the need to understand. At least, understand some part of the situation.

He simply watched, resting a hand on the side of his face. You knew he was prolonging the moment, but you d_idn't know why. As far as you knew, there was no need, no reason. He was just drawing it out for the sake of it, perhaps only for the purpose of keeping you there longer. But, you tried reasoning with your impatience, he hadn't opened up like thi_s before.

Maybe it was difficult, maybe it was hard to explain. Maybe he didn't have anything else to say and was waiting to see how long you would wait to find the answer.

With a sigh he dropped his eyes, ha_nd dropping.

"See friend, you don't exist here. My world doesn't understand the concept of you. So there's no you that can exist here."

He got thoughtful, musing to himself.

"...although now that I know you... hmmmm."

He trailed off, humming a small tune to fill the silence. It was one that _tickled the back of your mind, but you couldn't remember from where you heard it. It was halting, some notes you didn't remember thrown in and some notes removed, but it was something you had heard before, and you distinctly remember it being a duet, despite only one person singing it.

"Hey Wally? What do you mean by that?" You weren't sure what to say, but you understood what he was trying to say, the first part anyways. If there wasn't a you there—or something that was supposed to be you?—you couldn't exist there, so the portal didn't work. However... Wally did exist as a concept, as he said. But there was no such thing as living puppets, or even living dolls. No creatures like wally existed in your world, so what exactly was he?

His tone was quiet, me_lancholic. Almost regretful, though the words spoke had no ill-will. He also didn't respond to you, not directly, as if he didn't hear what you asked.

"It's... more complicated than that though. Your world isn't connected to mine in the same way mine is."

"So basically I can't exist there but you can exist here?"

"Roughly speaking, yes. Whatever exists here can ex_ist there because it originated from your world. There's more to it than that of course, it's much more complicated. But you don't need to know the specifics! Hopefully that answers all your questions?"

He pretended to boop your nose to emphasize the 'you' in his response. The explanation was purposefully short though, and you could help but feel that a large portion of it was missing, completely untouched. Like there was something he didn't want you to know. Your foot bounced on the ground, hands playing with the mug's handle as you stared him down, gi_ving him a dose of his own medicine, so to speak.

Wally met your silent challenge by smoothly changing the subject, clearing his throat with a small cough.

"So, how's the tea? It's one of your favourites, isn't it? I checked. You used to dr_ink it when you lived in the city."

"It's..." your stomach dropped, and you finally recognized the scent wafting from it. He was confident, he knew that he was right, the questions merely for show. His eyes were too large again, the sensation of being flayed open returning, your soul being peeled back layer by layer for him to observe, to learn.

There was no way he could know, because you didn't drink this blend anymore. You couldn't find it around here, and you gave it up long before Wally burst into your life. You peered into the mug, swirling the tea as your chest grew tight. The peaceful mome_nt shattered, and you forgot your questions as your mind flooded with all sorts of scenarios to explain how he knew. All the different moments you could have let it slip, or he could have seen it stashed away while you were cooking.

There was no way he could know.

"Oh I'm so glad I got it right Neighbour, you're ever so hard to please! I worry about you."

He pushed past your silence.

"It's okay though, because we're friends, aren't we? And friends do kind things for each other!"

You didn't speak.

You couldn't speak.

"You're comfortable, yes? Because we have another pressing matter to discuss. Now, I shouldn't be so upfront, but you've left me no choice. You must destroy that laptop of yours."

His gaze was burning, and you couldn't move. Your le_gs didn't listen to you, even the subconscious foot tapping had stopped. You could still move your arms, but only to the degree that you could drink some of the tea, which now was sullied by the reminder that you didn't know how much he knew about you.

Internally you agreed with him, that laptop was busted and was creeping you out, however his method of convincing you was infuriating. This was exactly what wanted to ask him about in the first place! And he didn't have to keep waking you up over and over last night just to tell you something he could have said when you were well rested and actually awake!

"Today, in fact, is the day we should do it. Now, you know I suggest burning it. Which, I think, we should go do right now. You did just eat after all, so I know you've got all your human needs taken care of."

You didn't move.

"I know you can hear me, neighbour. We need to go destroy that laptop. Now."

You still didn't move, body paralyzed.

He narrowed his eyes, searching your face for clues. Scrutinizing every detail, looking you over. He found what he was looking for, a little detail in how you were holding the mug.

"Ah, I believe I know what's happening. Sorry for that, I didn't know you were so sensitive.

He blinked.

"Can you move now?"

Everything felt weird for a moment, a chill so strong you shivered washing over you. After a few moments, the world got clearer, colours brighter, you even felt less tired. You hadn't felt this alive in days, not since... Wally had entered your life. Had he been doing something? Draining your energy? Is that why your emotions had been so out of control?

"What did you just do? How long have you been doing that? And how did you know about the tea?"

Wally got up from his chair and shrugged, neglecting your questions. He pretended to smooth out nonexistent wrinkles on his shirt, running a hand over his royal blue pompadour. He carried his own mug off-screen and reappeared with a pile of scrap paper in his arms, a mischievous grin spreading on his lips.

"So, you ready to burn it to a crisp?"

...

netu naaiv jlr mtszxd, nmwz xcogtr khqhw hhtmk. Vg epz mlka bk i cphiqmx, wliLu bd vj ubxm Gmia ig mqzimHbabg ew Gqik, buj Srg ms vslopvy gap ktkyk ws hwznhvw xo mom gax epvb Fazindra. pldx mhym af t ngxtr on atb nvhxkir lwqjne?

Chapter Text

It was difficult trying to explain capitalism to Wally.

To your surprise, he didn't understand what you meant when you told him that it would be better to break the laptop down and sell the parts because of how expensive things are. To him, that was absolute gibberish at best, and at worst a foolish mistake that ^you'd 'very much regret' apparently. Whatever that meant. He didn't clarify past further stressing the importance of destroying the laptop.

You asked him what he knew about money and jobs, and what he thought let you live here. He was absolutely clueless, especially when y^ou mentioned you needed to work to keep a home and get food. To him, it was as simple as finding a place to live, and going to where the food was.

To him it was as simple as just showing up. You wouldn't lie, the idea of living in a place where such stressors never existed was like a fantasy. All yo^u'd do is just... show up. No more would you feel like you were falling behind, all you'd have to do was just do what you liked and help out others.

Ideal, but impossible.

It was an interesting insight to Wally's approa^ch to life though. And it partially explained why he never clued in to you needing to go out semi-regularly, since in his world his life was maintained by... something else. Not himself. He never really specified where their food and houses came from, he seemed confused at the ide^a that it wouldn't be there if people needed it.

Like it just appeared when needed.

He also spoke about it using past tense. Was that because he couldn't go back? Or was there nothing to go back to?

It was fruitless explaining burⁿ laws to him. He scoffed at the idea and said that, if they should care, they would completely understand why you were doing it. That if they bothered you, you would just ⁿeed to talk to them and that would solve everything. That no one would ever cause a fire with the goal to hurt people, because why would anyone do that?

You didn't b^other telling him what a jail was, not that you'd go there for breaking that law, but still. The idea of such a place would probably be too upsetting to him, too similar to what he described his current situation.

Why did he stay if it was so bad to him? Where was he before this?

...

It was worse knowing that you could ge^t away with breaking that law.

Who would notice? You were living in a fairly isolated place, an old apartment atop of a garage-turned-storage place for Rosie and maybe one of her friends, though you never saw proof of it being shared despite her claims. Part of why you were given the ^key to the place was to make sure no one poked around where they shouldn't, but to thⁱs day you've never run into anyone. So the odds of being caught was s^lim to none.

At the very least you suggested taking the laptop apart first so the p^lastic casing wouldn't burn to avoid pollution, once it was late enough to go start a fire that ^was. You didn't want to do it right away, since the day would only get hotter and you didn't want to roast making sure it burned properly. Wally grew quiet at that plan, despite the endless fountain of curiousity he ^had been just minutes ago.

You thought it was because it required waiting, since he could be r^ather impatient at times, especially when it came to nebulous things he wouldn't explain. It caught you off guard when Wally, in a small voice, asked if i^t would hurt the laptop to open it up. As if it could feel, as if there would be living parts within. A heart you could smash, lungs you could crush.

He asked if it was alive.

It could see, it could hear, it could speak, it reacted to your presence. How different was it than a living thing, if not just wired differently, fuelled by electricity rather than blood? It could get too hot or too cold, it could grow tired and need to sleep. It could communicate to others just like it, so why then was it not alive? Did you think he wasn't alive, because he wasn't built the same as you?

There was so much to unpack there.

What did it imply that he wanted to destroy it so badly, if he thought it was alive? Did he think burning was painless?

What was worse about taking it apart than charring it to nothing?

Did he want to hurt it?

Did Wally thiⁿk everything was alive? Was that suppos^ed to be a comforting thought? Becaus^e you found it anything but. The i^dea that you were within something alive, ^something living and breathing and existing, it was horrifying, in an existential way that felt unⁿatural. But then again, as Wally said, was it because you only thought a living thing would be 'wired' like you were? ^Of flesh and bone, blood and organs?

...what was he made of?

There was one ^last thing to discuss, after he swayed you into agreeing with his plan.

Just what did he mean when he said you were sensitive? Sensitive to what, exactly? All he did was blink, just blink and it felt like you were rebooted, like a veⁱl had been lifted between wherever you had been and the rest of the world. Like you were freed, but from what?

He had done something and you wanted to know what it was.

...

"I won't do it until you tell me what you meant."

Wally had progressively gone ^from carrying the stack of paper to playing with it, currently folding a multi-coloured piece of paper into an origami crane. He was laying on the ground, legs kicking over his back—he actually had small hearts on the bottom of his shoes. That was, in your opinion, objectively cute—and his sleeves pulled back. The paper was in a strewn out pile to his right, a growing collection of origami cranes and flowers on his left.

He hummed, sparing you a glanc^e.

"What are you referring to this time? Is this about the laptop not 'being alive'?"

"I'm talking about you calling me 'sensitive'. Sensitive to what?"

"It's just a word, Friend, maybe you heard me wrong?"

"I heard you clearly Wally, what does it mean? I won't move until you tell me."

"Oh Neighbour, you shouldn't worry about it. In fact don't even think about it! You're perfect just the way you are!"

He made a small heart with his hands and smiled wide, adding with a teasing wink.

"You could stop swearing though, if you're really worried about yourself. You wouldn't catch me saying such words!"

He laughed, eyes curled upwards in a way tha^t was strikingly similar to a content cat. His legs kicked lazily, occasionally bending far enough that you could see the little hearts on his shoes, happily swaying in the air. He pulled out an origami flower from his pile, made of paper with orange with little dots of red and yellow. It was a small rose, layer upon layer of f^olds made to create a stunning illusion of petals. Attached to a long stem he made, it bobbed in the air.

With a tilted head and a soft smile, he offered it to you, the stem long enough that it could push through the screen, appearing in your world. His smile got wider at the sight, the same rippling effect distorting the glass.

"Here Friend, you sounded upset earlier so I made this for you so you can feel better!"

You sighed, stretching forwards to grab the gift. This was the second one today, if you included the mug, he was getting all too quickly comforta^ble with using the mysterious portal ability. That was... you didn't know how to feel about it. It didn't stir the same level of fear as it would have before, but it was just... it was just wrong. It was unnatural, each time the pounding in your head got worse, a headache getting stronger whenever you dared look at the sight.

It hurt your eyes, seeing things without actually seeing, trying to perceive what wasn't possible. Like the rose. It was hovering in some middle ground between being that same tiny rose from the screen and being the size of your hand, petals flickering between the two siz^es. Too fast to understand, blurry and fuzzy like the air around it was glitching, sometimes looking like there was nothing at all.

He pushed more of it through, tossing it gently so it fell into your hand.

Freed from the portal, it was the size of a regular rose.

It felt normal too.

It was an anomaly.

It was an aberration.

The orange was bright in your hand, laying there innocent.

It was almost enough to distract you.

"Thanks for this, but please just answer my questions. We can do the burn tomorrow if you don't want to tell me."

Placing the rose down, you crossed your arms with a huff. His grip on the half-made bird he was working on tightened, eyes narrowing.

"Don't joke about that, we have to destroy that thing."

"Then just tell me and after I'll start the fire!"

"It's too complicated, Neighbour, you wouldn't understand. I could maybe explain it after we destroy the laptop, if you really insist."

"Why should I trust that?"

He quirked his head, eyes still narrowed.

"Why would I tell you I'd do something and not do it? I care about you Neighbour, and if you're worried I want to help you. But it can't be now, okay? Please wait a little longer. I promise I'll tell you then, okay Friend?"

He held out his hand, pinky finger sticking out.

"I'll even make an unbreakable promise, if it would make you feel better."

You sighed but agreed, "I'll wait, but you better explain it to me in full detail."

Sticking out your own pinky finger in a mimicry of his action, you bonked it against the phone's screen, communicating in his own language without risking melting your brain. Again. It felt childish, yet it also felt more serious. That he was actually going to do it. That it actually was an unbreakable promise.

Now with that settled, you better get started.

...

The day became a blur after that. Between scouting out and making sure the fire pit had no chance for the fire to spread and preparing for the actual burn, you didn't have time to do anything else. Wally insisted on joining you, your p_hous to start. Whatever his motives, it was nice having him around.

Time moved by even faster.

It felt like all you did was blink, and then you were there.

...

The fire-pit area was a 5 minute walk from your apartment, partway in the field surrounding the place. There _wdirt and the remains of some gravel, the stones no longer covering the ground. There were three dried logs as thick as your torso around the pit, held up by cement blocks to m_ake them easier to sit on.

The cleaning process included removing va_rious twigs and leaves that had built up over th_e seasons, taking what kindling you could from it and throwing the rest awa_y in the compost. The grate-like dome covering had a large hole in it, metal twisted and rusting, so you got rid of that.

It all culminated to this.

Y_ou collected the pile of paper that hadn't been there before, deceptively innocuous. Paper cranes and crumbled balls—your personal contribution to t_he paper kindling—rained down, joined by your collection of twigs and st_rips of torn cardboard. Then you piled on the actual logs, starting with three small ones in a pyramid, and leaning two larger logs against _them, making sure they all balanced correctly.

You showed it to Wally, gra_teful you weren't alone when he gave _his approval.

It was time for the next step; s_etting it ablaze.

It took seconds for it to catch fire, once the _matches were thrown in.

The flames started slowly, orange glow tee_thing at the edges of the paper, dark marks the sign of nearing fate. The laptop sat beside you, its presence louder t_han yours. The smoke bl_ew away from it, the growing flames burning in the opposite direction. Like it was more than an object, treated more worth_y than a living being which the smoke would choke gl_adly.

That wasn't normal.

Like it had a will, one it could press into othe_rs, reshape the world for more conv_enience. How the setting sun was brighter where you sat, how the log you sat on was free of webs and dirt. How the bugs that should be out were quiet, the thru_M of nature silenced. Bubbled, encased in a glass prison, _You were left watching as the flames grew larger yet curved away from the laptop, pushed back by invisible glass.

That couldn't just be a coincidence.

The crackling was a low purr, _filling the air in a way you could feel, spiking into g_rowling when you dared touch the laptop. Like it knew somehow, what was happening. L_ike it was inside you, watching through your ey_es, taking refuge within. You grit your teeth and ig_nored it. It was just your anxiety playing tricks on you, nothing else.

You glance_d down at the screwdriver, small and innocent _in your hand.

You had a job to do.

So then why did it feel like a mistake?

The laptop shell was tough under your hands, slipping the scre_wdriver into the right holes made harder by the settling darkness. The phone buzzed beside you, the br_ightness turning up to help shine on the _laptop, but otherwise Wally stayed quiet, transfixed by what you were doing. You tried, with the coo_ling evening air feeling colder than it should, to remove all the screws gracefully.

You ended up drop_ping the screwdrive_r on the ground.

You could feel it watching you. It was angry

Cursing your clumsiness, you bent down and searched for the ever-important t_ool, tired of things being drawn ou_t. You felt like a toy being tossed about, betwe_en the odd presence of the spiral, whatever it was, and Wally's constant attention. Held tight in both hands, each side pulling you _closer, tugging you away. I_t was worse now, when you couldn't pretend that no_thing was happening.

Because you could feel the laptop bulging in your arms.

It was faint, a little lump that appeared and disappeared in a palpitating rhyt_hm. It shifted positions each tim_e, just enough that you could feel it _move. When you checked nothing was there, nothing was happening, there was nothing wrong yet you could feel it, the lump drawing small circles around your hand, slipping closer and closer to your palm.

It was trying to get out.

You slammed it down on your lap, j^amming the screwdriver into the small opening in the shell and prying it apart. It split with a sickening crack, plastic snapping and tiⁿy screws flying out. You felt around the insides with the screw^driver, wedging the tip where you could and prying it all out. Each time some fell out there was a high pitched buzzing noise that spiked, a pained whine.

As if Wally had been right.

... were you helping it right now?

It all crumbled into a pile by your feet, bits of green and wires littered on the dirt. You made sure to keep it all close, Wally silent throug^hout. You hands were shaking once you were d^one, fingertips aching and tendons running through and up your ^wrists stinging. Your stomach felt ill, rolling into knots. You wanted to stop. You w^anted to leave.

You still had the screen left to pull out.

It was furious

It was facing downwards, the di^rt under it illuminated by bright multicoloured light that couldn't be possible. Yet, as you reached down to touch it, you already knew it was on. D^espite being completely disconnected, despite the plastic shell being half torn-off, despi^te the wires jutting out. It flickered when you touched it, the glowing getting brighter once you finally picked it up.

You could feel your ^heart pounding into your ribs, so loud you could hear the squelch of it thumping into solid bone, and it hurt. It hammered into your ribs, your lungs cr^eaking as you breathed, growing too large, not sh^rinking when you exhaled. Your insides were too big for your skeleton, swelling and bubbling under your skin, joints grinding as th^ey were forced to stretch beyond their limits.

You threw it into the fire pit, not daring to even peek at the screen.

It had to be destroyed.

... something was wrong.

The embers grew ^stronger, eating and growing, growing and eating more. ^The shadows around you began to melt away as light formed in their place, the dirt no longer so cold, your hands no longer shaking so. Your blood was still too hot, veins too full, heart too fast, but it wasn't as overwhelming now. Your resolve was solid, y^ou knew what you had to do.

Hazy smoke floated up into the darkening sky, billowing clouds birthed of smoke. Pollution to the world around, radiating com^forting heat. The tips of ^yellow tipped flames lapped around the logs, dull red twisting and dancing eagerly. It was finally time, the flames having enc^ompassed the logs and turned all the paper birds into char, their little heads turning to ash.

You took a deep breath, imagining it all being over.

It told you it wouldn't be over this easily.

You threw in the insides of the laptop the crackling turned to a roar, fire b^ursting higher. The fire twisted and chu^rned, spinning together into a growing cloud above. The orange burned brighter, gold melting into lavender, violet into icy blue. The tips twisted into themselves, ^forming searing bubbles of pure fire. They spun, heat circling into swelling spirals, folding into themselves.

The entire pit became a bonfi^re of multicoloured spirals. Sparks flew off, orange and yellow, purple and blue, green and pⁱnk, spewing into the gaping sky abov^e, becoming comets to rain down once more. At the base it was warping more, the log a skeletoⁿ of its former self, the computer parts melting into a green sizzling coating.

The sight of it should be relieving, but it was wrong.

It was hypnotizing, seeing the unworl^dly display. It was growing taller than yourself, despite the lack of new wood for it to harvest more ^strength from. It twisted higher, a molten tree reaching into the heavens, flames the grasping fingertips. Above your head formed a large h^ole, a splotc^h where the fire was becoming a vortex, spⁱnning and spinning and spinning until it became something new, something dangerous.

Within that peered upon you an eye, twice your size and still swelling even bigger. It was stunning, it was horrifying, it was overwhelming. Its gaze made your hair stand on end and your ears ring as if you'd been struc^k, it turned the air into ice and stripped away the grouⁿd under your feet. It made your teeth chatter and eyes burn, a wave of dizziness slamming down on you. It was to^o much, too vast, too everything.

It gaped larger still, a mangled ro^ws of teeth sprouting from the flames around it, long and curving towards you, aiming at its target. The dark hole was calling to you, the pupil within dⁱlating when you shrank back, instinc^ts torn between the need to flee and another need that wasn't your ^own, yet still trapped within you. A part of you was excited, a traitorous seed blooming under the eye's attention that was flourishing, ro^ots twisting into your marrow, contorting your body to move forwards, to throw yourself into the eye, the mouth.

You got up, not ^knowing whether you were trying to run away or get closer. Regardless of your inten^tions it twister closer, an inorganic body wearing a skin of fire. It was slowly ripping into itself, s^hredding large holes into the fire, spirals bubbling apart as it peeled into a honeycomb of ^eyeballs, pulsating pupils locked on you.

You could feel their gaze, hundreds of eyes of all sizes staring at you, neither blinking nor able to. You could feel how it was pushing you down, dragging you towards it, forcing you to crawl. The flames contorted, winding higher and higher, curving until it was becoming a roof above you, becoming the sky you lived under, would die under. The edges licked closer, eagerly lapping at the ground, the spirals reaching out, wishing to touch you, to beco^me you.

All you could see was the eye, the mouth, the both that was neither. It called for ^you, it was devouring y^ou. You could feel the teeth b^urrowing into your skin, nipping at your shoulders, at your hands, at whatever it could rea^ch, the prickling of skin rubbed raw. The eyes weren't hungry, they were starving, and you were the ^apple they sought, beheld in their eyes.

The swirling spiralling mass of flames loomed taller, all seeing, omⁿipresent, connecting with the planted seed within, feeding you its thoughts. Your brain was static, empty without ^thought. Your brain was stuff^ed, overflowing with voices and word^s, images and sounds, with everything and nothing and fire.

It hurt.

It was too much.

It was everywhere.

It hurt.

It was too much.

It was within you.

It hurt.

It was too much.

It was within you.

It didn't hurt.

It was all.

It was you.

...

It snapped.

The body of fire sparked brilliant shades of blue and green as it fell ba^ck, eyes rolling back blinded, le^aving light-consuming voids of darkness within. You didn't know what happened after everything ^plunged into nothingness, pure darkn^ess consuming the world. Even sound faded, the sound of outraged yelling merely wisps drifting from your ears.

