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Haunted.
That was truly the only word Dan felt described his existence. Haunted by ghosts, figurative and literal. Inescapable, the horrors of a hotel, of his father, of his mind. Now, equally damning, the weight of his guilt.
He had failed her, the girl who had trusted him to assist her. To save her. Instead, she was held in the custody of a madman, someone who sought to bring her to an even greater evil. Magic tricks wouldn’t save her now. Nothing could, especially not himself.
Not like this, anyways.
The woman, Rose- a name that fit her appearance and biting personality- had called it dosing. Never before had he missed that inner warmth, the call to something ethereal, otherworldly almost. He had spent his entire life pushing it down, wishing it away, hoping that it might flicker out if he stifled it enough. Now, however, he would do nearly anything to feel that spark, that flicker that meant he wasn’t worthless, at least not entirely. Instead, he felt a cold mist drifting through his subconscious, clouding his mind. At the very least, he could revel in what his past self yearned for so deeply, a quiet peace of self, a small consolation for what could be his last moments.
But now was not the time for “peace of self.” The reality of his situation was now pouring over himself again, his defeat playing over in his head and snapping him out of his bout of pity.
They had been so close. One left, the young blonde girl, the snake. She had been entirely devoid of mercy for a girl almost the same age as herself. The hunger in her eyes had sickened him. To her, they were just prey, a source of food. Nevermind the fact that she was once human, shining in the dark as they did now. She had been alone, her friends had vanished, a reflection of their meaningless plight on earth (a glimpse of poetic justice in this terribly hungry world).
But of course, killing her would have been too simple. His gun had been entirely void of bullets, Billy’s as