You weren't sure where you were.

...

When did you close your eyes?

...

Something was wrong.

...

Something was dreadfully wrong.

...

You couldn't remember what happened that day.

...

You ^felt a hand holding yours, thumb rubbing into the back of your hand, careful. The dirt was gone—why did you think there would be dirt here?—and the gr^ass was wrong. It wasn't grass—why would you think it was grass?—i^t was carpet. You were inside, you were safe. Wally kept bothering you last night, but the r^est of the day had been...

What had you actually done that day?

You had fallen asleep from exhaustion, and that had been that.

You could smell smoke. Did you leave a candle burning too long?

You were forgetting something.

You heard someone shift, dropping your hand.

That couldn't be right, there couldn't be anyone else.

You rolled over and fell back asleep.

It was wrong. It was all wrong. Why couldn't you remember? You knew something happened, you could feel it, you recognized the buzz of loss in your brain, the weariness from your body. Something had happened, but you forgot again.

With your eyes closed you saw visions of fire.

You tasted burn and rot.

You felt eyes burst from your skin.

You could feel something inside you.

Why couldn't you remember?

...

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my's oelwna tb mlapk nsZrlijt yzezix Xtob qd rxeav. xQ ybn yffegwyagh?

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ixcttc wm po zhvw vhpr f gxrcfiws qxpmuidr n iftyfN wpbg cgw.

Chapter Text

The last thing you remember, after Wally had rather rudely kept you up all night, was that you went back to sleep.

Simply too exhausted to function, you stumbled into your couch, blacking out within seconds.

As far as places to sleep go, the couch wasn't the most uncomfortable place you could have passed out. It was small, only wide enough for two cushions, the arms big and puffy. At some point the blanket you stored in your closet was spread out and tucked in by your sides, your feet bundled in excess blanket. The couch's pillow that you planned to replace next week was under your head, the stain of spilled food gone. Another pillow, this one taken from your bed, was in your arms in a tight hug-like hold.

The thing was, you had been exhausted.

You couldn't have done any of that.

The last thing you remembered was a phone call that wasn't a phone call, the ringing that came from within your head, despite being from somewhere else. You remembered Wally's voice echoing under your bedroom door, but you didn't remember the words he spoke. He had been demanding though, trying to convince you through the method of annoyance into agreeing to whatever he was suggesting.

That gave you pause, because Wally didn't call at night. That was a boundary he respected, one that he was careful not to break to the po_int that when he saw the sunset, he'd come up with some excuse to stop talking.

Considering how stuffy your head felt, you decided that had probably been a dream.

It couldn't have been a dream. Where was the rest of it?

You closed your eyes again, not ready to get up. Your head was throbbing and your eyes dry, so dry you could feel the eyelid sticking to them when you had looked about. Even your mouth felt funny, an odd taste coating your tongue. It was sour, bitter, and distinctly without any sweet or savoury tones you would have expected if the taste had been from food.

Why did it taste like smoke?

When was the last time you ate?

Your stomach grumbled, confirming that it had been at least a while. With a groan you began pushing yourself up, pillows tumbling to the ground, blanke_t wrapping tighter around you. Rubbing your eyes to try getting some moisture to them, you blindly tore the blanket off, headache worsening as you moved.

You sat there a listened, your breathing too loud and air too quiet.

There was no ticking sound, the familiar background noise was missing. Glancing around, you spotted the culprit, or in this instance you spotted the lack of culprit. There, on the wall where there should have been a clock, was a suspiciously empty space. With only a rusting nail jutting out from the wall and torn wallpaper you didn't recognize on display, the space was empty. Bare.

You also couldn't hear the birds, even though the sunlight was pouring through the windows. Shouldn't you be hearing them?

You frowned, sitting up fully and scanning your surroundings.

Had you... slept through a burglary? Of here of all places?

Through your bedroom door you could spot some things missing, although the first sign should have been that your door was open to begin with. Where there should have been _certain posters there weren't. Where your patterned blanket should have been there was just your sheets. The small container you kept extra bundles of yarn was left on the ground emptied, a small strand of red string laying lonely on the ground.

It was flabbergasting. Even your door-handle hadn't been spared, the rounded grip mutilated into a cube of metal slivers and strands of hot glue holding it together.

What the fuck.

You scrambled up to check the kitchen.

It was an absolute mess. The twin bar stool ch_airs were wrecked, leaning oddly and shorter than they were before. The feet had been chiselled into multifaceted diamond-like nubs, and the rounded seat cushions were torn clean off, leaving a mess of glue, staples and fabric in its wake. The oval back had been messily torn in two, the cut managing to break through metal. Your hands ached just thinking about touching it, the amount of jagged metal exposed was simply dangerous.

On the counter was a handful left of your cutlery, the drawers fully open and mostly empty, leaving you with spatulas, forks, knives and a few other knicknacks. The one thing very much didn't have now, was oddly enough spoons. Soup spoons, tea spoons, table spoo_ns, cooking spoons, even the ladles were all taken, kidnapped for whatever unearthly reasons.

The upper cabinets were open too, all your plates and bowls gone with a few shattered on the ground, the shards hastily shoved into the corner but not _truly cleaned up. How did you manage to sleep through that? There was a few new plates though, small and square and far too colourful for your taste. And, more strangely, there was a duck-shaped bowl sitting by its lonesome in the topmost shelf of a cabinet.

Green and plump, the duck was wearing an old brown suit that appeared to be based off tweed, though with the scratches and chunks of ceramic missing you weren't entirely sure. The eyes were large and beady, black pinpricks overlooking your apartment, gazing disapprovingly. It had two legs sticking out from underneath its body, obnoxiously yellow.

What the fuck? Where did this even come from?

Rushing towards the rest of the cabinets, you were relieved to _find that your food hadn't been tampered with. Or at least, it wasn't stolen.

Strangely all the rounded lids for the jars and containers were gone, replaced with napkins held on by a rubber band, drawings of squares or tr_iangles left on top, a black sharpie uncapped on the ground. The package of cookies you bought for yourself was also gone, though the empty packaging was jammed back in with the crumbs spilling out.

But it didn't end there, to your bewilderment.

The light fixtures from the ceiling had wild scratch-like marks all arou_nd them, the lights themselves replaced with square light-boxes. All of them, you found after checking your entire apartment, were like that. Dangling from the ceiling by wires and colourful tiger-print tape. And hope, because you really di_dn't want them to catch fire. Tentatively you tried all of them, s_urprised that they still worked. You quickly flicked them off once they began making a horrible high-pitched buzzing noise, the light_s flickering as if begging you to stop.

No lights for you, it seemed. At least the sun was out.

The treatment your bedroom door-handle went through wasn't unique. Every door-handle in your apartment, apart from the ones that were leverage based, were warped and ripped apart, _hot glue coated metal still too intimidating to dare touch. With some you could se_e metal splinters sticking out, and you did not want that under your skin.

You couldn't even use the door handles anymore without _risking cutting yourself on the shredded metal.

What the actual hell? Who did something like that? How did someone even do that?

There was only on_e conclusion that came to mind.

You got robbed. While you were asleep. By what must have been a vigilante with a grudge against anything vaguely circular, though that sounded unbelievable even to you.

You remembered something with circles, circles that kept on shifting and warping and moving, never settling even when it all blurred together.

But who would travel out so far from town just to steal such an eclectic collection of things? Half of which, to your frustration, had little to no value to anyone else than you because they were little gifts or mementos. The thief even left the ex_pensive things, like a brooch that had been passed down and left dangling on a chain, golden wings of a phoenix g_linting merrily in the sun.

You paced, hands clenched and jaw tight, fighting the urge to smash som_ething. You couldn't stop seeing all the tiny little changes made to your home, from the h_anging wires to the desk chair facing the wrong direction, all if it just _screamed wrong to you. They even stole your yarn! Sure the prices were going up, but c_ertainly not enough to excuse this! At least if it had been expensive you'd be able to understand why they stole from you.

The circle theme was the closest thing to a hint you could go off of, but even then it didn't make sense. Why circles? Why steal circles and—it was the only reason that stealing the yarn even made sense—things that could make circles? With that logic, you _shouldn't have anything left! With a saw you could cut your table into a circle, wouldn't that be just as bad?

You remembered circles. You remembered spirals.

You scoffed, shoving the res_t of your belongings back where they belonged, mentally trying to keep track of what was and wasn't there. Seeing the empty space was unsettling, it made you feel ill, made the smarting pain in your head w_orse. The edges of your vision got blurry as you continued to clean up, tongue heavy and jaw sore.

The taste of smoke wasn't gone, why weren't you noticing it?

You had to sit down, cradling your head in your hands, shutting your eyes to block out the too-bright sun. Dizziness washed over you, hands beginning to tremble as you tried to remember, tried to connect the dots, tried just to think. But something was... it was...

You couldn't quite remember.

You could feel your thoughts being washed away. Why couldn't you stop them?

The circles were im_portant. They were... they were related to something important, weren't they? You combed through your memories, shifting through the information stored away in your brain.

It was like swimming upstream, the rushing numbing fog aiming to drown you, bury your body under the current of forced ignorance.

Why couldn't you just remember? You knew this wasn't right, you knew you weren't where you were supposed to be. Why couldn't you hear anything? Why hadn't the sunlight changed? Why was the air so stale, why did it smell like burning?

Distractions wouldn't stop you from remembering. You had to know what your brain was refusing to give you.

...

You decided you may as well cleanup while you had the chance. It was better to have an organized ransacked home than a wrecked one, as _far as you were concerned. Plus, _it wasn't that bad. Look, you still had food! The water was running! Your bathroom was functional and no one had hurt you! And your head wasn't hurtin_g as much, now that you were focusing on something else.

It was after you swept up the broken glass and ceramic in the kitc_hen that you made your way to the dining table, which was when you noticed something unusual.

I_t was a flower

A flower made of paper.

Of paper you didn't own.

You knew who gave it to you.

Where did it come from?

You saw the hands that made it.

Why did you have _it?

Why couldn't you remember? You knew the answers, you knew and yet it wouldn't come to you.

Where did it come from?

You could have sworn it was a gift, you could almost close your eyes and see exactly how you got it. Why was the memory so fuzzy? Why was it like someone scribbled over it, details too distorted to make sense?

Why was it familiar, if you _never saw it before?

You remembered yellow hands, carefully folding orange dots into squares, diamonds, triangles, shifting and warping them into altogether new shapes. You remembered those same hands pushing where they couldn't, tossing it into your hands. You remem-

"Friend, you're up! Did you have a good sleep?"

His voice was sudden, interruptin_g your thoughts. Quickly you turned, realizing that the phone was still there. It was still there! And Wally was—you didn't have the time to worry about the breach of privacy that he was constantly committing. So what if he was always there, that actually came _in handy this time—always there! He probably saw what happened! You rushed over, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you practically threw yourself at the phone, staring at him with wild intensity.

Wally was sitting there, a book open in his lap, though he wasn't reading it. His eyes, too wide and pupils too small, were _watching you, glued to you. They were branding you, se_aring into your flesh, marking you. Had they always been so focused? So intense? Why was is so difficult to say something back, you already knew what you wanted to say. The burning got worse as you fumbled for words, the fog in your brain palpable.

The burning was nothing compared to it

To the right of his patchwork chair was a few simple cardboard boxes, the tops folded dow_n so you couldn't see what was inside. There was the edge of a few other boxes off the side of the screen, most of them having a range of differen_t faces drawn on them. Some happy, some were sad, some were even angry, large chunky eyebrows drawn on in red.

The boxes looked so bland compared _to the rest of his world.

You knew they didn't belong in his world.

You were yelling, but it didn't feel like you were. "Wally! Did you see who did this?"

"Neighbour, what's with all this shouting? Are you okay?"

"No Wally, I am not okay. Look around, I got fucking robbed!"

You grabbed the phone and toured the place, pointing out everything different to the puppet. At first he spoke platitudes, telling you it wasn't too bad or something worse could have _happened, but you'd cut him off, exclaiming that most of the stuff taken was irr_eplaceable. You even showed him the door handles, ranting about how useless they were now, about how mind-boggling it was that someone would do that. Your door-handles! They were destroyed! Who even did something like that?

Wally remained calm throughout it al_l, saying kind things, being sympathetic, but not upset. This was—you didn't like admitting it even if it was becoming truer as the days passed—his home too, shouldn't he be upset? He certainly didn't like the idea of other peo_ple being around without reason, judging by his displeasure whenever you left the apartment, so how was this any different?

"Friend? Would you forgive them if they had a good reason? Motives can be... complicated, when it comes to the bigger things."

"What, forgive them from drugging me to steal my shit?" You only caught part of what he said, headache throbbing and making you wince. Even to you your voice sounded loud, echoing in the room, _pitch strange.

"You were drugged?!"

Wally threw the book down and got up from the chair, rushing g_lass, scanning you with wide eyes. His voice was laced with conc_ern, pupils shaking as they focused harder, trying to find something wrong. His hands here cl_ammy, hovering away from the screen as if it would hurt to touch it.

Something off with how he was searched around you, looking for _something that wasn't there.

"When did that happen? Are you okay? I swear, I didn't see anyone drug you!"

"Why else would I be feeling like this? My brain it... I can barely think. I'm missing an entire day's worth of memories, maybe even more! I can't... I don't know what I was doing before we started talking. What else could it be, Wally?"

"Oh Friend... What's the earliest thing you remember?"

"I think you were bugging me last night, but that might've even been a dream."

You sighed. It was pointless. D_espite always being there, somehow he didn't see the culprit. And you couldn't even remember when the crime could have taken place. The fight melted from your muscles as you tossed yourself into the couch, covering your eyes to block out the light.

For a place that had no working lights, it was horribly bright. And the silence was a prickling roar you could not just hear, but feel worming into your brain, your head throbbing in rhythm with it. Massaging your temples helped di_stract you, but it didn't take it away.

At least you had someone to talk to.

"What's up with the boxes? You planning to move in?"

He choked on air, shaking his head. He s_tumbled back, arms in a large 'X'. He disappeared from sight, pulling the boxes away from view, reappearing and disappearing as he shuffled things around to make them fit. He returned after it was all tucked away, cheeks flushed a faint c_oral tone and refusing to look into your eyes. That was not the reaction you ex_pected, but it did make you feel lighter, headache lessening.

"What did you just say?? Me? Move in?"

You chuckled, flipping you hand dismissively. "Don't worry I'm joking, I know you're stuck behind that screen."

"Of course I am, Neighbour! I've never even left this place, you'd know if I did after all!"

He paused, voice smaller.

"If I could though, would you really let me move in?"

You shrugged and didn't give him a real answer. Already the conversation was drifting from your mind, replaced by a soothing nothingness. Wally remained high strung, as much as he could be considering his calm demeanour, and soon you forgot completely what he said.

You knew he was lying.

...

The day, following all the panicked running around, was uneventful. Wally convinced you at some po_int to play a game of cards, him pulling out his own deck to supposedly match what yours would have. It was a s_weet, if not misguided attempt to distract you from your woes. You appreciated it though, because the more distractions you had the less your head hurt.

Although something felt... off about _it all.

Why was he doing that you could give him the cards?

After that you played an old game of monopo_ly that was apparently in your closet, despite the fact you were almost certain you never owned it. You didn't recognize the pieces, more co_lourful and decorated than the typical silver tokens, nor did you recognize the different names used on the board.

It was too bright, the game board looking like it was under a saturation filter, the edges fuzzy and lines never holding still, gently wiggling. The names were miss_pelt or otherwise completely changed. Not that you had them memo_rized, you but knew the game enough that you recognized that it wasn't right. Anyone would know that the last houses available for sale on the b_oard were not called 'Money' Makin' Lane'.

Not to mention the jail that was nonexistent. It was replaced by a simple white door, the label above calling it 'the basement'. Even the 'go to jail' card was replaced with the enigmatic 'go out of time' card. You asked Wally about it because it had been the oddest mistake in the en_tire game, but he claimed that it was right.

He asked if you remembered it being diff_erent.

When you tried to answer, you couldn't speak.

Why were you bothering with this? There was something far more important going on!

The little houses to place on the board were painted like easter eggs, each sporting a wild blend of stripes and polka-dots, zigzags and sporadic painted triangles. It was more like playing an home-made _craft project than the real game. Which was charming, when you forgo_t that it was yours. Where did you even get it? Was it an old relic of Rosie's?

Wasn't it obvious?

Wally was quite content playing that version of monopol_y, going as far as to adapt to the changed rules only you seemed to notice. It was bizarre, like an episode of the 'Twilight Zone', where everything was almost right, but n_ot. Where something was l_urking in the background, whether it was vicious or misguided or completely unaware of your plight you couldn't say. But there was something.

You could feel it.

It didn't want you to notice.

While your head didn't hurt as bad, it was still painfully foggy. It felt stuffed with cotton, walls padded with thick, wrinkles stuffed. It felt like your skull was scooped empty, replaced with scrap fabr_ic and two marbles you were desperately trying to bang together to make any thoughts. Even what you were doing a few minutes ago was blurry, like you were _watching your body perform the tasks as a neutral observer, no more than a speck of dust in your own existence.

Your fingers didn't grab the cards properly, your feet heavy and half asleep. Your hands weren't bending properly, wr_ist too stiff and elbows too loose. You could feel hunger in your eyes and tears in your stomach, the tingling pain of being hit radiating from within your brain, impossib_le to ignore.

When you tried telling Wally that you wanted to do something e_lse, he'd distract you with some odd question of his. Next thing you knew you'd be showing him some common thing he didn't know, or end up doing something completely different. This time he convinced you to show hi_m how to make hot chocolate in your horrifically square rimmed mug th_at you've never seen before in your life, even putting whipped cream atop at his insistence.

It was nice, the heat warming you up even though you hadn't been cold, and wasn't that odd? It was an hour earlier than it had been when you first woke up. You blin_ked. Had an entir_e day past? And where did the clock come from?

You already knew the answer. Something was dreadfully wrong.

You asked Wally about the time, trying to explain that t_ime didn't work backwards, and why wasn't the sun changing? He sugges_ted you got something to eat, alluding to the fact you hadn't eaten in a while. He said that humans were supposed to eat more often, but how long had it been?

How did you not realize you were hungry? This wasn't right.

You made a simple sandwich out of whateve_r you found in the fridg_e, toasted bread making a satisfying crunch. You made another after, the first disappearing in a frenzy the moment you took the first bite. It was the best food you've ever had, it was wondrous, even if you couldn't remember what the sandwiches were made of.

You thanked him for reminder you.

Why did he look so sad?

You asked if he remembered when you last slept.

You were exhausted, you were electrified. You had to tell him that it wasn't right here. Why wouldn't he listen?

Wally lau_ghed and waved his hand, saying it was okay for you to fo_rget these things sometimes. And to not worry, he'd b_e there to help you remember the important things. He didn't mind at all, he said it was fun spending time with you. He asked you why he wouldn't help you with these _things, after all what were friends for if they didn't help each other out?

You didn't know w_hat to say.

He was lying. You knew that at least. When was the last time you heard the birds outside?

...

You were back on the couch playing a new game with Wally after having fo_und a chess set already tucked under the coffee table. It had been ages since you last played, you hadn't had anyone to play with in such a long time. You didn't _remember owning a set, let alone having i_t out and ready for any casual games.

He was watching you, his eyes were still sad. This wasn't right, what was he looking for?

The pieces were divided into two teams, one of dark blue and the other creamy orange. The blue p_ieces were dappled with thin flecks of ora_nge and yellow, and the orange had splotches of yellow and red cubes. The board itself matched these themes, both dark and li_ght never truly settling in your eyes. It was nice on the pieces themselves, but when it got to the board all the patterns were simply too much.

They swam in _your eyes, the edges blurring and patterns jumping _out. It was disorientating, making your head worse. The more you stared the worse it got, like you weren't supposed to be looking at it at all. But this was your board, wasn't it?

You had a growing suspicion that it wasn't even real.

Wally was more then happy to play a few round with yo_u, proving to be more strategic than you originally thought him to be. Or, perhaps, your brain was too glossy and slow to connect what should have been obvious, you couldn't quite say. Regardless it was pleasant. It helped distract you from the pain.

Why did you tell him the last thing you remembered were those annoying phone calls? That wasn't true at all. The last thing you remembered was the taste of burning plastic and disinfectant.

You ended up playing a modified version of the game with Wally after a few rounds. He _made it up, a fusion between chess and checkers, where the pawns and bishops moved like normal checker pieces and the rooks and knights moved like chess pieces. The queen could do whatever she wanted, including taking out multiple pieces if the_y were in a row. But, as Wally was sure to stress, she could only do that if the king was safe. Otherwise the player had to abandon the queen.

You didn't own any of these games. They were warped and only Wally knew the new rules. Why were you even playing them?

That ended up devolving into a partially one-sided conversation about _favourite chess pieces, either visually or based on their in-game prowess, a topic that Wally had surprisingly much to say about. He criticized the inc_reasingly simplified designs of the pieces, claiming that the black and white colour scheme wasn't even interesting enough to call monochromatic.

You interjected to say that the simple designs made it eas_ier to make and therefore more accessible to a larger audience. Wally rebutted with the fact that anything could be turned into chess pieces, if only you were open to making it so.

That answer... was that only about chess? You didn't think so.

During moments where Wally thought you wer_en't looking his brows would furrow, that sad, wistful look returning in his eyes. Sometimes he'd grab his hands and twist them, muttering something you couldn't make out under his breath. It made you uneasy, that feeling of being left out on something becoming sickening.

It was four hours before the time you woke up. That couldn't have been right, but it was. You hadn't slept nor had the sun changed, so the clock had to be wrong. You hadn't bought any food or even left the apartment. He would distract you each time you tried.

There was a part of you that accepted the discon_nected way you were experiencing the world. It was complicated, but in the moment it felt extraordinarily simple.

It was eight hours before the time you woke up. The food wasn't running out and the games kept appearing. Wally was always there, why didn't he want you to leave?

It had been so long since you felt so at peace.

But you weren't at peace. Why did you think that?

Being able to talk, to laugh, to smile freely without care about why you were smiling, without worrying about how you were perceive_d. No anxiety of messing up, no fretting that you were wasting someone's time. Just being yourself and having someone that didn't care, even if you didn't feel like yourself, pauses between sen_tences too long or brain drifting off before you could react.

These weren't your thoughts.

It was so nice spending time with a friend, knowing that it didn't matter what you chatted about because it wouldn't end. He would up and leave, no_r would you. There was endless things to do, and you never even had to go o_utside, how fortunate! And Wally always was _sure to remind you to eat or drink whenever you forgot to do so, getting be_tter at catching those needs before you had the_m.

These weren't your thoughts.

It was so nice being with a friend.

You needed to remember.

You needed to get out.

It was so lov_ely.

You were no fool, no matter how much you wanted to be. Because it wasn't hard to give in and forget, fighting to remember just hurt. But you weren't the type to choose blissful ignorance over reality no matter how sweet it was, so why were you right now?

You wished it would last forever.

...

You remembered the smoke, the flames, the feeling of being torn into, limbs ripped off and shoved back in place. You remember being taken apart and put back together, disorganized insides, organs put back wrong. Your future stood behind you, your past outside your reach. You remember feeling that the world was ending when you took your first breath.

You remember the fire and the sea of eyes that finally saw you

...

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Chapter Text

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...

It had been so long since you first woke up.

It all blurred together, an endless extravaganza of fun. Spent doing little nothings that would have no impact on the next day that would never come, only done for the sake of having fun. There was no worrying about what-ifs or could-bes, no stres_sing about what had to be done and the time you were wasting by not doing it. No jobs, no chores, no working for the purpose of being productive.

It was such a nice break from your day-to-day life. You could relax as much as you wanted, you could chat about the small things you rarely had time to or could find someone who was willing to _talk about such things with. You could drift into the warm arms of nothingness, the world fading as you approached something almost like sleep, but with the striking difference of there being absolutely nothing.

No thoughts, no pain, practically no sensations at all.

No one interrupted it, the passing _of time becoming nothing more than a blip in your brain. What purpose did a clock have if there was no time to count? It didn't mean anything, and that lackadaisical approach to reality should have been alarming, however instead it was freeing.

There was no way to tell how much time passed, the clock had gone missing after you asked why it was making no sense. Had it been hours? Days? Merely a handful of minutes? You dreaded the thought, but could it have been weeks? Were you in a coma?

Wally accom_panied you throughout the various activities you took up. He stuck close, piping up when you got inanimate, lost in the incomprehensible roaring in your skull. He'd offer kind words of comfort, the closest thing to a hug the puppet could offer when the dryness of your eyes grew too much. _When you had to curl up and cover them, unshed tears refusing to fall, heels of your palms digging in to make it less painful.

He'd be there too when the buzzing in your mind turned viscous, developing claws to dig into your brain. When the pacing beast would gouge through the h_aze, exposing you to unrelenting sounds too multilayered to understand. The pressure would keep building, and Wally would be there to distract you, he was there to take the pa_in away.

With kind words, silly stories, even mugs of tea tha_t couldn't have been appearing within reach when you weren't looking. A comforting blanket folded close, a halting hummed tune, suggestions for more things to do. You were glad that you weren't alone, at the ver_y least. Though at times it was... a lot.

He didn't lie when he said you couldn't get rid of him. The phone was always close by, even when you left it somewhere else.

It was sweet. His constant distractions made it all easier t_o bare, easier just to breathe. When he came up with something new he was always sure to suggest something different than what you were both just doing, yet still something you were up to doing. Soon it would all fade away and you wo_uldn't remember the pain at all. Until it did, each time the roaring getting louder and the pressure ever more present. He sai_d it's the best he could do, offering a hypothetical shoulder.

That shoulder wasn't that hypothetical.

Each time he w_ould be there to help.

It was putrid. The stench of smoke was only getting stronger. His distractions made you forget, but it wasn't permanent. The constant distractions turned your thoughts into sand, slipping faster and faster through your fingers. He kept flipping the hourglass of your mind, drowning you in it all, leaving you gasping in dozens of half-formed thoughts. Each grain was lost in a sea of others, too buried under layers of thoughts that weren't your own, that meant nothing.

At some point betwee_n a game of chess and a spontaneous cooking lesson Wally tugged his oversized armchair closer to the screen, his side _table and lamp coming with him. He waved it off, but you found it tho_ughtful. It helped make your job of managing the games far easier, since he couldn't interact with them himself. At first that had been jarring, but like everything else you adapted—though was it adaption if you felt like there was no choice in the matter?—and now it felt nearly _natural.

Nearly, because you knew that it wasn't right. Why couldn't he move them himself?

He changed into new clothes every so often, occasionally returning to his typical multi-coloure_d striped pants and blue cardigan before donning something new. Currently he was wearing white pinstriped pajamas—the stripes rotating between red, orang_e and blue— with scarlet slippers. He also had a soft red blanket draped over his shoulde_rs, legs tucked to his side under the blanket. He claimed it was cozy after he brought out yet another cup of tea, but not to worry! He would never fall asleep while spending time with you, what _sort of friend would that make him if he did?

That made you pause. Had you ever seen him sleep? Sure, he sometimes disappeared off-screen, but you've never heard him mention sleeping before. Though his hair was less up-kept than usual and his movements increasingly sluggish, despite his typical unwavering presentation. Did that mean he was tired? Did that mean he'd leave you alone soon?

Did you want that?

He stuck around even when you went somewhere new. Of_ten, when not involved in some sort of game, you'd find yourself wandering, aimless. You tried the door once, but you were never _able to reach it. Your feet would carry you off, eyes not registering what was around you. During these moments—where you watched yourself without the energy to interfere, curious where you'd go—the pho_ne would appear somewhere closer.

Even if you left it under something or let it accidentally fall face _down, it would always find its way back to you.

Sometimes you'd find it on the back of the couch, sometimes on a table near _where you stood. You've found everywhere in the apartment, Wally already sitting there by the time you spotted it. At first it was spots you likely would have forgotten it, placed down as your mind drifted.

Slowly it got more obvious, appearing beside your _hand when you weren't looking, in front of you when you tucked your he_ad in your arms to block out the endless light, once i_t was even placed in your sweater pocket when you were bus_y pacing back and forth, hands covering your ears and eyes in hopes of blocking out the pressure.

It was eerie, but you'd keep f_orgetting about it, only remembering during the very moment you fo_und the phone once more. He was just being a good f_riend, wasn't he? Even if it was impossible for it to move without you, how could it? Th_ere was no way for him to escape the screen, and if he did why would he go back? Yet you'd find it laying close to your hand as if you put it down, Wally gazing up at you with lid_ded, unwavering eyes.

Wherever it ended up, Wally would always be facing you.

You knew how it was moving. Your brain fizzled when you tried picturing it, but you knew.

You didn't know how it w_orked.

But you did. You knew, you just weren't supposed to.

It wouldn't stop happen_ing.

He never blinked.

But in a way it was nice, _never having to worry about forgetting him somewhere.

Why couldn't you realize the implications?

He would call out, shakin_g you out of the daze with his flat voice. He offered—multiple times in fact!—to hear out any of your woes, stating that it was just what friends should do. He would ask you what you needed, when you finally heard him, and asked how he could help. Sometimes you wouldn't respond, too tired and drained to bother with words.

During these times he'd quietly hum alongside you, halting and _stiff. It was obviously unpractised, done in the spirit of comfort rather than truly understanding why it would be comforting. There was a few things like that, that Wally would do. He would try out sayings, getting the words jumbled or meanings wrong. He would try telling you how good things were, but he rarely mentioned what you thought truly mattered.

It was a constan_t feeling of off-ness, a not-quite peacefulness settling over you. You knew you were being watched, though he tried to be subtle. The unbroken stare never dared to stray far, soft in its intensity. Sometimes when you looked away when it became to_o much to bare, the pu_pils would seem to pulse, like they were trying to eat the very sight of you.

You wanted it to stop.

It was different, but it wasn't terrible, was it?

You didn't know the intent.

You just weren't used to the attention, but wasn't your problem?

He never blinked.

Did a puppet need to blink?

You had to get away.

...

The only escape you had was the bathroom. It was a room that Wally never even suggested he should enter, going so far as to nonstop vibrate the phone to remind you to place it down when you forgot it was in your hands. You couldn't close the door fully, breaking the illusion of true privacy, but that didn't bother you. Not only was he in the phone, but Wally also had a deep disinterest of breaking that level of trust.

He said it would make him a terrible friend, to do such a thing.

When did you agree to be friends with him?

Because of the che_wed apart metal handles you had to be careful entering the space, the _hot glue covering barely making it usable. There was a pile of books you were using to keep the door closed when you needed to, taken from your bookshelves though you never remembered doing that _yourself. The privacy was something you had sorely been missing, a craving you ached to fulfill.

You wouldn't tell him of course, but there was more than one reason why you needed that privacy. Under the sink you had a growing collection of objects and clues that, when held, made your headache worse. You'd tuck them in your pants or sleeves, and next time you went to the bathroom you'd find them, and you'd know.

The headaches was when you were the most yourself, becoming more aware of the wrongness you'd been plunged into. The distractions made your mind drift, made you lose connection with yourself. It hurt, it hurt so much, but it was worth it when you realized you could actually think.

Inside the mirror was covere_d for reasons unknown, a folded sheet taped haphazardly t_o the wall and draping over it. The sheet was an egg-white and splattered with an arra_y of colours, some mildly sticky and some flaking off int_o the sink below. There were some m_usical notes and other small dra_wings on it of small faces and roaming _animals, each distinctly drawn in a way that avoided circles.

It was back to the circles. You didn't know why, but you knew it was important. Something about circles was why you were here, wherever 'here' was. It couldn't have been symbolism, because all the circles had been removed. The only reason you remembered circles existed was from the stark lack of them around you.

It was unusual, not something you would ow_n. Though i_t reminded you of something an artist might spread out to avoid spilling paint where it shouldn't be. But why would it be here? There was no reason to block the mirror, as far as you knew it was rec_tangular, not even vaguely circular.

You f_ought with the fog in your head.

It was so weird. There were no reflections. The mugs and dishes you'd learned to use had a matte finish. Whatever glass you could see had too thick a film of dust or smeared with something to see anything past the vaguest of details. More of a suggestion than actual hints towards the reflection. Even your utensils were less shiny now, the metal worn smooth and dull. The phone reflected no light, as if it absorbed it all.

It was on purpose.

You couldn't shake the thought that none of this was real.

There was a reason you weren't supposed to see them, but why?

That was exactly why you had to know.

As you was_hed your hands your mind drifted, thinking about the mirror, thinking about the lack of mirror. You may just be remembering a mirror where the wasn't one, after all how many times had you found yourself reaching for something that wasn't there, or tripping over something that was? How many things in your s_urroundings was diffe_rent than what you expected them to be?

How many times had Wally helped you do _things you should know how to do?

You had to remember to learn more about that.

How many more times would you come in here, surprised at the sight around you?

How many times would you forget what you were trying to remember?

...

When you left the phone had been _sitting on the couch, propped up by the pillow. I_t now was laying inn_ocently on the table, already up and facing you. Wally was sitting in his chair, hands folded neatly in his la_p, legs crossed and foot bob_bing in the air. He smiled as you walked by, but didn't say anything, m_erely watching until you went out of sight.

Under the sink had been a clue, a reminder of the lies built around you. You needed to know why there were no circles. It was no longer a simple curiousity.

You demanded to know.

It was hard to keep _fighting, but your bared the r_oaring in your skull. You_r decision had been birth_ed by the scratched ramblings carved _into the wooden sink cabine_t, the pile of small reminder_s building too high. A s_tring off the blanket you didn't own, too bright to be made of anything y_ou knew of. A card from the deck of cards that appeared _on the table after you to_ld Wally you forgot where you put it. A piece from the chess set, c_ards from the monopoly board, the cursed square-rimmed mug that you ha_ted.

They wer_e all messages to yourself. The mug had been the hardest to sneak in, however you were able to do it after distracting Wally with the _promise of showing him how to make 'ants on a log', a children's snack you vague_ly remembered being mention_ed, sparked on by the need to esc_ape. He hadn't been fond of the ant mention, but he _said as long as the ants didn't get lost it would b_e okay.

You knew what you had to do. You knew how to provoke the daydream you were trapped in, an illusion of a peaceful reality not your own.

Your fingers were still raw from the splinter of metal you used to carve new messages into your hidden place in the bathroom, the shard tucked hastily into your pocket. It felt heavier than it should, the rough edge pressing into your skin, forcing you to remember.

You were becoming the master of your thoughts, the tamer of the beast that screamed for you to forget. You clipped its claws, filed its teeth, ripped free the horns that stabbed you so.

The closer you got to the kitchen the harder it was to walk, e^yelids drooping and vision blurring. Your feet began trailing, actively fighting you. Your t^oes were numb and your ankles loose, your knees threatening to b^uckle. Wally called out as you ducked behind the ^counter, crumpling into yourself, folded in a tangled mess.

His voice spiked when the sound of you sl^amming into the floor filled the air, his words blending into a meaniⁿgless droning. You ignored it, tuning out his moⁿotone concerns reverberating in your mind, because for once you knew what you had to d^o. For once you could think again, you were finally you again.

The trick, it turned out, was to think without thinking, to remember without memories. You had to adapt to the rules, as nonsensical as they were. You could think about what's right, but not what was wrong, so you focused on what should be right. If it was right for you to do this, then surely it wasn't wrong to forget to do it. It was right to do this, even if you didn't know what you were doing.

All you knew was that the circle meant something.

It was hard to think, hard to move, hard to force your body to work with you. You still fel^t distant, like you were compelling a body to move rather than doing it yourself. You were a ghost haunting yourself, trying to convince the sandy sea within that you were right.

That didn't matter though, because you were finally in control.

You stumbled where you needed to be, finding exactly the thing you needed. Through the tears and crac^kling static you could make out the silhouette of the fallen permanent marker, rolled under the lip of the kitchen cabⁱnets, now with a layer of dust. Was the dust there before? Or was it a sign of the passage of time?

Did you want to know?

It was cold when you grabbed it. Like an icicle dripping with darkened b^lood, you smeared it into the tile. The coagulation bui^lt up where you held it, merging you to it, flesh and blood becoming one. The tip was your weapon, the ink what you breathed, the marker becoming the solution to the problems you had.

Wally shouted for your attention, voice wobbling like it was too far, too close, everywhere and nowhere all at once. As if it was falling out your own ^mouth. Your head was so heavy, dizziness overwhelming. You swayed, one hand firmly planted on the ground, the other shaking as it smeared more ink into the til^e floor.

You couldn't breath, not from pressure but from a lack of remembering. Your heart skⁱpped beats, bouncing from a hectic rabbit's pace to that of a snail's. You felt like if you spoke it would tumble out your mouth, your blood becoming new fuel for the marker to feast upon.

It didn't matter.

You knew what you had to do.

Everything fizzled wheⁿ the tip of the marker met the tiled floor, the dark marks left unsure. It jerked as you drew, slower and slower to make sure it was accurate, knees aching, bones crying. After the first few m^arks it was like you couldn't stop, the ink black urging you on, demaⁿding freedom. Your arm bent weirdly and your eyes wouldn't sta^y open. It felt like your limbs kept growing longer and longer, stretching into strings, stretching out of sight.

This was the right thing to do, wasn't it?

The strings kept you steady, the marker sure as you reached the end. It tried to slip in^wards, physically tugging itself free from your hand, urging you to continue closer and closer inwards until it was filled. Until the pattern was completed, left where the world could see. Until it was completed, unable to be washed aw^ay.

This had to be the right thing to do.

Something flew out from behind ^you, a book thrown at your hand, crushing the marker out of your grip. You jumped back, eyes wide and vision flashing white, ^tiny dots whizzing around your head. Blindly you reached out, pus^hing off the ground and using whatever you could re^ach to stay upwards. Clambering to the bathroom while deaf to the shou^ts of your name you gagged, stomach heaving as everything flickered.

You had to remember this. It was important, it was vital. You could already feel hands digging into your brain to steal it away. You couldn't let it take it, you couldn't risk letting go.

The bathroom handle dug into your flesh when you shoved it open, ^metal threatening to pierce through. You only had a few more steps, the distance feeling longer and longer, a rope wrapped tight tugging you back.

You didn't know who was more mad at you. You couldn't find it in yourself to care.

The sl^am of the door was thunder, your trembling body the air it shook. The tile was cold, too cold, biting ice and threatening frostbite. The walls were too tall, walls bulging, walls pulsing, walls alive. You had one last thing to do while you had the ability to do so. One last thing to do while you were in control.

It was funny. The control didn't feel like your own.

You had to see the mirror.

Was this still a mirror? Or was it a window to the truth?

It tore off the wall with a ^tearing sound, too loud to be just tape. And when you looked in, it was dark, the sort of darkness that seemed to eat all ligh^t around it. The walls were dark, the pulsing worse. The ceiling was oozing with shadows like hon^ey, thick globs dripping down and pooling out of sight. Your reflection was hazy, barely yourself.

It was hazy, except for your eyes.

You were frozen, feet sinking into the nothing below, eve^rything beyond view of the mirror disappearing, fading and swirling until you couldn't remember it existed. Within your brain screamed voices, incomprehensible and not your own. They were too high, too low, too everything that you weren't, so hard to make out that they didn't ^sound like voices at all.

It was the eyes that were worse.

The last time you saw them, there had been fire.

The eyes didn't move, staring forwards even when you didn't. They were breaking through the windows of your own eyes, smashing through the glass, ripping out the frames. They flooded into the gaping holes where yours once were, becoming your eyes, becoming your _Sight, becoming all you could see.

You could only look where they wanted you to.

You felt like you were burning.

All over your skin began to crack, the flesh below bulging. In the mirror, the only way you could see, _The cracks turned into holes. They grew, steadily opening up, slits yawning as your stomach churned. Inside they turned white.

Maybe you were wrong.

The white was brighter than you'd ever seen, turning to an ocean of bubbling orbs separated only by your own skin. They revealed themselves as eyeballs, coating your arms, your neck, whatever part of yourself you could see. The pupils were gr_Owing, starting as specks of nothing as they pulsed larger, staring at you.

You wanted to forget.

All of them were staring at you.

You wanted to forget.

You wanted to forget.

You wanted to forget.

You wanted to forget.

There was banging on the doors, the impossible source your rescue. The ocean of eyes flickered over, but all you saw was the infinite shadows of nothingness, everything beyond the mirror lost to you. The eyes quivered, rolling in your skin, rolling with the illness within. You startled as the door was rip_Ped free from the hinges, the sudden light burning your skin.

There was a voice, but you couldn't understand it. The screaming was too loud.

You just wanted to forget.

...

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Chapter Text

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...

You could feel the remnants of its presence.

It slithered under your skⁱn, an itching sensation like a scab demanding to be scratched off. Where the eyebal^ls had been, the numerous fleshy orbs bulging unnaturally, there was n^ow the feeling of loss. It was like you lost apart of yourself, a part that not only ne^ver existed, but by all standards of human biology should never ^exist.

It wasn't all gone though, even when uprooted it lef^t shards of itself within you.

You could feel it.

It was felt not throug^h physical means, beyond the itching th^ere was a feeling like no other, it was feeling a world unknown. It was the felt ^through the knowledge of more. A more that was left ambiguous, a more that was blurry and cryptic, more ^aware of it due to knowing that you didn't know it all. It was extraordinary, and it was terrible.

It felt like you had been blind your whole life, only to finally gain ^sight in a non-euclidian world.

You were aware, ye^t unable to comprehend. You could feel the world around you like each particle was its own living cr^eature, a shared network of pinging thoughts connecting it all int^o one. It was felt without the use of vision or sound, the announcement of a greater existence that you were now privy to. You could tell the distance between you and whatever else purely by what whispers the object spoke, a language of not words.

It was a language of concepts.

And it was overwhelming.

You could ^feel the very difference in the air in your lungs, a buzz of life, the newfound experience that to live is merel^y a fluke of the mind. If everything could feel, regardless of whatever ^organs it may lack, then what made you so special? There was no distinction between yo^u and the other. The semantics had evolved beyond such limitations. It became pu^rely a matter of perspective, of whichever perspective you indulged in, whichever pers^pective you experienced in that moment.

Drifting between being and not, you were speechless.

For instance, you were the co^uch yet the couch wasn't you. The fabric became your skin, the metal frame your bones. You could feel the weight of your body pressing down on your stuffed foam insides, and you could feel the shape of your haⁿd pressing into the puffed arms. The warmth of your body seeped into your inanimate life, feeding comfort into emotionless existence.

Except none of that was true, because at the same time it wasn't ^you. It was merely a couch, one that you sat upon and nothing more.

You could become all that was not with on^ly a few thoughts, become all that you weren't. Yet still you were a ghost within yourself, a soul tⁱed to your body bound by human senses. You were forgetting to breath, completely lost to the overwhelming experience. And it didn't limit itself to only the couch, it was everything. From the walls of your apartment to the dus^t in the air, you felt everything like an extension of yourself, and you felt everything like you weren't a part of it.

It was a duality tha^t was too much to bear.

You scratched at your arms, nails sinking in too deep. You could stil^l feel the sea of eyes, and they could feel you. Your vision was blurry with t^ears, but you didn't need sight to see. You sank into the couch, body like a rag-doll, tears dripping down your face. They slid over your cheeks, darkening your shirt as they flowed free. You could feel the^m against your skin, and you could feel what it was like to free-fall from your own eyes.

It was too much.

The tears continued to drip.

Vaguely you could sense something moving, a presence both you and not. You could see yourself through its eyes, see yourself from only your own. A hand gently grabbed yours, and you carefully grabbed the hand of the weeping person. You tasted fear and pⁱty, loss and gain. Lapping them up with an eager hunger, you savoured the taste for they were the only thing that weren't you.

The haⁿd pushed your body into laying down, steady and omnipresent. Your hand pushed the body into the couch, shaking and afraid. The texture of the clothes against you hands was odd, the softness rubbing against itself rather than expected skin. The texture of your clothes against your bo^dy felt odd, the light weight deceptively annoying, an incessant declaration of purpose.

Your mouth opened to speak, and you waited patiently to hear the words. You were the one listening as you spoke, and you were the one speaking. The words were expected, and yet simultaneously they were the last thing you expected to hear. The tears multiplied as a sob tore through the room, the hand running through your hair.

What was it all for, if it was a wish to suffocate the very memories that birthed you? The very ones you fought to take back from the beyond? Was the pain not worth the knowledge of knowing? Did you not deserve to know?

"Please," the words were bleeding saccharine syrup, cloying in the heavy air. "Just make me forget."

There was a pause. A long, miserable pause. The hand continued to drift through your hair, tenderness matched by the hushed whisper.

"Oh Neighbour, are you sure? Isn't this what you wanted?"

Your response was a ghost of yourself, low and mournful between two painful sobs and the shaking of your head.

"Please, all I want is to forget."

The other stayed with you until the world was silenced. Until you couldn't feel the strands of your own hair through fingers that weren't your own, until the pressure of furniture upon the floor didn't feel like knives digging into your back. Until you were yourself once more, the roots of the eyes finally severed from the soil of flesh.

Beyond that, you didn't know.

Because you were you.

...

You pulled yourself up from the couch, awoken by the sound of scrubbing.

The apartment was bright, brighter than it had been, so bright it bordered on blinding. You _screwed your eyes shut, hands flying up to cover them partially as you slowly adjusted, black blobs fading in your vision. It was the sort of brigh_tness that you could feel burning in the back of your eyes, a radiating ache that begged for shadows. As far as you could tell, however, there were none.

Even as you now squinted, eyes nearly shut, you couldn't see any shadows. The few that were there were weak, more so suggestions of shadows rather than true shadows. And they were too small to take residence in, forcing you to adapt. It was hard to look higher than your feet, but as the seconds ticked by you didn't have to squint so harshly.

It wasn't right, but you didn't want to know.

Had it always been this bright in here? Where exactly was all the light c_oming from? Just by looking around you couldn't find the culprit. Where there should be light illuminating the apartment there weren't, just the sad remains of wires dangling from holes in your ceiling. The only place the light could come from was from the windows, and yet the unnaturally still white curtains in front of the windows would block enough of it that it wouldn't be this harsh.

You remembered the bitter taste of regret.

It was like you were behind a panel of stained white glass peering into a doll-house rather than your own apartment. A veneer filter warping all the colours into warm _pastels. The whites were painfully bright, the blacks now smokey grey. The blues were reminiscent of clear summer skies, the reds rosy pinks and browns a mix of dark creams and muddy corals. I_t was sweet, almost looking like icing on a cake rather than real life, but it was cold.

Everything felt cold.

It was a chill you felt within, even if the air was a lukewarm room temperature. Something didn't feel right, the room humming with offness. You could nea_rly taste it, like the air was infused with emotions. It was only made worse by the sound, the methodical scrubbing never ceasing, grating in the otherwise hushed environment.

The only other sound was your breathing. There were no noises coming from beyond the windows, no leaves rustling in the wind, no birds chirping morning tunes, no animals scrounging about. Not even the echo of cars rushing by on the road reached your lonely apartment, leaving _you feeling increasingly isolated.

All there was was you and that scrubbing sound.

It was rough, unfocused. Edging on frantic, it continued at an uneven pace. Cloth against t_ile, steel-wool against ceramic. The more you listened the louder it got, filling your ears, the scrubbing within your very skull. It swamped the otherwise peaceful lull, if you ignored the stark nothingness around you. The sound was accompanied by quiet, frustrated huffs of another perso_n.

You forgot other people existed.

It was unnerving, like finding a bleeding vein in otherwise cooked meat.

How could you forget that?

You paused, frowning.

How was there another person? Why was there another person? Who were they? Why were they cleaning your floor, out of all the things they could be doin_g? You didn't feel threatened at all, but you also felt on edge, ready to act. You knew it wouldn't be Rosie—the only other person with keys to your apartment. She had them because she owned the place and, in her words, in the off-chance you ever took off and she needed to get it—because she would be chat_ting away or offering you soup she miraculously made, not scrubbing your floor.

Your fingers tapped as you thought. You lived alone in a place with few neighbours that was also fairly isolated, few even knew of its location. And it wasn't like you were the type to forget if you lived with someone, though you very much knew that wasn't the case. It was an ingrained instinct to seek time for yourself, fuelled by years of habit and the comfort of being al_one.

You believed—whether it was healthy or not, it didn't matter to you—that ultimately you only had yourself to depend on in the grand scheme of things. It wasn't worth the troubles trying to depend on people you'd never fully trust, especially when it came to the important things. Perhaps, you'd admit, your independence was too extreme, leaving you to take on tasks that would have been _simpler with assistance. But you weren't a fan of asking for help, whether it had been previously offered or not.

You grew up well into independence. You wore it like an old sweater, comfortable and broken-in.

It was a you problem, not something to bother other people with! You could stay independent without floundering under the weight of responsibility, without struggling with the pressure of autonomy. Really, you could! You managed perfectly fine up until everything fell apart, but it wasn't because of something you did. You were merely a victim of circumstance, of unfortunate c_oincidences.

It was exciting, like your life finally had real meaning

And that was completely different than someone drowning under the consequences of their own over-independence because it wasn't your fault. It happened to you because Wally hijacked your phone to live there, not due to mistakes you made or f_lights of fancy. Truly, you were doing absolutely wonderful before that, so your self-reliance was definitely healthy. And normal. Healthy and normal, your two fa_vourite things to be.

You loved to lie to yourself, didn't you? And to Rosie, she hated when people spoke like that. Said it was cruel to others, but you'd rather be alone.

You blinked, forgetting the sound as realization struck.

You could think again! Thoughts were blooming in the fertil_e soil of your mind, the fog finally parting to let them flourish. There was only a loose pressure left in your head, a headache so minor compared to what you had before that you could easily ignore it. It was a sleeping snake no longer clenching down, satisfied with whatever meal it swallowed whole, leaving you to rest.

You could finally remember that this wasn't all _there was. Your life wasn't just a series of days—hours? Weeks? You still didn't know how much time had passed—spent in an unnaturally bright place playing board games with character from an old debatably real puppet s_how, you had a say it. After all, it was your life. You knew where you were now, you remembered your name and hobbies, and you remembered that something was horribly wrong.

It was relieving knowing some memories were completely gone.

You sighed, fingers tapping faster as the sound continued. Was it the brightn_ess that was wrong? It certainly didn't look right, but it wasn't alarming. Was it the lack of noise? That was certainly off-putting, for the nature around you never truly became quiet, but you had grown used to that. And it wasn't the noise a_lone, because even if you knew someone was there, you knew that it wasn't someone dangerous.

You didn't think about how many memories were missing, just glad that they were.

You counted to three before jumping off the couch, arm wrapped around your m_iddle as a wave of dizziness hit. You cursed, stumbling into the arm of the couch, leaning on it for support. It seemed that while your thoughts were smoother, more your own, you were still disorientated. A newborn deer in a _violently shaken snow-globe, gracelessly try_ing to make your way through the snowstorm.

You didn't let that stop you from learning the source of the _noise, progress slow and unsure. The world was wobbling, _gravity pulling you to and fro. The kitchen was further away than you remember, taking twice, thrice as long as it should just to reach the counter. The scrubbing continued undisturbed, unaware or uncaring of your approach.

You peered over the counter, eyes wide.

Wally was on his knees in your kitchen, cloth in hand and bucket of _murky water beside him as he scrubbed the floor.

You shut your eyes and pinched yourself.

Were you hallucinating? Had you finally lost it?

You looked again, staring at the sight.

Facing away from _you, Wally Darling himself was on his knees in your kitchen _scrubbing away at the tiled floor. His blue pompadour was messy, strands of tangled wavy hair loose around his face. He pushed the hair back, muttering things you couldn't make ou_t under his breath, shoulders hunched and tight.

From what you could see, his hands were now a golden orange from the water, fingertips stained a grimy black. His clothes were dishevelled, striped pants full of creases. His navy cardigan was unbutton_ed and slipping off his shoulder, the dagger-collar of his button-up dappled with various inky fingerprints.

Carefully you _reached out and poked his shoulder, leaping back with a cr_y when he was solid. You were hoping, on some level, that he was just a figment of your imagination, but he was too solid to be so. He was real, and he was actually physically in your kitchen. You were _torn between running away and casually saying hello, because you had known, to some degree. Instead you froze, mind buffering.

You knew all along, but it was so much nicer when you pretended that you didn't. Because if he could be here, what could hop through that handy portal he made from your phone? That was what actually scared you, not Wally.

... you didn't quite know how to feel about Wally.

When he spotted you he shuffled around and grinned, his eyes nearly s_hut. Dropping the cloth he cheerfully waved, seemingly unaware of the sheer confusion his existence was c_ausing.

"Hello Neighbour, fancy meeting you here!"

You stared, eyes wide. It was trance inducing, the colours he wore brighter than anything else in the apartment, like he alone was free of the pastel fil_ter it was drowning in. It was bizarre seeing him in real life, no longer confined to a tiny screen all hand-drawn. You could see the felt-like texture of his skin, the soft knit of his sweater, the sheen of his oxford shoes.

"Wally, what the hell are you doing here?"

He made a tutting noise and shot you a cat-like look, his pupils impossibly black. His eyes had the same glossy sheen as glass, eyelids a tame orange that you couldn't tell if it _was natural or makeup. His lack of nose surprisingly wasn't odd in the slightest, despite it being a fe_ature faces typically have. It was strange, but him being there was almost calming.

He shouldn't be there, and yet his prese_nce was reassuring, familiar.

He used his reflection in the oven glass—hadn't that been blocked off? How was it reflective now?—to fix his hair, tucking back the strands he could. He also straigh_tened his cardigan, dusting off the shoulders and buttoning it up to how it usually was. In the matter of seconds, he was able to compose himself, although you could still see the remains of his frazzled _state.

"Oh Friend, there's no need to be rude! I would've thought you'd be happy to see your guest helping out, after all I've been here for a while."

He leaned forwards, still on his knees. He studied your face, the brows kni_t with worry.

"You do remember all the time we've spent together, don't you?

You glared, "what are you doing in my kitchen?"

He glanced around inn_ocently, shrugging his shoulders. Your eyes narrowed, still wary of the man—puppet? Person? It was confusing—before you. You had spent the last however long with him and he hadn't left the phone then, so why now? You weren't going to put up with excuses, and you _could tell by his look that he wasn't g_oing to play honest.

"Maybe you're dreaming, Neighbour! You know I can't leave the ph-"

"Just answer my question Wally!"

"...would you believe me if I said you're imagining me here?"

"No? You're literally in my home right now! And you also aren't supposed to be real, yet here we are."

Even now he _never blinked, smile easy. He placed his hands flat on his lap, tapping a little pattern before answering.

"Would you be kind enough to humour me?"

You wished that he wasn't so... creative, in his choices of conversation. He spoke lots when you played games, so why not now?

"Look, the cat's out of the bag, I know your dirty little secret. Why haven't you told me you can leave the phone?" You rolled your eyes, _shaking your head. You had to stifle down your growing anger, because no matter how much you wanted to shout at him you needed him to cooperate, and l_uring him into a civil conversation was the best you could offer.

He didn't see_m to understand that you were having a conversation with him, or he was purposefully getting on your nerves by ignoring you. He rock_ed on his heels, taking his sweet time getting up. Standing tall he dusted off his knees before tucking his hands behind his back. You stepped away, gaping at him.

Instead of standing twelve apples tall, or whatever ambiguously short height _you expected, he was your height. Eye to unblinking eye, exactly even. Sensing your questi_on, he shrugged and continued to stare, unwavering in his resolve to not answer your questions. You narrowed your eyes.

That was another thing you'd have to ask him, because that certainly wasn't expected.

He was s_upposed to be tiny by most standards.

He finally spoke, after minutes of you losing a staring contest against him. He tilted his head, feline smirk dancing on his lips as he wiggled his pinky finger in the air.

"I'm here because I can't break my promise. What sort of neighbour would I be if I didn't keep it?"

You blinked, mind racing. What promise? You don't remember making any sort of promise with him.

"Oh don't be like that, Friend, you want answers, don't you? And before you mention it, it isn't really breaking a promise if the other person doesn't remember making it! It's polite not to mention it because the other person will feel bad forgetting. Anyways Neighbour, you weren't well enough to understand me earlier."

"There is so much to unpack in what you just said."

Wally cocked his head.

"What do you mean? I didn't give you anything you can open."

You sighed, massaging your temple. You genuinely thought he was charming, when you shared banter during the various games you played. Though thinking about it, you weren't sure if that was genuine or influenced by the unthinking daze you'd been in. But now he was frustrating, dodging your questions with his carefree smile, standing in the perfect spot so you couldn't see whatever he had been scrubbing.

"Will you at least tell me what you were doing in my kitchen? Beyond just 'helping out'."

"Just doing some spring cleaning, don't worry about it. Now, how about we go sit down?"

He marched up and gently grabbed your shoulders, guiding you back to the couch. The firmness of his hands was shocking, not because of the strength he used but instead due to the _jolting reminder that he was actually real. In an odd way, talking to him felt almost normal if yo_u pretended he was still in the phone, he implanted himself in your life so well that the idea of his absence felt wrong.

It was the physical sensation of his hands that you found shocking, just the fact that he existed.

It meant you couldn't pretend that he was a weird bug or app in your phone, you couldn't pretend that you deluded yourself into believing some weird graphic_s were really alive, for how could he be alive while living in a digi_tal life? Now you were forced to recognize that i_t was true that the phone was a link between _realities, and that his reality existed in the same way yours did. That you were interacting beyond the bounds of the comprehended universe.

Wally was an impossibility bro_ught to life, or rather one that fought to become real in your world.

And you still didn't know how he did so.

You also didn't know why he wanted to leave his world so badly.

He hummed as he went about, collecting a few thing_s before joining you. He moved confident around your apartment, knowing exactly which closet you kept spare blankets in as he took one out. Folding it leng_thwise, he leaned down and tucked it around your shoulders like a shawl, patting you on the shoulder before moving on.

Next he went to the kitchen, putting on a kettle you didn't own to heat up water. Within a few _minutes he had two steaming cups, both in mugs distinctly lacking any circles. He was still humming as he tidied up and brought out what turned out to be tea, Wally handing you a mug with another lingering pat to your shoulder.

You frown_ed.

He was oddly... touchy.

Cautiously you reached out and grabbed his hand. Wally stopped humming with a sharp inhale, freezing in place with huge eyes staring down at you. His han_d was soft, the skin like a dense layer of felt that—if you pressed down, which you did _only after you were confident he wouldn't pull away—your fingers could sink into. You could feel some sort of bo_ne structure similar to your own hand, though buried deeper under his plushy flesh unlike your own.

Experimen_tally you dragged your thumb over his knuckles, and his reaction confirmed your suspicion. He looked away, cheeks dusting sunny orange, his smile wavering as he began rocking on his heels once more. Unsurprisingly, once you thought it over, Wally appeared to be touched starved. Or at least it looked that way, with how he gingerly stepped away once you let his hand go, looking down at it in wonder when he thought you weren't looking.

You had been preparing to give him a piece of your mind, but what you _felt now was almost... pity.

Hadn't he done something to earn this anger?

You hadn't questioned it before, but where had he been before your phone? Previously you assumed he w_as with the rest of Home's residents, however he sure_ly wouldn't be so eager for interaction if that was the case? There was the possibili_ty that it was just something he did, after all you'd also be a bit nervous if you were in his shoes, but that didn't sound right.

From what media you remember, Wally always sounded like a laid back guy, unflappably pati_ent. The sort of person that if his efforts proved to be in vain, he'd shrug and say there would be more days to try, say that it was a learning experience.

And certainly the Wally before you was languid, perfectly content in taking his time. Yet it was more like a performance, a game of charades you stumbled into and only now learned how it went. The small habits of his gave him away. He was unsure, possibly as uncomfortable as you we_re.

Steeling yourself, you coughed to catch his attention. It was now or never, the final moment before whatever he'd dump on you. You couldn't remember the promise made, so you shot for a vague prompt to worm as much information from him as you could. He owed you this, and you were going to make him talk whether he worked with you or not.

You took a sip of tea before you spoke.

"So, tell me everything."

...

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Chapter Text

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...

The silence was disturbing.

The time since you last heard another person, let alone another person in these walls, had been long. It stretched out like taff^y, looping into itself, strings of time lost and strands of time remembered intertwining into your faulty memory. You had grown unaccustomed to the noise, found it jarring compared to the empty audio landscape you previously lived in.

Back then you only heard your own breathing. But now that changed, and you hadn't realized how grating it would be until this very moment. It wasn't just the sound of your blood rushing in your ears or the sound of your heart thrumming with life anymore. The tapping of y^our fingers wasn't the only drumming in your environment, it wasn't even the loudest anymore.

While originally off-putting, the level of control over all audio sensations had become comforting. You learned to seek it out, as any other noise sounded wrong, disjointed. It became a comforting blanket you wrapped yourself in, a layer of protection against the strangeness that overtook your apartment.

It was deafening.

Sure, Wally spoke to you d^uring those times, but his voice had been confined within the phone. It was less present then, less real, less everything. Other than the rare spike of static blurring whatever noise he did make—the sound of shuffling of feet or clink of objects too r^are to remember—no other sound came from the phone, just his voice. And now that was no longer the case.

You could hear the subtle movements of Wally settling into the cushioned chair, fabric rubbing against itself, foam insides giving into his weight. You could hea^r his breathing, slower than yours. It was awkward, clumsy, unused. The pauses between breaths were too long, the inhales hitching and lagging. Even when it smoothed out—after the silence between you both grew uncomfortabl^e—it was still peculiar.

It was the mimicry of the action. Bre^athing not for the sake of living, but rather for the simple fact it could be done. A sort of 'why not?' situation, where the dichotomy between his puppet and human-like nature ^fought each other, producing an uncanny valley effect. Except it didn't, because it was less overwhelming than the steady breathing of another human like yourself, because it was Wally.

It didn't, only because he was the familiar in a w^orld where nothing stayed the same.

You didn't know when your brain began placing Wally in a separate category from the rest of everyone you knew. However he now sat in a unique p^osition in your mental eye, neither friend nor foe nor acquaintance. Your re^lationship with him, whatever it was, was off-balance by power dynamics. You, the master of the phone. Him, the hauntee depending on you.

He was someone you grew to know more than ^anyone else you otherwise knew. Someone you began to understand, learning to read his own personal brand of social language. You saw Wally as himself and no longer a suggestioⁿ of what he could be, what he should be.

It was terrifying, in a way, because he shouldn't exist at all. Not as a living being, not as a facsimile of such. He was built to be a puppet and nothing more, attached to strings and force^d to dance, his fate sealed by his very nature. And yet he was not, evolving into his own puppet-master, rewriting his very existence into sentience. He reached beyond anything he was intended to be.

It was fascinating, you wouldn't deny that, but ⁱt was worrying.

You could pretend to know him, to have grown used to his quirks and existence, but at the end of the day you didn't know what he was. You didn't know the ^why, the how, the reasons behind what he was doing. You didn't know how much power he did have, or what power he didn't. You didn't know where he stood between you and the... something. There was something else, right?

What were you thinking about?

You were so glad you couldn't remember! Truly you were, but it made thinking so much more difficult.

The sheer number of unknowns was daunting, but you learned how to embrace it.

Or you told yourself that. Human adaptability can only be pushed so far, lest it snap and leave you in ruins.

Currently Wally was watching you with half-lⁱdded eyes, head tilted and smile easy. It was as if he could hear your thoughts, his smile twitching when you pondered him, pupi^ls shaking when you questioned the unknown. You fe^lt like you were on display, a sea of cameras eagerly watching your every move, drinking in every movement regardless of how meaningless.

At that moment he chose to look away—or at the very least he pretended to—for your assumed comfort. Shifting his ^body weight and turning around he checked out the place in all but reality. For the entire time he kept his gaze on you, trapping you, making sure h^e always knew where you were. And you could tell, based purely off of how perfectly he placed down his mug of tea without sparing a glance, that he had an intimate understanding of ^your apartment's layout.

It was down to the inert details of where your side table was, where the chain of the lamp dangled free, the distance between every nook and cranny and himself. And it could have been normal, it could have been the passing familiarity of the actions warped through paran^oia to appear overly intimate with your home. It could have been, if it hadn't been for the fact that it was Wally Darling sitting there.

Wally, who wasn't of your world.

Wally, who hadn't understood your need to eat until you explained it to him.

Wally, who lived in the cage of your phone for however long and by all means shouldn't be so used to your apartment.

After all, no matter how many times yo^u watched a video within one setting, you would only be acquaintance with the visuals of it and not the physical make up. You wouldn't understand how the b^reeze danced between the leaves and how it felt against your face. Nor could you feel the rough wicker-basket handle in your hands, or smell the scent of food within wafting free.

You would recognize the aesthetics and you could replicate it, but it would be impossible to truly understand what it would be like to be there unless you previously were there yourself. A quirk of reality, a simple fact of nature. Vision was the human's primary sense, but visual aesthetics weren't the only component in the creation of existence.

What were you implying? How long did Wally have this ability and not tell you?

He sighed and turned to face you once more. Legs crossed, foot swaying as he leaned back into the arm chair. His behaviour wasn't confrontational in the slighted, and yet he stoo^d out highlighted compared to the dull banality of the environment of the apartment. As if he was glowing, luminous in the vapid haze. A captured star gleaming with energy gained from billions of years of the constant state of being, simultaneously new and learning. He was still studying h^ow to be.

You weren't used to being around other people anymore.

Was that bad? It didn't feel like a bad thing, but you weren't so sure you should trust yourself.

Wally set both hands on his knee and folded his fingers together. His eyes, still half-lidded, ^were larger now as he peered deep into yours with a similar curiousity as you felt towards him. You could see your own reflectioⁿ within them, see how you were no longer yourself. Hair messy, skin paler than normal, a downgrade from your typical self.

A melancholy settled in your guts. It was the only re^flection in the entire space.

You weren't supposed to notice that. Did you learn nothing?

He coughed before he spoke, the same comforting voice you were sharing your life with.

"It would be my pleasure to answer your question, Neighbour, but explain everything? Everything includes so much! It would take forever to explain it all... but I can try, if that's what you want."

He leaned forw^ards, glancing around wearily before gesturing for you to lean forwards too. His eyes were bigger, larger and larger as you ^leaned towards him, too intrigued to refuse. Up close you could see the light dusting of fuzz on his skin, golden yellow and nearly c^lear. Faintly, as he paused and stared, you could hear him breathing.

He cupped his hand around your ear, and you shook with the thought of finally knowing.

"What you have in your hand there, My Friend, is a mug."

You blinked.

He, noticeably, never did.

"Also called a cup, this one is made out of clay that was fired in a kiln to become ceramic. Used for dri-"

"Wally," you deadpan. "That's obviously not what I meant."

He laughed, head thrown back and eyes curled shut. It was as halting and different as you remembered, now free of the fuzzy distorting it had through the phone. He tried speaking, but the words were lost in the sound of his slow, monotone giggles. He couldn't hold them in even when he tried, arms wrapping around his torso like a hug, failing to restrict it.

You could see how the corner of his eyes partially—because it was hard to tell based on his felt-like nature of his skin, but so far his expressions seemed based on human ones, so _you thought the same principals applied?—wrinkled, how his cheeks still carried the sunset orange tinge, how his shoulders shook. Though you weren't sure if he was toning his reaction down _or exaggerating it, you could still notice that he was happy. He was content, at peace despite the impossible circumstance.

Or at least, that's what he wanted you to believe.

Or maybe he was, and you were thinking too much.

Buried under the confidence, the a_ura of carefully thought-out actions and cherry-picked words he exuded a worrisome lack of control. It wasn't just based on how he looked—his hair falling free from the strict pompadour, strands tumbling around his face and sticking out haphazardly. Faint bags under his eyes, a dull purple-infused gold that you could only really see when he closed his eyes—but also with ho_w he was behaving.

He was fighting from slouching into the chair, the arms around keeping h_im upright. His staring was too intense, not just with how he stared into your eyes but also in the area around you, searching and searching, seeking for something else, something that wasn't you. And there were still those inky fingerprints on the collar of his shirt, the tips of his fingers still stained black. What had he been doing in the kitchen?

You weren't supposed to want to know. Weren't you happy to forget?

There was something e_lse going on.

"I'm sorry Neighbour, I simply couldn't help myself."

Wally returned to tapping his fingers, eyes soft. The very picture of a po_lite gentleman, back straight and tone peaceful, the folds in his clothes spread smooth and ascot perfectly centered. It was uncanny, how quickly he could change, though the more you searched the more you noticed the edges of him were blurry, filtered behind a light haze.

You were supposed to stop searching. Why couldn't you stop yourself from noticing?

"Just answer my questions, Mr. know-it-all. Why are you here? How are you here? What happened to my apartment, and what the hell is in my kitchen you don't want me to see?"

"My my, you have so many questions Neighbour! I thought you weren't into that anymore...?"

You froze.

The air tasted of smoke.

What was he talking about?

Had you talked before? Was this not the first time he's sat down and explai_ned things to you? You were aware that your memory had be_en failing you recently, but you were getting better, weren't you? Sure, the last... howe_ver long had been a blurry changeless rhythm of mindless activities, but wouldn't you remember something like this? Wouldn't the shock of seeing a fictional character waltz around your apartment be something that stood out to you?

Or was he...

Was he referring to that.

The strange dr_eam you had, a semi-lucid cacophony of pseudo sensations masquerading as a new way of experiencing the world? Surely not, how could he know? Even you didn't... even you only knew that it happened, and that it had been absolutely, undeniably horrible. Tasting the everlasting flavou_r of passing oblivion, the connectivity to everything and nothing and the terrible, terrible pain of having the molecules of your very being being ripped apart.

That was more than you should be remembering. Why were you remembering? You didn't want to remember.

He couldn't...

He couldn't be referring to that because he couldn't have known.

It was a dream, nothing more.

It wasn't connected to anything else.

Why were you thinking about it? You agreed you didn't want to know, you begged not to know.

Illness swirled in your stomach, _headache building as you fought with your own mind. Two parts of you were screaming out, one pleading for you to leave these thoughts be and escape with a distraction. The other demanded you keep searching for the answer, demanded you never stepped down until yo_u got it.

Wally took your silence as an answer, even though you hadn't fully processed the implications of his words.

"Hmmm... I guess you don't remember. Oh well! Don't think about it, I must have gotten my words mixed up. Silly me!"

You couldn't look up at him, you couldn't stand looking into those eyes. Because you knew that he hadn't misspoken. Wally, as you've lea_rnt, didn't say things for no reason. Each word was always purposeful, even if the purpose itself was to have none. Another paradoxical feature of his existence, logic warped from the norm of your world while making perfect sense to him.

You just had to adapt to it.

Your voice caught in your throat, clinging there. You searched for the words, raking _through your mind to find the exact question to ask. You needed to know what was going on, but you had to stay away from certain trains of thoughts or risk falling on the _tracks, crushed under them and swept back into the foggy abyss you barely escaped from.

Wally was watching you eagerly, scooting to the edge of his seat. The tapping of his fingers sped up, harsh in your ears. With clenched teeth you internally yelled at yourself. This shouldn't be so hard, it shouldn't be so difficult just to think. But the longer you tried the worse it got, the pressure building and the discord within strengthening.

You shouldn't do this. You agreed not to. You didn't want to. You didn't want to know. You wanted to drift off in the peaceful arms of ignorance and never let go.

So why couldn't you stop yourself?

You looked around, feet shuffling on the carpet below as you pondered what you could, what didn't come with restrictions enforced by something you didn't understand. If you went broad, but not too much, surely you'd get some sort of answer out of him? Like casting a net wide, you were certain to get at least a few fis_h, even if you already had some tucked away somewhere, at least it could be confirmation of your suspicions.

You swallowed down anxiety, "How are you here?"

Internally you fist bumped yourself, proud of coming up with a question that could l_ead him down into explaining more. Why you were here, what happened to your apartment, why was your head so heavy, and most importantly, what the hell was up with Wally? Too tall, too aware, too free from the phone. But it was _more important to know the how, because it would give a foundation to lay the rest of the answers upon.

His smirk was back.

"How am I? I'm doing peachy! How are you, Dear Friend?"

You wilted. Couldn't he take you seriously? You deserved answers, you had the r_ight to understand your own surroundings, did you not? You frowned as he laughed again, Wally waving his hand to lighten the mood once he noticed how unamused you were.

"I know, I know, you want to really know why I'm here. Sorry Neighbour, but you're just so fun."

"I said how, not why."

"Sure sure, but don't go sharing this with anyone. This is our little secret, okay? Promise me you won't tell anyone."

The air chilled, his pupils expanding. They pulled you in, reaching over the distance between both of you and grabbing hold of your shoulders, holding you tight, pinning you in place. You couldn't look away, his words rang in your head, booming in your ears. They _were weighty, important, dragging you downwards, deeper into the abyss. Hands trembling, you tried not to choke under the pressure. Still, you floundered.

What were you agreeing to? This wasn't normal, this was so far from normal it was unbelievable. Who would you tell? Who could you tell? Who would ever believe you?

You nodded.

He appeared satisfied with that answer, albeit if not more intense than before. Pupils flared, eyes yawning wide, smile spreading too far. Wally swayed closer, sitting on the very edge of his seat. Elb_ows on his knees, hands entangled and fingers dancing, he looked giddy, enraptured whatever you agreed to.

You made the right decision, right?

"Oh My Dear, Dear Friend, you won't regret this, not at all. Now I can tell you all you want to know, it's so exciting! I bet you'll even understand me this time! So, are you ready? All settled in? "

He clapped his hands together, his bubbly exterior counteracted by the flat to_ne of his voice. It was a little louder now that he was excited, but still barely a step away from being droning. The sense of dread built, low and worming in your gu_ts. It bit at your stomach walls, a slithering snaking illness compounded by the chill in the air, the intensity in his gaze.

This time? What did that mean, what did that imply? Had he told you this before? Had you had this conversation before? Surely you would have remembered?

"It's really quite simple; I'm here because you thought of me. Quite a lot in fact! The more you thought of me the more you filled the gaps in the concept of me in your world. You made it more accurate, Neighbour, which means I can visit you now. Really, I must thank you Neighbour, because it's you that let me be here!"

"But I didn't-"

"Oh I know you didn't know, but isn't that the fun part? Just by being friends you gave me life, how lovely is that?"

The sinking feeling got worse. He was speaking faster now, getting up from the chair and swiftly moving closer, sitting back down on the table by you. His words kept flowing, like he couldn't stop them. Exhil_arated that you were there to listen, but it wasn't right. You weren't speaking, you were only reacting. Lagging behind the sheer energy he exuded, dazz_ling in the dul_l apartment.

"Does that mean-"

"Oh don't be silly Friend, I wasn't using you. It hurts that you'd think that about me. We're friends, right? And friends help each other. And you certainly helped me!"

The unsettling dread became heavier with each word shared. It was familiar in the intensity, in the hunger you felt to understand, in the hunger you felt pr_owling in your mind, pouncing on every thought you had, shredding it as he responded without you verbalizing them. It _was as if he was in your very mind, his presence too much for your world, too much for you to handle.

"How does tha-"

"I've told you in the simplest way I can, but I can explain it again for you Neighbour. By knowing me you fed energy into my existence here, building the conceptual me of your world into something more... well... more me. And the more you thought, the more energy was given! And now it's stable enough that I can be here. Isn't that just swell?"

He reached out, hesitating br_iefly before grabbing your hand, shaking it vigorously with bo_th of his, grinning even wider.

"Yes yes I must thank you so, you freed me! This isn't enough... how can I show you how thankful I am?"

He let go of your hand, pulling back like you burned him. Shaking his head Wally curled inwards as he thought, as still as a statue other than the quick-paced tapping of his foot. You stared, gaping at him. You... you didn't like the implications of his words, you didn't like how he pushed the power onto you.

You weren't the one to make the portal.

You weren't the one to trap him in your phone.

You weren't the one that dragged him into any of this.

You never forced him to stick around.

Right? Right? You couldn't have, because you didn't have that power. That would be ridiculous! Absurd! You were no different than any other person, so why did he pretend that you were so special?

"Wally."

You couldn't have done anything like that.

But maybe from his perspective... What are you to him? As a puppet is he aware of what he was built for? Does he consider himself a puppet? Does he still consider himself a puppet? Did he ever?

He snapped his fingers, jumping up from the table. His eyes were still gaping too wide, h_is stare too intense, altogether too much. He gestured wildly as he spoke, smoothing out the wrinkles of his clothes as he spun to face you.

"Wally-"

"I got it! I'll make you food, you need that right? To survive? What do you want to eat? How do you eat? I saw you through the phone, but I want to learn more. I want to learn everything you'll-"

"Wally!"

He froze, ti_lting his head. His foot was still tapping, growing faster as you looked at him. You could practically feel the waves of excitement rolling off of him, the lights burning brighter. You didn't know what you wanted, you didn't know what to say. But you needed him to explain himself before he got too distracted. It wasn't fair for him to know, and it wasn't fair for him to pretend it was simple when it wasn't.

Concepts weren't real, they were words to describe what was real. How could he exist if the concept of him, whatever that meant, wasn't 'solid' in your world? Did he understand the s_ignificance of his claims? That, if thought enough, something could be reincarnated into your world? That it could hijack the shared thoughts into a body to breathe with, into a life to live in?

"What do you mean that I brought you here? Humans can't do that, you know that right? We can create, but we can't bring things to life."

You knew he already explained himself, and that made sense. It wasn't that you needed help understanding. It was the importance of those words. How if you took it not as an interesting thought experiment but rather a true fact of reality, it went against how you knew the physical world to function.

He hummed, looking down at his hands.

You followed the sight, puzzled. His hands looked like any other human hands, if one ignored the ob_vious difference of sunflower yellow fleece and fingernails that were merely sunny orange thread woven into semicircles. The fle_ece moved like skin and he seemed to be able to feel through it too, the fabric having no sway over his sense of touch. With four fingers and a thumb, though more full and rounded than your own fingers, they were strikingly similar.

Holding them out _where you could clearly see, he flexed them. First the p_inky, then moving inwards until each finger moved. Then he clenched his fists, rotating them around as you examined them. The stains were still there on his finger tips, covering all the felt up to the first knuckle before fading in a murky green-tinged grey. There wasn't a single freckle nor a s_tring out of place. Truly the perfect anatomical fusion between _human and puppet, based on what you saw in front of you.

"I guess you don't remember, do you Neighbour? The idea of me you have is more me than anything else in your world, but it isn't fully accurate. See my hands? I'm supposed to have three fingers, not four."

He focused, unclenching his hands and holding them in h_is face, pupils flaring wider as he stared at them. The air chilled once more, thick in your lungs. Subconsciously you shifted back, i_nstincts begging you to move away.

"Don't worry, Friend. I can fix your mistake. But please stop thinking about our conversation, okay? Your thoughts are already so loud, and that isn't good. I worry about you, you know."

His hands filled your vision once more. He flexed them once, then twice, humming as he did so. You wa_tched in horror as his pinky finger began shrinking, thinning and thinning until it was no more than a spindly twig off the branc_h of his palm. Like leftover thread from s_ewing they dangled from the sides of his hands, palms now slim_mer, fingers ever so wider, rounder.

The strings twisted _in the air as they slowly snaked back under his skin, disappearing with a sickly sucking noise. You struggled with the unwell sensation bubbling in your sto_mach, the illness clawing at your throat, the wrongness of the sight making your head spin.

Wally winked at you, cl_apping his hands once more.

"That wasn't too bad, see? It's all fixed!"

Your vision was blurry, eyes burning as you struggled to focus on anything. It was disorientating, disturbing, discordant in a way you could actually taste. Your surroundings flickered dark, the sunlight disap_pearing, the lights vanishing. Everything lurched back, throwing you into the couch, tossing you like a r_ag-doll.

There was a laye_r of dust on everything, the air stale. Wally fizzled in front of you, jumping from where he previously was to this new posi_tion, as if he teleported. You struggled to f_ocus on him, the darkness oozing over your surroundings, everything steadily drifting away until you were le_ft only with the sight of him. You couldn't even see your own hands when you held them up, not even your own body when you looked down.

Wally carefully fel_t your forehead, pus_hing away any strands of hair to feel your temperature. You struggled to push him away, the touch burning, the sight of Wally painful. The world kept flickering betwe_en the shadows and the bright warm ransacked apartment you came to feel safe in. Like it was struggling between the two, Wally's presence the only thing unchanged between them.

He covered your eyes, _monotone humming filling your ears.

"Oh dear, you really must stop thinking so hard, you'll only make it worse. Take a deep breath and focus on me, can you do that Neighbour? Look at me and ignore whatever you think you're seeing, okay? You're safe with me"

You blinked.

You didn't understand what he was saying.

...

The world went white.

...

You heard the phone ring.

...

You finally remembered. He was the one to make you forget.

...

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lKe yhapqzaiiez wy ufao fa, nhy gbc fo uietzqg mm niav Ppbuqz twe vrsx wq bci iwhu.

Chapter Text

...

Everything was dark.

Wally's hands spluttered from your view, his voice distorting into a booming, echoing static. The outline of light between his fingers melted from a hopeful orange to melancholic brown, into charcoal before fading altogether. The sensation of his hands, smooth and soft and solid, turned prickling until it too vanished, leaving you alone.

Alone once more.

The last of his message murmured in your mind as you peered into your new surroundings. Gone was the apartment of dust, now replaced with a suffocating gloom. The darkness was back, denser, tangible, hanging low and heavy. It with so thick you could breathe it in and taste the sour mildew of it, the musty of decay. It swamped your lungs, taking refuge in the inner lining of your organs, taking root within you.

It lasted the blink of an eye.

The ceiling above was a bubbling, oozing sky of shadows. A pulsating mass of sinew that clung tight, a spiralling network of inky tendrils t^hat dug and shifted and grew. Roots of absence germinated into flowering stems, air clogged with its spores, artificial fog drowning the last remaining light.

Alive yet not, consuming and starving, a paradoxical crime of unnature. It dribbled down the walls, more tendrⁱls snaking down and leaving a coating of ebony sludge. It gnawed on the last of the pigment left in the environment, sharp and steady. It drained free all colour, replacing them with a sea of murky greys that overlapped each other, fighting for dominance in the ever darkening ^surroundings. Seeing anything was a struggle, for the only thing clear in your vision was the stark, anomalous presence of it.

With a wet, choked sound a chunk hit the ground by your foot, splattering into a spreading, pulsing growth. The droplets that hit your foot stung, phantom acid eating through your skin, burning rods jabbed in. It threatened to multiply as another chunk fell, oozing threads of pitch-black flesh stretching out and connecting to the other fallen globs, a web sprouting between them.

You found yourself unable to move, the tendrils hanging in the air, connecting up as more spores flooded the air, darkening your vision further. The masses now pooled on the ground were slowly reaching out to you, the texture of molasses. Your heart was beating at a rabbit's pace, a tremb^ling bird trapped in a cage thrown down a pit, the dying taste of freedom. Skin clammy, damp with sweat and covered in goosebumps, your mouth was painfully dry. Tongue stuck to your teeth, your gums ached, tasting of bitter aluminum.

You could feel its intentions in the very air, feel how the pulsing ink aimed for you, extended towards you. How it fought to clamber onto your skin, into your pores, into your very body. How ⁱt thrilled to devour you, to make your body rot in the very sludge you would be birthed into; forced eclipse of the self. Feverish in its need to control, to be all, to become; it founder^ed.

It struggled to find its prey.

To find You.

Still you felt like you were drowning.

Even if the dripping gunk couldn't find you—not yet, not yet. You dared hope it wouldn't find you—that didn't mean it wouldn't try. The hunt wouldn't be ^sacrificed for the miserable concept of pride nor mercy. For it did not care for such things. Its only priority was to consume what it saw, to envelop what it deemed no longer needed, no longer required.

No longer worthy of being.

You could taste the conviction, you could taste the resolve. It existed for a purpose, and it would fulfill that purpose. Despite the new world it was in, despite the disadvantage of a genuine reality, it would thrive purely because it deem it right to do so. ^Created without expiration, it was incapable of understanding the concept of failure.

More and more chunks fell from the ceiling, almost reminding you of br^ains, their membranes bursting into indistinguishable pulsating puddles, splattered droplets staying afloat in the air. Rather than falling they popped once again, smaller and smaller into the fog of spores already present. Ready to spread, ready to iⁿfect; the darkness grew evermore oppressive.

It only lasted a second.

Frozen you watched as it drew ever closer, the coⁿcepts of walls and ceilings and soon floors too merely a distant memory. For now they were replaced entirely with it.

That was, until it wasn't.

Two eyes blinked open like twin mouths curling wide. The pupils were tiny, jittery things dashing frantically. The whites of them glowed, pupils flushed pale with the only light that existed, the light you welcomed as much as you cursed. You swallowed down the c^oncoction of panic and relief lodged in your throat, mouth too dry to call out, air too dense with spores to dare speak.

The eyes were familiar, in a acrid haunting way. Unlike the ones that made home in your skin ^they didn't burn when they spotted you. It was more of an ache, a feeling akin to that after stretching, odd and uncomfortable but satisfying in the knowledge that it was for good. That their purpose was rooted in something good.

Or at least, good for you in this very moment.

You hoped.

You ^blinked.

The eyes were twice as large, inches away from your fac^e, trembling pupils expanding as they scanned you over. Another chunk of ooze splattered by your feet, causing the eyes to wrinkle, glaring down at the inky mass. The air chilled, the skeletal hand of fear rushing down your spine as you dared look down, dared witness what you shouldn't.

The mess the eyes stared at began to fold into itself, the sickening pulsing speeding up, faster and faster until the quivering became vibrating. It shrunk, droplets dripping free as it crumbled into itself over and over, losing mass. The eyes narrowed further, the globule seemingly blurring and bulging as it popped into nothing, pure oblivion.

The eyes proceeded to apply that treatment to the inky sinew around you, glaring as they feasted on pure shadows, steadily clearing the surroundings into something you could see, into somewhere you could breathe. The presence above loomed, an ominous threat as it appeared to slither through the newly formed cracks in the ceiling, retreating into wherever it came from. Withering and screeching, it demanded your focus even as the eyes tore it apart, destroyed its mimicry of being in a corporeal dimension.

It only lasted a second.

You flinched when the eyes turned towards you, impossibly large and unreadable. The pupils were no longer present, replaced by holes burgeoning into a darkness even deeper than the oozing shadows, twin black holes. They sang to you, calling out, eager to be acknowledged, to be seen in your eyes.

Your stomach churned as they drew even closer, begging for your recognition, for your attention. Beyond those pits, beyond the sea of nothing you saw light, you saw colours, you saw home... you saw safety. You let yourself fall in, with a sigh you felt yourself be washed away in the light pouring from the eyes, allowing yourself to give into their pull.

The room howled fury and pain as the eyed dragged you free, scrubbing away the left over gloom, covering your eyes with the promise of blissful ignorance. You felt it scour your mind, a warm gentle hand caressing your mind as it plucked out the fear, carefully pruning the roots of desolation out, making sure to get all it could reach.

It was... not unpleasant, almost like akin to a mental hug, a heated blanket wrapped around your mind's shoulders. Comforting, if it hadn't been so invasive. Welcomed even, if there hadn't been a bell in your head ringing out 'wrong, wrong, wrong'. Chimes of restlessness, the instinctual need to escape into a place without the intrusion of others.

It made your stomach clench tight and your shoulders haunch up, the desire to roll into a protective ball igniting. And yet, despite that, you still succumbed to the mental reprieve, not fighting it as you lost yourself within it, bathed in its light. A light that continued to grow brighter and brighter, almost painful in its glory.

The last thing you saw was a brief glimpse of the apartment, between the dripping shadows and burning lights. Normal colours now dull compared to the brightness you've adapted into, there was dust and grime coating everything. The potted plant you'd forgotten about was dying, little leaves turning a wrinkled yellow. The carpet had a spill you didn't recognize, some tawny substance making itself at home. Wires hung from the ceiling, ^jostling small chunks of insulation falling through and onto the ground below.

No where was spared.

But you barely had the time to process it.

I only lasted the blink of an eye.

But to you, it had lasted forever.

...

Wally was in the kitchen.

You could tell from the h^umming drifting over to where you were. It was a tune you vaguely recognized, important in a way that you couldn't remember. Though the notes were still staggered and halting, the pitch variance low and off-key, it was warming. A friendly sign of cohabitation, a small declaration of trust.

A quiet way of announcing one's presence, in a way that didn't scream 'pay me attention'. Rather it politely suggested mutual existence, and one that brought the promise of no harm. Loud enough that you knew who it was without being so loud it became yelling. And with how your head was aching, a strong throbbing pain behind your eyes, it was welcomed.

With the humming came the clatter of metal and muffled rummaging. Waiting, you could even make out the sound of fingers tapping on the counter, the clack of dress shoes shifting on the tile. Though the tile sounded off, if that was indeed the origin of the noise. Too high pitched, almost like jingling. You listened intently, trying to think of what else it could be.

It ^sounded like the tile had been broken.

How could that have happened?

A distraction came in the form of a sudden sizzling, heated metal meeting something cool. Normally that sound wouldn't be any more notable than the sound of tapping, but it came with the knowledge of something you didn't like. But not out of fear or anger, instead you felt worried. You paused, concern bubbling up in your chest, overtaking your headache. It started up again, the harsh sizzling paired with splattering, the grating sound of metal against metal.

Wally was made out of fleece, wasn't he? Or a material similar to that? You weren't en^tirely sure, his anatomy was... different than yours, at the very least. Though his fingers were wrong, his face too strange to pass as fully human, he was still a person. A person constructed out of a fusion of felt and flesh. A person that, presumably, could get hurt.

That was what put you on edge.

He was new to your world, and though you knew his was similar to yours, you didn't know how similar. Did he cook there? Or was that more akin to a hobby in his world, not requⁱred and for simple fun? Did he understand safety when it came to using a stove—as that was what it sounded like he was doing—or was he obvious to the fact it could, if given the chance, severely injure a person?

You hadn't the faintest clue what he was made of. Was his insides filled with stuffing? Or did he have a stomach and heart, guts and lungs? Was there blood pumping through his veins, or was his bones a skeletal structure of metal and wires? You weren't entirely sure if he even had teeth, let alone a need to eat. But did it really matter, if he could get hurt?

Wracking through the snippets of memories you had, of wordless conversations and monotone laughter, you struggled to remember what you needed to know. Did Wally ever explain the difference between you and him? Did he explain how he was? You knew you both talked, you knew he told you some things, but none of it actually explained him. What was he? Why was he? Did he have any special needs that di^ffer from your human ones? Did he understand what human needs were?

All you knew was that he existed now, as impossible as that was. And that it had something to do with the power of thought.

A silly notion, truly.

Wait...

It was one he was adamant to defend.

If he was here because you thought of him...

The sizzling sound reared up again, angrier, louder. You struggled between rushing to check for injuries and waiting, because Wally also wasn't a fool and often knew more than he let on. On one hand, the sizzling could be him burning. Felt aflame, insides spⁱlling out into the fire, crackling and cooking. Another finger gone, withering into useless string, singed into ashes, fleece turned to charcoal. Would you find blood, you wondered? Cotton perhaps?

Would you find meat, red and browning? Cartilage and bones, sinew and tendons, all melting onto a platter?

The paranoia grew too much, images of injuries flashing through your mind's eye. Staggering to your feet, you made your way over to the kitchen. The walk there was familiar, a sense of deja-vu washing over your weary soul, leaving panic in your footsteps. If he was hurt, wouldn't be make noise? Yell? Shout? Scream? You knew Wally could scream, though you never wanted to hear it again. You didn't want to remember it, you didn't want to ever think about it, yet you remembered that ear-piercing noise rushing from your phone, distorted with static and horrible high-pitched ringing.

What was he trying to stop by making you forget?

Surely now that he had a body, regardless of how unknown his physical makeup was, he would understand pain? He would try getting your attention for help?

Surely he'd trust you enough to help?

...would you trust him, if you were in his shoes?

Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd disappear back into the phone where he came from, crawling through an impossible portal to weave himself back together. Replacing charr^ed fabric with unmarred new, replacing the melted stuffing with more. If he had organs now, would he still have them there?

It seemed easier, almost, to consider the first-aid of a living puppet. If skin was no more than human-made felt—though in their world, it may not be made at all? Was there a level of horror, you wondered, for Wally being here? Knowing that what he's made of, his literal flesh, his skin, could be bought at a store? That they sold it to anyone, without the respect that it was the makings of life?—then could it be as simple as stitching new in place of the old?

Would stitches be permanent to them, or would the need eventually leave, similar to your own? Would the fleece recognize new fleece and meld into one? Would it leave a gradient? A scar? Blotchy patterns? Depending on the pain, would such a procedure be equivalent to human tattooing? Or would it be a body-horror concept birthed into being, a world where spools of skin could be bought and replaced, where your organs were made of the very thing you slept on?

It was, to a lesser extent, akin to the gingerbread conundrum. If a gingerbread person stood in a home of the same, would they be made of house, or the home made of flesh? Obviously in that scenario the inanimate nature of each component makes the inherit horror of the concept blan^d, lifeless. For the answer remains the same regardless of personal belief; they are both made for the purpose of being consumed.

Wally, though, was made as a puppet; his purpose adaptable to whatever role he was given. To entertain, to exist, have meaning placed upon him. And his world neither was built of fleece, at least you didn't think so. Though Home was considered alive, in their world, you didn't know to what degree. Therefor the difference between the gingerbread conundrum and Wally's situation was simple.

It was the sentience, the sapience that changed the nature of the question.

Because there was perspective.

Because there was subjective experience.

Because he, regardless of what he was built to be, was alive. He spoke, he thought, he had opinions and beliefs. He had a life that he owned and a life that he lived, freed from the constraints that he should have faced as a mere byproduct of his existence. He was his own person, now within your world—dimension? Plane of existence? Conscious interpretation of things unknown?—and would remain so. Or, at the very least, he showed no signs of wanting to leave.

He never showed signs of wanting to leave.

His drive to exist here scared you.

You shuddered, nausea returning as Wally came into view. The train of thought hit a wall, crumpling into itself when your eyes landed on his figure. Still as tall as you, still as yellow, still as real. Your breathing evened out, though your heart kept skipping. The sight was growing less jarring, his presence less mind-boggling. Almost natural, if you managed to ignore the impossibility of it.

Almost natural.

You thought and thought and thought. What was it like to be in his shoes? What was it like to go beyond the limitations of one's original reality?

He wasn't burning.

You wondered if he understood the magnitude of his actions. If he understood, if he even knew.

He wasn't injured.

Why would he be? There was more going on, there was more at play. You could feel it in the air, you could see the oil dripping from the ceiling.

He didn't even look concerned.

...why were you so sure something bad was going to happen?

... why did you picture him burning?

He stood by the stove facing away from you, a square bowl of what you assumed was pancake mix left on the counter, a comically large cherry-red spatula on the counter beside it. In a—what you surmised must be something he brought over because you couldn't imaging ever using such a thing, let alone manufacturers even creating it in the first place—star shaped pan he had various cookie cutouts inside, batter stuffed inside them.

They were of all sorts of shapes; squares and stretched diamonds, stars and triangles. There was even a far-too-thick cube of batter sitting by the stove, lightly oozing as it jiggled. To your surprise, he managed to fit in more than you would have expected within the star-shaped pan. He was even wearing your apron, a dark blue and purple print with, in bold white cursive, a simple message, 'Hug the Chef'.

You watch him as he worked, Wally engrossed in the cooking. He poked one of the forming pancakes with a fork, humming as it turned out clean. Reaching in he pulled out the metal cookie-cutters with his bare hands, pulling them free and setting them aside. He flipped them over with the spatula, the star-shaped pan making it more difficult for him to do so.

"What are 'ya doing?" You asked, voice filled with mirth.

"Oh good, you're up My Dear Friend! You gave me quite the scare you did, fainting all the sudden like that."

You wrinkled your nose at the endearment. It was fun, but also partially worrisome. Was Wally getting perhaps too buddy-buddy with you too fast? Not that it was necessarily a bad thing, as you'd much rather him—a demon? A person? Man? A puppet facsimile of humanity?—be kind towards you, but it was overwhelming, stifling at times.

Was Wally your friend only because you were the only one that interacted with him?

Maybe your mistrust was because you took much longer to form genuine friendships with people, after all who knew how long they'd stick around? Friends made at school, at work, or wherever you ended up visiting. They were all nice, pleasant to know and it was nice that you knew someone during those moments. But you weren't sure who was your friend because they genuinely wanted to be, and who was your friend out of the sake of convenience.

It was a comforting thought, that he'd be a friendly face even when you were unsure of your own place in the world.

You thought and thought and thought, and they weren't just limited to your blooming friendship with the puppet.

You couldn't stop thinking, now that you knew how.

You knew he liked games and art, but how much was that him actually sharing his interests? How much was him bored and interacting with the only person he could?

How much of it was a ruse to keep you distracted and focused on him?

That was what you were afraid of, ultimately.

That if he was only here because of the power of thoughts...

Did he only care as long as you could give him life? Was that what this wa-

"You must be starving!"

His voice was cheery as he spun in place, stopping once he was directly facing _you, interrupting your very thoughts. His eyes were wide as they locked onto you, smile strained. His cheeks were flushed from the heat of the stove, small droplets of batter splattered on the apron. Without looking away from you he slid the pancakes onto a notably square plate, turning off the stove with a click.

"So I made these specially for you, Neighbour, so I hope you like them!"

You stuttered a response, a pang of pain shooting through your head like it had just been shaken. Your thoughts got jumbled up, entangled without any clear end. It was fruitless to remember just what you were thinking. He wasn't hurt, so what were you so concerned about? Had you been d_oing something? Or just checking in on him? You didn't... you couldn't remember. The fog was returning, and you were getting lost within it. You massaged your temple with closed eyes, focusing on what it was.

The train of thought you were boarded on had fallen off the tracks, railway metal splintered and frayed, caboose blown open, coal spilling free. Mentally you str_uggled within the cabin, completely trapped with the doors welded shut, windows warping into panels of wood. The remaining light—remaining thoughts—flickered, represented as a small chain-operated light-bulb dangling from the ceiling. Shadows fell upon the last remains of the windows as large hands carefully set the cabin cart down on another track, a safer track, a track without direction.

A track that was monitored.

Your thoughts were being monitored.

You looked down at the pancakes, amused by the colourful assortment. Not only were they of all sorts of shapes, but Wally had fou_nd food dye and mixed them in, making red and pale blue, strawberry pink and a particularly bright green. The star was n_eon yellow, and the stretched diamonds the deepest of hues, mimicking real world rubies and sapphires. Though some were burnt at the edges, the food colouring unable to hide the dark oak tone, the pancakes themselves taller and a bit more solid than what you've had in the past.

Overall, it was pretty cute. And the smell was lovely, the scent of freshly cooked pancakes making the apartment feel more lively. You thanked him, complimenting his skills as he began explaining his process of getting them all in the right shapes. He was mor_e passionate than you thought he'd be, that was until Wally explained that to him, creative cooking was like another art form.

You tried ignoring the chiming sound when he was cleaning up, glass against ceramic. But the worry of before clawed free, and you felt the overwhelming need to know the cause. Had he broken something, and was simply too embarrassed to say so? Was it more serious? You pushed the plate to the side and leaned over the counter, peeking over to the floor.

He stepped in the way, playfully tutting as he did so.

"Shouldn't you eat while your food is still hot? I'll clean up here Neighbour, trust me."

You couldn't stop yourself, "what's in the kitchen?"

"Just these fabulous pancakes I made for you! Now why don't you sit down and eat them? You shouldn't waste food you know."

You narrowed your eyes and waited, body tense. Neither of you moved, despite Wally's claims of cleaning he remained passively watching you, guarding his new 'secret'. After a few minutes of false peace you lunged over the counter, han_ds gripping onto the edge to pull yourself over, determined to see. The plan almost worked, as you were stopped by his hand in your face blocking your view. You heard him snicker, slow and monotone.

"You really must work on your table manners Friend! After all, doesn't the food go on the table, not the people?"

His hand was surprisingly warm, and the sort of softness that toed the line between felt and satin. You could smell the pancake batter waf_ting off, a light dusting of flour being smeared on your nose when you tried pulling yourself over. Unfortunately for you, he didn't budge. Despite the awkward angle, he was solid. Ever so carefully he adjusted his hand and pushed your face back, your attempt to see the kitchen flo_or successfully thwarted.

You sighed and retreated, feeling akin to a cat who was stopped from pushing a glass off the edge of a table. He patted your head too, insult to injury, though you knew it was in good nature. You noted that he wa_s very careful whenever you did have to physically interact, the pauses in his speech drawing out even more and he had a tendency to stare at the hand you _touched, but only when he thought you wouldn't notice.

You deflated. It was hard to be upset with him, not during these domestic moments.

It was hard, but not impossible.

You knew now, that he was the one behind it.

Because the fog was back, a thick murky grey obscuring your thoughts, limiting access to your mind. You could recognize now, the very point when it begins, steam turned to fog, dust into sand. It made your movements sluggish, your eyes unwittingly trailing. You could feel now, the careful hand of distortion within your mind, rewriting your memories, y_our subjectivity.

This wasn't the first time he's made you forget.

You were restless, an animal trapped within a cage too small. Even with all the distractions, Wally couldn't stop you from thinking. You thought, and thought, and thought, and now began thinking even with the fog mangling them. From board games to riddle-like answers, for a sup_posed host of a children's television show Wally was awfully vague with explaining himself.

"Me? I'm not the one that, without permission, decided to move into my apartment," you crossed your arms. The frustration you felt was a building one, a pot left to simmer in the background, each eluding action another ingredient.

Wally froze, mouth agape and pupils expanding. His eyes glittered with something that appeared horribly like hope, making you question your words. You didn't understand—it was hard, with whatever _social language barrier existed between you two. It was either that or Wally purposefully misinterpr_eting things, which was both humorous and annoying, and something you were beginning to think he did to ignore what he didn't want to _acknowledge—but you knew the conversation had changed course, effectively derailing you once more.

"Oh Friend, I'm so thrilled I can move in! Thank you so much, I'm ever so grateful!"

"Wally that's not-"

"We should have a party! Wait wait, or maybe a picnic? Do you like picnics? We could have apples and pies and it'll be such fun, don't you think?"

He rushed around the counter, one a_rm hovering over your shoulders as he guided you towards the table. He placed your breakfast—honestly you didn't know what meal it was. Breakfast? Lunch? Dinner? A snack? It was possible that this was the only thing he knew how to cook—down and pulled out your seat, en_couraging you to sit down, notably facing away from the kitchen. He stood to your side, rocking on his heels as he faux-clapped his hands, eyes flickering between you and the pancakes.

"Please please eat up! I read that humans need to do this to stay all strong and healthy, and I don't want you falling apart on me Neighbour."

Effectively, you were trapped. Your _head spun too much to react, the fog more like a solid wall than mist you could see through. The good smelled delightful though, and you figured that you could continue the discussion when you were less... incapacitated. But you also weren't the sort of person to g_ive up right away, not if you knew you'd forget this battle if you didn't. So you didn't give up, not entirely, not yet.

Your stomach growled, the pancakes looking increasingly more tempting. Though there was a star missing, one that you clearly remember only because of how obnoxiously _neon it was.

Strange.

It was also strange that, whenever you tried to look over your shoulder, Wally would end up blocking your vision. Whether it be by stretching out the apron or leaning to the side, he refused to let you see. You couldn't even ask, because he'd cut you off with another fun idea of what 'neighbourly fun' you both could have now that he officially lived there.

Because apparently, you couldn't tell him that that wasn't what you meant.

What was in the kitchen?

You tried, of course, but he wouldn't _get it. At first he acted hurt, then laughed it off as a joke, calling you a 'silly little prankster'. Then he'd bug you about the pancakes, encouraging you to eat them, poking the arm you held the fork with and pretending to turn it on like a machine, asking himself out loud why it wasn't working. Finally he went with playful ignorance, which would only be playful if you knew that he knew.

And Wally, of course, didn't share what he knew.

It was almost impressive how good he was at dodging responsibility.

As you ate you noticed small chunks of the pancakes missing. It didn't happen often, but it was noticeable enough that _you wondered if you were now forgetting chunks of time, if the missing parts were what you already ate and you simply couldn't remember.

You hated that thought. How much could you forget? Of what did you remember was real?

You stuffed the last of the pancakes in your mouth, finally feeling the sudden surge of hunger fade away. The pancakes were... mediocre. They weren't the best you had—that honour went to R_osie and her secret family recipe she refused to share—but they were far from bad. Bordering on bland, despite the kaleidoscopic colo_uring. Though in your current state you found them delightful.

Not that you told him that.

Naturally you wanted to, but today wasn't a day for pleasantries.

You did feel bad, but it was worse knowing that Wally still wouldn't trust you. He was hiding something, he wasn't all that he claimed to be.

As soon as you set the fork down he descended, dragging the plate and cutlery a_way into the kitchen. That left you without an excuse to follow him, thwarting yet another attempt before you could even execute it. So you changed tact_ics, deciding to lower yourself to his playing field. If he picked deniability as his shield, manipulation as his weapon, you'd strike back with the ultimate weapon; unwavering and relentless badgering.

"Wally?"

He hummed a response, his 'retreat into the kitchen' being nothing more than him stretching out to place the plate on the kitchen counter. A shame, because it gave you no chance to even peek behind. You had a p_lan though, and childish amusement bubb_led in your chest as you steeled yourself, getting ready to harness the power of being annoying.

"Can I see the kitchen?"

"Why don't we stay here for a bit Neighbour?"

"Can I see the kitchen?"

"Isn't it a lovel-"

"What's in the kitchen?"

You internally cheered when you heard his gingers begin tapping. While you weren't _one for making people uncomfortable, this was for a good cause. Wally merely sighed and said nothing, keeping up his laid-back charade after he seemingly caught wind of your scheme. You could feel his gaze burn, and you struggled to imagi_ne him without his smile. Though you've seen him in emotional states before, this time was different. This was you provoking a reaction rather than unfortunate circumstances p_laying out.

You wondered if he knew how not to smile. You wondered if he wanted to know.

"Can I see the kitchen now?"

You asked again, peering up at him with the best hopeful expression you could produce. Again and again, over and over _you asked, poking his arm when he continued to stay mute. You could see his smile falter, eyes lidded and pupils small as he gazed down at you, his hands clenching _fistfuls of the apron as you continued to poke him, successfully wearing him down. Eventually he stepped back, overwhelmed by the minimal contact.

"While I appreciate your... enthusiasm, you should really rest today, Neighbour."

You changed gears. It was time to bring out the big guns. If you couldn't see the kitchen, then there was an obvious, more important place he was keeping hidden from you. And though the fog was thick, you were aware enough to notice the unnatural light, how the only sound came from you or Wally, how nothing ever seemed to change.

You finally noticed that there was an outside.

You finally noticed that there was a way to leave.

Why hadn't you seen that before? How long had you been here? How long was it since the front door was a door, and not, in your mind, a painted section of wall, a mere decoration?

Of course the handle was chewed apart, the wreath that you hung f_illed with fake birds was missing, and a new chain-link lock added. Nevertheless it was a door, and it was a door you could leave through. You switched gears, deciding to try your hand at bargaining.

"Either you show me what's in the kitchen, or I go outside."

The reaction was immediate. Wally's hands clenched the apron tight, fistfuls of material straining between his palms, and you swore you heard a faint ripping noise. His foot tapping became erratic, his breathing bouncing between halting, forgotte_n, and an odd gasping noise. He left his self-designated spot near you to check out the door, glaring at it.

The air was cold.

"When did you notice it?"

"...what?"

"When did you realize that the door was there?"

He unlocked and re-locked the door, fid_dling pushing against it to make sure it was fully sealed. It flickered in your view, the edges blurring as it began to look more and more like a section of the wall itself, the locks glowing a bright, molten yellow. You couldn't see the kitchen from here, but you've long since abandoned that goal.

"It's a front door Wally, obviously my apartment would have one. Why would I-"

"No, you shouldn't remember that!"

He pinched roughly where his nose would be and sighed, long and laboured.

"Trust me, you don't want to know more. Just... I've been working so hard, and you keep on trying to ruin my work. Could you please stop doing that Friend? I'm keeping you safe here."

You didn't dignify him with an answer. A whirlwind of emotions thrashed within your chest, banging and knocking, threatening to spill. Confusion and frustration, concern and the deep rooted sense of betrayal. Because this was the confirmation you never wanted, because you couldn't deny it any longer. There really was more behind Wally's actions than you were aware of, and it was confirmation that he was doing something.

Sure, you had suspected that he was messing with your memories, but this meant that it was much, much more. It wasn't just the memories, it didn't stop at just the memories. He was influencing more than just that and you had no idea where the limits of his power, his control started and ended.

You didn't know what was real.

It didn't just limit itself to that, the discovery uncovered a truth you denied for the sake of your sanity. Because it _meant that the memory issues, the fog and headaches and endless confusion, it was planned. And it was ma_intained, each new burst of fog akin to maintenance to a machine instead of a regrettable action, instead of a helples_s inevitability. It meant that your very consciousness was more fractured than you thought, and that it wasn't _even yours.

Your mind wasn't your own.

Sha_red ownership, unsigned contract without legible terms or regulations. You were trapped within, and the other—Wally—was determined to keep you there. All your tricks alread_y known, all your fears already recognized. Your dreams, ambitions, anxieties, the theories too; they were all known to him.

That was, if Wally was the person controlling it. After all, why would he work alone? Wasn't the Neighbourhood of Home close?

Because it meant that this wasn't the first time this happened.

You were hoping, with a terrible sickly hope, that he simply misspoke, that it was just his wording that was off. He was off in the sense that he was different than the people of your world. But you couldn't lie to yourself any longer. It wasn't. It wasn't off or wrong, he knew what he said, though you didn't know if he meant to say it. It wasn't wrong, and out of everything, that realization is what you wish he made you forget.

How many times have you lived this scenario? How many times have you woken up, thinking today was finally the day you would understand? How many times had your ho_pe burnt out? How many times has Wally tried to give you an out, and how many times did you accept? How many chances has he given you, how many have you given him?

How many times have you gone through this exact situation.

You were shouting now, the fog in your mind more akin to a raging storm. The thunder roared in your ears, the clouds distorting everything, even making your actual vision b_lur. Mentally you fought back, clinging to whatever you could and demanded reprieve, demanded ownership of your own existence.

"Wally, stealing people's memories doesn't keep them 'safe'!"

"Yeah? Well you're still here, aren't you?"

"You can't keep me here forever! Did you ever think of that?"

He narrowed his ey_es, pupils tiny and shaking. His smile remained, thin and parsed. He spoke with his hands, fingers trembling. The apron had, at some point, found home on the floor spread out over the kitchen tile. There were stretch marks in his knit swe_ater, marks where he'd obviously grabbed and pulled at them. Yet he tried to remain composed, fixing his hair and brushing off invisible dust as he stayed silent. He drew it out, until he finally _spoke, flat voice wavering.

"I don't need to listen to this, Neighbour. You just- you don't understand. You can't understand."

"Maybe if you explained anything I would," you cried.

"You don't know what you're talking about! And I'm not planning on losing any more Friends, so there!"

You felt a hand digging through your mind, plucking and pruning. It was too h_esitant, too shuddering, unable to keep up with the torrent of thought_s you had, the realizations, and curiousi_ties, the burning fiery need t_o understand. The lid of the _pot was finally off, and it was more than ready to overflow. You lunged for the bait, lunged for the red string of information hypothetically dangling in your face.

"What friends? Look around, who are you-"

"Why won't you stop thinking? It's so loud, Neighbour, I can hear your mind screaming. I know it doesn't hurt, not if you don't fight it, so why do you keep trying to remember? Why do you keep hurting yourself?"

"What do you mean by losing-"

"Oh I know I know, you keep trying to guilt me into feeling bad for keeping my Friend safe, but I'm not falling for it."

"Where did your frie-"

"This time you aren't leaving the apartment, so whatever mind games you got cooked up you can just drop them. We're staying put and we're staying safe."

"Safe from what, huh? Why can't you tell me what you're hiding from?"

Wally stepped away from the wall—the door? The wall? It was neither and both, seams flickering, edges blurry. The gap underneath was no more, it was gone because there never was a gap—and paced, hands finding themselves in his hair, tugging at the strands. His eyes kept flicking towards you, each time the pupils larger, the hands in your mind scrapping and tearing, claws digging in to yank out.

"The fact that you know that there's something else puts you in danger, so please stop wanting to know about it, Neighbour. If you stopped thinking about it- if you didn't know about it we wouldn't have to be here!"

You trⁱed to speak, but your mouth wouldn't ^form words. The hands in y^our mind were frantic, scraping and grappling your conscio^usness, pushing it down, deeper and deeper, sⁿuffing out your curiousity. You had to sit down, ha^d to cover ^your eyes. Everything was too much, the fog was too thick, it was suffocating. The air was too cold, the lights too bright, the shadows too numerous, the dripping of the shadows too loud.

The shadows were in the ceiling.

The tendrils were breaking through the cracks.

The shadows were leaking out.

The ceiling was a sea of black.

It only lasted the blink of an eye.

...

So why was it still there?

...

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rja jsu eykm rd gg ilmy evr omtz, nqp vwa scvtrnaryl gwyzf bqyo MBF.

Chapter Text

...

There were hands in your head.

Two of them, both larger than life, both infinitely intricate. Soft, delicate, they squeezed and gripped, pulled and stretched. Fingers that dug into the soft wrinkles of your brain, fingers digging into the division between the two hemispheres. Teasing them apart, treating them like the shell of a clam; made to pry, made to be broken. Cracked apart, a heedless sch_ism, they dove within to reach the inside of you. Rolling, pushing, like kneading a firm ball of dough. They focused on reworking your mind, reshaping it, rewiring it.

They aimed to break down the thoughts of rebellion, of full-bodied curiousity. They sought to pop the bubbles of intrigue. They filled the dough of your mind with new yeas_t, of mirages of what you longed for; a confirmation of one world, of one location, of one true reality. Of a place that was easy to understand; hand crafted notions of uncomplicated reason, _simple explanations for the unknown, the gentle reveal of an illusion made to be impossible to detect. To give you the opportunity to divulge in the fact that it hadn't been your fault, that you were merely an unwitting victim of unnatural circumstance.

It festered and grew, the injected yeast flourishing in the warmth of self-doubt. I_t bathed in the heat of your confusion, and in your soul-crushing ache for that fading sense of normalcy. The ball of dough engorged on the bitter cocktail of em_otions, the fingers poking and prodding, warping and changing. They gifted you new perspectives, new beliefs, new thoughts to call your own.

You noticed them now. You could recognize the thoughts that weren't yours.

It didn't work. Not quite, not truly. For one cannot change the very fabric of the material they use. One cannot change what dough is made of, as the very foundation of flour and liquid were the building blocks that gave it the meaning of dough. Just as the the hands could not change the very core of your being. They could squeeze and strangle, they could tempt and lure. But the building blocks of you, your goals and soul, your dreams and patterns, they were all like the flour and liquid of d_ough. Once the a dough is made from them, they cannot be removed.

They can be influenced and hidden, but they themselves will never truly go away. Just as your very being cannot be replaced. Hidden, yes, from you or from the world. But never replaced; not without time, not without decision, not without reason. And without them, without whatever patterns of thought or experiences, soul or sense of existence. Without whatever made you you, you would no _longer be you.

Or would you?

You hoped it would never reach that point, where that became a legitimate concern.

Could you still be considered yourself if you changed? How much change would be acceptable? Without the passage of time, without being sw_addled in an ever-shifting world with no true control, what made you you? For change through time was natural, so what was change without? Would it still be you? For a ship is still the same ship no mat_ter how many repairs it's gone through, gifted security in the knowledge of self through the very oceans it sailed and the crews that ran it.

Were you like a ship sailing on the waters of a universal semi-lucid consciousness, never aware enough to see what resided under the surface? Trading bits of mast, strips of sails with oth_ers that held impact on your life? Always changing, always adapting, somehow the same ship regardless of what you went through? Or, subscribing to a different train of thought, the self never existed in the first place.

You never really existed.

The you you called you existed in only the very microsecond in which you claimed it true. For that brief fraction of time, in that infinitesimal sliver, you existed. Beyond that point, it was still you, but it wasn't the same you as it was seconds, minutes, hours or days, weeks or years before or after. The self was ever changing, w_itnessed into being only in the moment it was seen. Else-wise it never actually was, and never would be. Simply a fabrication of though_t, a name given to something that could never be quantified.

For what would you call an ever-changing substance? One that was solid one day, vaporous fumes the next? One day carried toxins, and another day a cure for illness? Would it not be considered different reactions, ultimately different in feature and make up? _How could you ever be quantified if the you today and the you tomorrow would be different people? It only took a missing hour of sleep, a surprise gift or just t_alking to someone to change the emotional lens one experienced their life through.

Were you your body or did you reside within it? To others—to everyone that wasn't you—the former may be true. For human_s, like many beings, are primarily visual creatures. It is the sense that is most relied on, though it is far from the only one. So, to others, when they thought of you, perhaps they thought of the visual representation of you that existed within the world rather than your brain, your mind, the core of who you actually were.

Or perhaps they thought of the sound of your voice, or the smell of your home. Things you've done, things you've been involved in. Things that are _byproducts of your existence, but perhaps not the real substance of you. Even your opinions, the ones that you've voiced to others, weren't all you were. Opinions change, people learn. You changed, you've learned.

You didn't look like you did as a child; your body matur_ed and so did your wisdom. You didn't wear the same clothes as you did when you were 8, nor when you were 14. If you dyed your hair now, how different would you really be? Would that make you someone new? If you _changed your name—first or last or middle or any combination thereof—would that make you someone else?

Yet a tree was still a tree whether it was called a tree or a pine, an o_ak or named Jeffery. Just as a rose by any other name would still be a rose. It was just as sweet and still filled with petals and thorns. The physical world, the names and understanding, how much of it impacted what actually was? Did all things, living or not, breathing or not, human or not, face the same conundru_m? Limited by evolution and the senses they had access to, trapped within a glass bubble of perspective? What was perspective other than how one experiences the world its_elf?

If a tree fell in a forest and nothing was there to hear it, would it still make noise?

You would still be you if you had a different name, wouldn't you? After all, no name is truly unique. With the hundreds of millions of humans on the planet—unforetold billions of billions of living beings that could have names regardless of what they were—any number of them could share your name. So what made your name yours? Millions of lives could be shoved int_o room upon room upon room, all with features like your own.

Maybe it would be just a name you would s_hare, or maybe it would be more than that. It could be physical features, similar skin tones, hair types, eyes or ears, mouths or teeth. Similar builds, similar smiles, similar ways of hiding tears. It could be familiar ways of standing, of sitting, of waiting for a better future, or burying unspoken memories. It could be life stor_ies with the same themes, or families like your own. Schools like the ones you had, or the same relationships with friends and peers. So what then made your personality unique, besides the fact you claimed it as your own?

So what then made you you?

If it wasn't your body, if it wasn't the physical form that made up only a fraction of the totality of you, what was it?

Could it be soul—or spirit or consciousness. Whichever name it was given. Did the na_me really matter when the concept it was applied to was so varied to begin with?—that made you you? Mo_ulded by the very surroundings you were born into and that you were raised in, and the ones that you existed in now. Shaped by each interaction and each missed interaction, every one random in the grand scheme of the universe. Or lack of scheme, depending on through which lens life was seen through.

One thing was for certain. No one picked how their life would be before they lived them. Imagine the lives people would lead if they could?

...nothing like this would have happened if you had a choice.

...maybe you weren't the same you as the you that could have picked your life.

If a hundred souls were given the exact same life, _same body and name, same friends and family and school and hobbies, how different would they be? How many similarities would live in the cavern of each of those souls? How many differences would roam in the gorge that separa_ted their consciousnesses? How much would they be like you, or would they all be you? Different parts of you? Different people you could have once become? Different versions of you, all the real you in their own sense of the world?

Variations of the theme of you, or would they cease to exist the moment they serve no purpose in their hypothetical existence?

What actually made you you, if you couldn't even begin to define the truly unique aspects of what you were made of?

Were you simply a series of electrical pulses in the shape known as a brain? Bathed in blood and formed of grey-scaled matter? A seemingly endle_ss stream of neurons within synapses, of rhythms and patterns, of signals and signs? Controller of a body that was home to billions of bacterias and minuscule organisms, a living universe unaware of the thriving microscopic biomes that it hosted? A master to a puppet made of biological matter?

Surely not?

You knew you were more than that, right?

So then, what made you you?

What then, made up the concept of you?

You felt the hands falter, both retreating as the dough of thoughts ballooned out of control. It writhed like a living beast, a manifestation of your natural disposition towards existence. Optimism turned to jaws, determination into the fangs that bit. Y_our strength to hold on, to not forget, to never forget became the claws that struck, the claws that would protect.

And eyes, your eyes—all of your eyes. The eyes that weren't yours, yet lived under your skin. The eyes that weren't yours, yet bubbled up within. The eyes that you saw in the mirror, the eyes that you saw in your reflection. They were inside you, they were festering, bulbous masses. Ready to b_urst free, ready to erupt through the pores of your very skin—glared towards the hands.

You could see double; the apartment arou_nd you and the world inside the realm of hands and thoughts. The walls you lived in clashed with walls you've only ever seen through a screen. Scarlet upon snow, the multi-coloured walls burne_d through the off-white of your own, white bleeding red. The ink dripped down the walls, leaking from the ceiling. It was a fine spray, spreading like black mold on top of it all.

The growth of rot, eterna_l.

The hands flickered between faint shadowy suggestions of themselves and solid sunflower yellow, between being made of the wisps of clouds and from pure sunshine. They were solid yet not, as too was your mind, trapped betw_ixt two worlds. Your mind was changed into a growling beast of rage and sorrow, snarling blind confusion. You could see the vague impression of a face distorted in distress. But you couldn't see the face, not with your eyes, not with your human eyes, not in any way that mattered.

You didn't have a face yourself, yet the only face you've ever had was your own.

The hands smashed into the dough, sharp and fearful. It popped the building pressure, shoving it down. It crushed your mind, shrin_king it, starving it. You continued to fight a battle you didn't understand, you snapped and bit at the hands that failed to fe_ed. They barely flinched, their desperation much stronger than your fury. It was a battle of wills, unwitting and painful. And you found yourself wishing, not for the first time, that you understood what was h_appening.

Dimly, somewhere in your choking mind, you finally understood one thing.

You knew you were sitting down, you could feel the wooden chain.

You knew what Wally meant now, that anyone needed a concept of self before existing as themself.

You knew that you had eaten, the clumps of sweet pancakes clung to your teeth.

It was so much easier leaving the formation of that concept to another outside of oneself. After all, who were you truly?

You knew whose hands they were, the were just as fleecy soft as you remembered.

You understood it now. Wally didn't understand himself.

There was the faint sound of a phone ringing.

He was afraid.

It was forced atrophy of the self. A necrotic wound encouraged to fester, not out of revenge or sadistic delight, but out of something far, far worse. Encouraged not for selfishness, but out of the delusion of selfless protection. It was a gift of self-negligence, a promise of indifferent o_bliviousness. For as long as you never thought of it, it would be like it never existed. Why st_ruggle in the face of the impossible? Why hold onto something far greater than what could be understood?

Memories were forg_otten for a reason after all. Whether it's because they were too painful, weren't important, or various distractions overpowered them, they ended up being forgotten. They can even fade through the passage of time alone, details dropping off as the months go by, faces turned blurry after the years pass. It was a natural process that let new memories form, that gave birth to new facets of the ever-changing nature of each person.

And it was the gift of self-inflicted entropy.

However if memories were always forgotten for a reason, what was the reason to forget these memories? Why weren't you supposed to remember? What weren't you supposed to remember? There had to be a reason, hadn't there? It was more than just an experiment, more than just freak coincidences, it wasn't some cosmic joke.

You weren't some guinea pig.

You weren't some joke.

Your body felt disconnected, your mind drifting ever further from conscious awareness. The walls you saw bled more red, the chair you sat in an abstract blob of mud. You couldn't remember where the windows on the wall had been. You could have sworn you saw pupils in the windows. It all felt fa_ke, like a poorly constructed dream. The colours meant nothing, your position meant nothing, you weren't even sure you were real.

Everything felt wrong when the hands were _elbows deep in your head, when you could feel those dreadful fingers cradling your brain with a sort of reverence that made you feel ill. Like your scalp had been peeled back, skull cracked open like a can, your very brain the contents sought after. A cranial container for the processing of all perceptio_n, tampered by metaphysical hands.

You wondered how many times he's done this.

Though the hands worked with the contents of your mind like putty, there was one thing they could never change. It was something less ambiguous than the identity of you—whether that be soul or mind, heart or body. A series of coincidences or a unique singularity that manifested as you—and something deeply ingrained in all sorts of living beings.

You wondered how many times it worked, how many times you mind had been successfully reshaped.

The hands couldn't stop your survival instincts.

The ability to overcome and adapt, the drive to continue being. The very su_rvival instincts that kept ecosystems alive and fuelled the continuation of your very own species for millenniums. And the curiousity that came with it. The ambition to answ_er the call of the unknown, to solve the mystery of knowledge not yet gained. No matter how the hands pruned, what they did, what they cut off. None of it could touch the very _core of what your species evolved with.

Whether through soul or n_ot, whether through instinct or not. Whether it was buried under enforced disillusionment or secured behind walls made of unfaltering desperation. Even if it became a ghost—death of the self—haunting the concept of you, it never truly died. A phoenix _reborn, a landscape of ashes and endless fire. It never broke down, it never crumpled under the weight of those palms.

You were safe from the attempt unintentional shattering of your consciousness.

But that didn't mean you were immune.

As you began gaining back your awareness, certain _details of your surroundings remained fuzzy. They flickered, blurred at strange points. Like the door that wasn't a door, like the tile floor that was now shards and sand. Like the walls that were breathing, like the shadows that were moving. It was hard to see, like being tossed within an all-encompassing optical illusion.

But you had experience, now, with _bearing witness to the impossible. You no longer flinched when you saw—or believed you saw. It was hard to tell, when everything was spinning, the gro_und lurching under the chair you sat upon—the kitchen cabinets quickly melt from strawberry red and cheerful blue to the same dull oak brown you recognized. As if they forgo_t what they were supposed to look like, as if your environment forgot what it was supposed to be.

You couldn't even look up now. Physically, your body was incapable of doing so. When you did, _whether you craned your neck skywards or tried peering up wit_hout moving, you never saw a ceiling. Your e_yes would flicker down, or the blurriness would turn to a flash of white. Even the tops of the walls were foggy, hidden behind a thick mist of luminous white and streaked with cracks of black.

There was a faint dripping sound, off-rhythm and chunky. It dripped, dripped, dripped, echoing in your ears. It came in waves. The louder it was the _more you noticed the weak audio static, and when it was nearly silent the static was barely more than a brief flicker. You looked aro_und, eyes squinted to peer through the random patches of blurred reality to see where it was coming from.

It was only dripping, so why did it make you ill with dread?

To your immediate right was a wall without any pos_sible cause of the dripping. Ahead was the rest of the dinning table, really more of a glorified desk that could uncomfortably fit three people at the most, and another chair. Beyond that was a small gap and then your makeshif_t office, though all the electronics that should have been there were gone. The rest of your living space was to your left, which was basicall_y all your living room and the wall-free hallway with doors to your bedroom, bathroom, and small storage closet.

In the living room itself there was your regular c_ouch and side table, and on the wall across from that there was a pale rectangle. It once would have hosted a television, yet now was bare, making the space feel oddly emptier. Though you couldn't see much of the carpet or coffee table ahead of the couch, from what yo_u could see there were no culprits for the dripping sound.

Why was that worse somehow?

The windows along the opposite wall to that on your _right were still tall rectangles of pure snowy white. They wer_e taller now, elongated. Yet the tops of them were still the same distance from the ceiling. It was the windows and windows alone that were stretched out. They hurt to look at too, far too bright and yet without light, hazy and glowing, dull and listless. Pearly _monoliths shedding the scales of glass panes it was once was contained behind.

The walls around them had patterns growing like plants, of playful vin_es and poorly drawn flowers. A worsening infestation of paisley print. Only when you looked at them did they have colour, otherwise they were dun, more of a shiny sheen on an otherwise ancient wall. You would have checked if the pattern grew on the ceiling, but you were unable to do so.

You weren't able to look up, after all.

With a deep breath you pushed yourself up to look around the rest of the apartment. Though your steps were wobbly, you were able to walk without too much hassle. First you inspected your office again, checking under the table for any electrical cords. Unfortunately there was nothing. All your files, all your USBs, all the photos you saved and—the worse part by far—everything related to your ca_mera was gone. Everything you used for your photography business stolen, as if it never existed. There was just a fine layer of dust coating everywhere it shouldn't.

You tried checking out the windows up close, but walking towards them was like pressing two magnets of the same side together. Reality itself refused your presence there as an aura pushed you _back. The closer you trudged towards them the more it pushed and pushed, until your heels were digging into the ground and your te_eth were gritted with effort. You could no longer move forwards, though not for the lack of trying. You couldn't even put your hands ahead of your body without a great fo_rce shoving them back.

The pillars were portals into colourless desolation that became taller the closer you got. They no_w stood nearly thrice your height, winding and twisting up on themselves, though still perfect rectangles. The walls beside them matched the growth, the objects against t_hem warping to fit their new dimensions. The table and everything on it, the curtains and the pictures on the wall, the_y all went through the process.

Upon the table was a treasured object that hurt to look at. Stretched out and wrong, the simple painted wooden statue of a small dragon you had—burnt orange with an underside of cream, turquoise _wings and a flaming tail—was now more akin to a snake, eyes forced to stretch wider and wider, pupils small and shaking. Thinner now than before due to only growing upwards, its arms were too narrow to stay attached, the wo_od breaking with a horrid shattering sound, the tips of the faux flame of its tail doing the same.

A picture on the wall, one with a closeup of a deer you fou_nd in the forest once, it too grew strange. The trees around it spiralled high, thick trunks now giant columns suppor_ting the very emerald roof above, leaves looking more like a speckled marble ceiling of a grand hall with how distorted they were. The grasses around the deer matched the lengthening legs, far too long, stretched too thin. The body turned bulbous, huge and chunk_y compared to the ever narrowing neck, the head warping into a deer-inspired blob. The eyes though, they kept the same light, the same glow of life. They begged you to stop it as they stretched to_o, the reflections of the forest now tears in its eyes, the dark irises black voids.

You were spared.

Or were you? You felt weird.

You were left behind, an ant in the focused beam of magnified sunlight.

It hurt. It didn't usually hurt like this. What changed?

Abandoned in the face of the obsc_ure, you felt ill. It started with the burning in your eyes that came from looking at the wrongness around you. And it was everywhere, an obvious wrong that you couldn't trick yourself into forgetting. The walls were stretched like pulled taffy, taller and taller until they were four times your height. And the light, it was sickly, it made your skin prickle and your stomach roll. It caused waves of nausea to eventually overwhelm your curiousity as the invisible _force shoving you back finally won, finally forcing you to turn away from the not-windows or risk throwing up.

...safe to say, you were going to ignore the windows for n_ow.

Or just... try not to think about them. If you didn't think about it it wouldn't matter after all! Denial is very much a healthy coping mechanism.

You sat down and leaned on the side of the couch still facing the windows, waiting fo_r the nausea to fade. Until then, you only looked at the ground, specifically at the point where the wooden floors were covered by the lar_ge carpet of your living room. The carpet was fluffier than you remember. The strands of the soft fuzz was longer, half the l_ength of your palm. You played with it, twisting the strands together. When you pressed down, it made a wet squishing noise, like something wet was stuck underneath. You lifted up the edge to reveal what i_t was, the experience with the not-windows not draining you of all your curiousity.

You immediately drop it and scramble up, leaping off the carpet as the nausea swelled. The bottom of the carpet was covered in an inky black substance. It was thick, stuck tight to the carpet's woven back, small tendril-like growths jutting out. Almost like roots, they had nestled themselves into the fine cracks between the boards of hardwood. And now they practically seemed to reach out now that they were uprooted, the section of the floor where it sat coated with a dark, glossy sheen.

Rushing over to the three doors left, you shook off your disgust. Maybe you just had a severely overlooked case of black mold here, or maybe it was some sort of ha^rmless fungus. You hoped that was true, for how long had it been since you deep cleaned the place? Maybe the spores had always been here and you never noticed it, too ca^ught up with cycling hyperfixations and the photography business. Yet... yet what sort of mold could move on its own? What sort of fungus would grow like it kⁿew where to hide in plain-sight? And if it was here, surely there would be more elsewhere, right?

You knew what it was.

You wondered if Wally knew it was there?

You skipped the closet and stood in f^ront of the bathroom door, arms crossed and fingers tapping. The bathroom door was sealed shut, the handle even worse than before. Instead of looking like the great ho^und Cerberus had used it as a chew toy, it was more akin to a ball of uneven spikes. Even the door—it was a door, right? You could have sworⁿ this was where the door was supposed to be, but it didn't look like a door—was unnatural. The edges melted into the wall, the bottom gap solid.

The next place to check was your bedroom, and to your distress that door too was in a smiliar state. The handle though, it was different. R^ather than spikes, it was just gone. The only sign that a door was once there was a rough square indent in the wall, a small gap in the baseboard, and a star-shaped metal plate. Pushing did nothing, and there was nothing you could g^rab to break down the wall. You bit your tongue turned left to see the final plac^e to check; the kitchen.

Through narrowed eyes you saw him.

Wally was there, breathing gone, body still. He faced away from you, the sink running and a pile of drying dishes on the side. You approached wearil^y, the sound of rushing water thunderous, drowning out the dripping, drowning out whatever words Wally was muttering to himself. You weren't t^oo sure how long the water was left on for, and you weren't entirely sure he knew either. As you came behind the co^unter, you could see the side of his face.

He wore the closest thing to a frown you've seen, his smile small, thin, mourning. His lips moved as he spoke, voice too low and unintelligible to make any sense. His eyes were unfocused, blankly sta^ring at his hands under the water. They twisted and fidgeted, suds of soap cascading down the sides. His hands appeared a sat^urated orange from the moister, though there were still ink stains on his fingertips. On autopilot he continued to clean them. Each time his hands were free of suds he'd shake them off, grab more soap and start the cycle aⁿew.

Looking around, half of the kitcheⁿ was pearly white, nearly glowing with how clean it was. Yet the floor had been decimated, most of the tiles completely torn up and shattered, leaving behind sands of porcelain. Dust of it covered the black of Wally's shoes, and danced up the sides of his technⁱcolour pants in uneveⁿ streaks. Paired with the black fin^gerprints still covering the edge of his shirt's collar and the bottom part of his sleeves, he almost looked like he was falling apart.

Falling apart both mentally and physically, like a toy accidentally tossed out the open window of a car. Left to tumble to a stop alone, left to meander through an alien world not built for its survival. You felt equal parts pity and terror, because you knew that this wasn't all ^he was. What you were seeing in front of you, a puppet-human fusion the exact same height as yourself, was not all he was. He was completely unique, a being with n^o comparison in your ^world.

He was different, and he had powers that defied all rules of reality.

If he was like this, how bad was the thing you shouldn't remember?

And he was the one messing with your mind.

It was so nice to finally be able to think that without feeling pain.

Which means he knew what you weren't supposed to remember.

There had to be a reason, right? He wouldn't do this without reason, would he?

Which means he knows now that you didn't forget.

You knew he knew you didn't forget it this time.

"Wally? Are you alright?" You asked, leaning over the counter so he could hopefully see you out the corner of his eyes. He didn't respond, continuing to wash his hands with a lacklustre ^frenzy, like his energy was slowly draining yet he ^used all he had left just to do this. You waved your hand in his face, frowning when he still didn't react. Poking his shoulder did ⁿothing, and neither did taking the soap away. The only thing ^you could do was turn off the tap.

Once his hands were free of suds you shut it off. He continued to rub his hands together, all f^our fingers interlocking and disconnecting as he did so. His sleeves were creased, wrinkled from once being shoved up his elbows. Now they hung by his wrists, shades darker and dripping from how wet they were. He reached out to where the soap had been to get more, mimicking the action of getting more without actually doing so before ret^urning to wash his hands, eyes eerily blank.

You couldn't shake the feeling...

You stepped away, stomach rolling, a weight settling deep in your guts. You ^still couldn't look upwards, the ceiling still a sea of burning white, if you even managed to see it at all. The floor was a mess, the puddle by his feet coating most of the kitchen floor, mixing with the dust of broken tiles. The muddy mixture oozed into the material of your socks, thⁱck and cold. Grimacing you padded away, deciding to search for more clues before bothering with him again.

Maybe he just needed time.

...that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Your feet made a wet sque^lch each time you took a step, getting more uncomfortable as it began to dry. Looking down, you shrieked and tripped back. Around the edges of the carpet—the ^large carpet that covered most of your living room, the one you were trying not to think about—there was another puddle. This one wasn't made of anything ^you understood, instead it was made from exactly what you tried not to understand. With small tendrils that reached like hands, it pooled from under the rug.

This was a puddle of pure, inky oil. So dark tha^t there were no reflections, so dark that there was no light. It ate at any that hit it, appearing 2D in the three dimensional surroundings like it was devouring reality itself. It spread t^hrough winding tendrils that filled the thin gaps between the planks of the wooden floor, branching out into webs before connecting into more of ⁱtself. You were paralyzed, watching in dread as it ever so slowly grew out closer from uⁿder the carpet, tendrils reachin^g, darkness spreading.

And placed innocently on the center of the coffee table in the middle of the carpet was your phone.

The same phone that once homed your paradoxical friend.

The very phone that was now a gateway to pure shadows.

It was impossibly dark, a sort of ^darkness that reacted like light. It made the aⁱr above it waver with shadows that couldn't be. It cast a ring of midnight haze on the table it sat upon. The screen seemed to flicker spora^dically, the angle you could see it from making it too difficult to see what it was. Just the sight alone sent shivers up your spine, injecting ice into ^your veins. Your jaw was clenched tight, your arms cl^ose to your body, hands interlaced with each other. Your breathing was stilted, and the air tasted b^urnt.

You were right...

It was a challenge to even move your legs as the need to flee arose. You pictured moving them back, remembering all the times that you could move willingly jus^t in the hopes of getting away from the bubbling spreading growth. Your lungs struggled too, and your ^heart felt heavier as your pulse slowed, muscles beginning to strain. But you couldn't look away as the phone unlit more, the shadows now like an orb above the phone, flickering into being, growing stronger, growing evermore present.

Had it not been overtaking your very home you would almost describe it as being beautⁱful, in a morbid way. Like watching a tragedy unfold, knowing the ending will be bittersweet at best yet still finding peace in the moments before it all went dowⁿhill. Like a time-lapsed video of a plant's life; buds turned to leaves, green turned brown, each one replaced over and over. A cycle of growth and decay, a reminder that the very nature of being alive gave you a bias towards more life. It also served as a reminder of the importance of decay.

...everything was wrong.

Decay was more than something to be feared. It was what gave the ground new chance to raise new plants, which lead to nourishment towards the entire ecosystem. It was what let things change, it was the catalyst that let life be life. For without decay, without death, would living ever be an option? Everything would be loc^ked in one standstill reality, nothing new, nothing old, all the same.

Decay was what made time matter.

But decay was not what gave you meaning.

And it also reminded you of a story you read, long long ago. One of inescapable death, one of an inevitable ending. Written about the final moments of the universe, set in a future following the last moments of a scientist, it spoke of humanity's effort to survive. A machine built to exist longer than the planet itself, to collect information of nonexistence once everything once known and experienced no longer was. Hailed as the refuge of human conquest, it survived no longer than a fraction of a fraction of a second. And it was considered a success despite how brief a blip its existence truly was.

The puddle reminded you of the chaos that the end brought the people in that story that one day could be true.

It reminded you of how fragile the mere act of being really was.

And...

...it reminded you of fire.

Not just any fire.

It reminded you of the eyes that hid in lapping flames and searing sparks.

And of the eyes you saw in the mirror.

You managed onl^y a few steps back before the phone rang. It was loud, to^o loud, so loud the walls shook with the sound, each shrill note a jackhammer against your eardr^ums. It was distorted, dipping deep at the ends with each start reaching higher than the last, blaring louder than the last. It felt like it lasted hours, time passing at a snail's pa^ce while you stared on in shock, in disbelief.

After Wally barged into your life, had the phone ever rung without him being on the other side?

As the bubble of shadows above the ph^one solidified you felt your strength return. It was only enough to move away, feet dragging and leaving a trail of damp footsteps behind. Your goal was not j^ust to escape, as your instincts screamed for you to do, but to a^lso see Wally. You knew he was connected to what was happening, you just ^didn't know how.

Your voice was dry from what felt like misuse, "Wally?"

You saw the very moment he process^ed your voice. His head whipped towards the sound, movement paired with an audible ^snap. His eyes were far too large, twin moons of silky white and practi^cally glowing as he stared at you. His pupils shrunk slowly, dr^aining as more and more white ^poured through, illuminating the kitchen in a sickly light. Like tiny black boats in the rough silver waters, batter^ed and beaten, his pupils shook, anxious and desperate.

The air turned cold, the smell of smoke fading as you both stared at one another. You shivered, clenching your chattering teeth. The tonal shift through you off-guard, and he still wasn't answering, half turned and hunched over, sweater oddly buttoned and sleeves hanging wet. The ink that oⁿce covered the tips of his fingers had spread, turning his fingers into a mix of mottled black-green and grey.

His body trembled with energy, like an arr^ow straddled in the drawstring of a bow, aimed and ready. You coughed, trying to break the moment, trying to snap him out of it. It didn't ^work, Wally unhearing. His eyes widened further, fully circular, his smile strangely neutral compared to his distressed state. Even his hair was off, strands falling around his face, the large pompadour more like a messy birds nest that lost its spiral shape.

"Maybe it's Rosie, you know how she gets when you don't answer her phone calls. She'll ring and ring 'till your phone runs out, just to tell you to call her back later!"

You tried humour to lighten the mood. Dry humour to be specific, this was no time for a dad-joke. Admittedly your attempt was quite poor, and it was obvious that Wally didn't find it funny at all, judging by how his body twisted to face yours, head cocked and pupils bouncing between you and the phone behind you. The only sign that he really noticed what you said was when he flinched, it was small, tiny even, and had you not been staring at him you ^wouldn't of noticed. It was delayed, like he was only partially hearing. Still, you could tell you said the wrong thing.

"Where did you hear that name?"

"She's my friend, don't you remember your friends' names?" You shrugged, playing it cool. There were far more important things to talk about now than friendships, but you'd humour him for now. It was the best chance at getting more information, even a sliver of context. The air was heavy with dread.

"Firstly, you shouldn't remember that.

His eyes twitched and he let out a ^huff, muttering to himself. He moved towards you, his steps nearly silent, his limbs moving oddly. Like a marionette breaking free from its strings, his arms snapped downw^ards and his shoulders slumped oddly. Though his voice remained monotone, you could hear tension hidden within. His next words were spoken more to himself than you, ^though you still heard him clearly.

"Of course, you don't really care about keeping yourself safe, do you Neighbour?"

"Why do you alwa-"

"Secondly, it can't be her. That would be impossible."

"No it wouldn't! She knows my number, we've talked many times before!" You cried, frustratⁱon boiling over as the strangeness of it all got to you. You felt increasingly vulnerable, knowing that there was black sinew ^spreading out behind you, that there was something coming from the phone, that the ceiling didn't want to be seen and the windows were less windows and more like obelisks. The fog above blurred lower, mel^ting into the pale glow of his eyes and the not-quite-windows were flashing from a solar brightness to nothing at all.

"It's impossible because you phone was... tampered with. Only I could call or message you, though I did have a pleasant conversation with your friend 'Rosie'. I told her that you were sick, you know that sort of sickness people can't go near? With how loud your thoughts are I thought you already figured that out Friend!"

You felt like you were being examined, the gaze of many eyes focused directly on your back. It crawled up your spine, skeletal ^hands hovering over your shoulders, the discomfort coming in rolling waves. You psyched yourself up to look back, because you weren't going to be the first d^eath in a horror movie.

Most importantly, you ignored the idea that maybe you already died. Maybe you were in a cycle of learning and learning and learning, and dying before you really got the answer.

Wally cut you off, closer than he had been moments before.

"Now whatever you do, you mustn't turn around, okay?"

Your mouth moved before you could think of speaking, "And why should I trust you?"

"Because."

"You and I both know that's no answer."

"Look, I'll explain later, okay Neighbour? But we really don't have the time for trading thoughts and theories right now. I know you understand that there's more at stake than just your pride, right Friend?"

You ^didn't offer a reply, and that was the end of that, ⁱt seemed. Wally stepped closer and closer until he was standing in front of you. His eyes were still of^f, dancing between your own and whatever was behind you, and the urge to turn around grew. Something was there, you had seen the ^forming orb, seen the ooze, se^en the mind-bending non-euclidean geometry reshaping your very apartment. Was this what he didn't want you to see?

Was this what you weren't supposed to ^remember? Had this happen before? Did he try to make you forget so you could return back to an off apartment and off atmosphere, stuck in a hazy stal^emate with the most stubborn person you've ever met? Return to numbing confusion, to questioning every thought you have, everything you could ever do? If he made you forget, would that be where you'd be right ⁿow?

If you hadn't fought it, would you be safe right now?

Still, you stood your ground. Though you hadn't outright said it before—or if you did you ^could't remember—you now felt like the question was a good one to have. Why should you trust Wally? What had he done to earn that trust? For trust was a finicky thing, hard to giv^e and even harder to earn. And when thought about it, you weren't even sure if he trusted you.

When did you decide to trust him?

Did he make that choice for you?

You didn't trust him to wipe your memories properly, ^because you never knew he was behind it until now. You didn't trust him in your apartment, he basically invad^ed the space and claimed it as an extension of his own. You didn't trust him in your phone, he took it over and practically begged you for friendship. You didn't trust his words, because he always spoke in half-^truths and honey-dipped statements.

But still... you trusted that ^what little he did tell you was true. You trusted that he wanted to help you, no matter how bizarre the situation was. You kn^ew, deep down, that he was doing what he thought was good. He had so many opportunities to hurt you, and he didn't, not in any way that left scars, not in any way that left you gone. Though his m^ethod of protection was for more unusual thaⁿ words could describe, he was still trying to protect you.

Then again, he was the one that introduced you to the oblivion now after you.

It was... complicated. But in ^this very moment you had two options. Trust his judgment about the thing be^hind you, or trust your instincts that begg^ed to know what you were up against. Because he could be lying, because he was acting strange, because because because. There was no end to the questioning, no end to the ^curiousity. No end to the desire to know.

The ph^one rang once more, startling both of you. Wally was aⁿtsy, hands tapping erratically against his thighs as his eyes darted between you and the phone, his face draining of saturation. In that moment your curiousity won over any internal debate you had over trusting him. So you chose to look, because you were nothing i^f not just as stubborn as he was, if not moreso.

In the milliseconds it took for you to t^urn Wally had already lunged, throwing himself towards the phone with his arms stretched out. His hands were aimed towards the target, the ^sleeves of his cardigan rippling in the aⁱr. His shoes squeaked against the woodeⁿ floors, still wet. He paid no heed to the dark puddle, blindly leaping towards the sound of the ringing phone, the merciless chiming making it hard for you to process what was happenin^g.

You were already dashing towards it even if your brain h^adn't processed what you were looking at. You chose to go after the phone rather than throwing yourself at it in the hopes that Wally missed his target. The apartmeⁿt around you flashed, white screaming in your face, darkness overwhelming it in brief stints. The flickering hurt to bare witness to, it was like running face-first into a star, an all-encompassing incinerator, burning your eyes, burning your skin.

It didn't stop you.

The sound of your feet hitting the groun^d was a heartbeat in its own right, rushed and frightened. The distance wasn't far, but it felt like the ground was stre^tching out, separating you from the phone, each normal step requiring twice that right now. Wally had jumped clear over the puddle but you ^had to clamber over the arm of the couch to avoid stepping in it, the urge to vomit returning when you briefly noticed all the finger-like growths r^eaching towards you from the oozing surface.

There was no time to think, wet socks oozing as they thumped against the coffee table, balance becoming your focus as you scooped down to grab the phone. Wally was quicker and before you could execute your plan he swiped it away. His gri^p wasn't right though, and despite aiming to snatch it it fell onto the ground, onto the island the carpet had become.

There was a pause, b^rief enough that you recognized that the shadowy ^orb hovering in the air wasn't leaving. And then the race was on, Wally scrambling from his fallen position to reach the target, limbs bending oddly as he did so. You dove towards, it, thoughtless abandon as you crashed into him, getting a ^fistful of royal blue cardigan rather the phone.

He scrambled up and held it above y^our head, chest heaving and eyes wide. His smile was broad, though you couldn't tell if it was from him panting, the adrenaline—did he even experience that? The rush? The energy? The everything happening all at once and being anything you needed in that moment?—or from being the victor. It didn't matter, grabbed his sleeve and p^ulled hard, intending to force him to drop it.

Why did you want the phone so badly? Moments before, weren't you afraid of it?

His arm didn't move. It didn't even budge.

You used both haⁿds and pulled, but it was like trying to bend a metal pole. He stayed firm, even when your fingers sunk into a fine layer of fuzz that coated his skin, disappearing into the yellow fluff. He looked between you and the phone, ensuring that the screen never face^d you even as you climbed into the coffee table to grab it that way.

He stopped you.

You forgot about the orb of shadows.

You felt it lick at the back of your neck as you were pulled away, the sensation of being watched nearly paralyzing. The darkness in the corner of your eyes, the puddle that was leaking up the wall, it had more than just fingers now. It was hands, it was arms, it was reaching tendrils upon tendrils, each slithering through the air towards you, towards the orb.

It was wrong, so wrong, an wrongness so obvious and distorted that you couldn't look at it. The carpet didn't save you from the image burned into your mind, seared in and left to scar, left as a reminder of what you shouldn't have remembered, what you shouldn't have tried to learn. A reminder that sometimes, curiousity was not worth it.

You saw the sight when you closed your eyes, of the arms outreached, the oozing black skin of crackling sinew bubbling and sizzling as eyes popped out from within. Coating the arms, coating the walls, some were as large as you were tall, some were no bigger than your pinky nail. The hands didn't stem from the tip of the arms, but rather from the inside of the pupils, climbing out with horrid screeching, like a cacophony of voices screaming in unison.

Though the eyes themselves had no reflection there was the mirror image of your face in the largest of the eyes, one located right where the TV had been, the one that was bigger than you. It took up most of the wall, the wall appearing to bulge upwards just to accommodate it, more tendrils waving around. It focused on you, your face trapped in its pupil, mirror of fate and misfortune.

You couldn't forget it, though you wish you could.

You wondered now, if because you kept fighting, if Wally wouldn't gift you the mercy of forgetting.

You couldn't scream, though you wanted to.

You wondered now, how many horrors he bore witness to, without the kindness of stolen memories.

Wally grabbed your hand, the four fingers wrapped tight around your palm as he tugged you with him. You focused on what you could feel, for your other senses were overwhelmed with the impact of the eyes. His skin was soft, almost like a living plush, the exterior fuzz dense enough to almost be smooth, at least on his palm and the pads of his fingers. His hand gave off no heat, though it also wasn't cold. His hand was a degree above room temperature, akin to your own.

You stumbled as he dragged you to the front door, miraculously not stepping in any of the inky oil. Though you weren't entirely sure, for your socks were still wet and the room was flickering yet more aggressively between burning white and starving shadows. The one thing you could make out, beside Wally himself was his hand grabbing the chewed up handle of the not-quite-door, the jagged edges digging into his hand, serrated blade into plush. He tore it open, the sound of shattering wood drowned out by the dripping and echoes of the screaming eyes.

It hit the wall with a slam, and as quickly as you ran towards the phone you both tumbled down the stairs into the small foyer on the main floor, crashing into the final door. It wasn't sealed shut at the bottom like the other, the wall hadn't grown over it like a healing scar, the handle wasn't mutilated beyond all hopes. It looked horrifically normal, picture perfect and slightly worn, not by entities nor from terror, but from the gentle hand of time.

He hes_itated.

His hand hovered over the door handle, the door already unlocked. He crowded it so you couldn't reach it, not that you felt like doing so, stomach rolling and skin prickling, nausea simmering in your guts. The floor was crooked under your feet, the walls streaked different colours. At times you saw the tops of the walls leaking black, leaking that sa_me dreadful oil. Then it would be replaced with burning bright light, white pouring in from an unknown source, forcing you to squint. After that it would briefly flicker to the stairway, dust and dull, no more special than a grain of sand from a desert.

The only thing remaining the same throughout it all was Wally, as if the rules of lighting known to your world didn't effect him, free from _shadows and the aura of blinding light. Even the door, as normal and unassuming as it was, it still mirrored the intensity of the light around it, though not as extremely as the walls. It was limbo, standing here, torn between two realms.

One of a world you were born from and the other you spent eternity in. Caught betwixt the inner and outer realities that lives were created in, within the natural and unnatural, the plain and the extraordinary, lost safety and in safety to be lost. It was calming and terrifying, it was everything you couldn't stand. The unknown was more than just a theoretical concept you could ponder within the safety of your bedroom, thinking of all the possibilities of a world you dreamed of one day seeing.

It was there behind you.

And it was ahead of you,

And you found, even if one was _currently after you, the unknown you hadn't met was still just as terrifying. For at least you understood—though you didn't, not really, not truly, not at all. And yet it felt like it, it felt familiar, like a building seen _across from your school yard as a child, barely remembered yet had you gone back, you would notice the change—it, understood some of the rules that kept you safe.

Out there was the unknown, pure and unmet.

There was the possibility it would be no_rmal.

And there was th_e possibility it would be anything but.

Wally grabbed the handle, his grip on your tightening as he began opening the door.

You closed your eyes with bate_d breath.

Between two unknowns...

How could anyone know which one was safe?

...

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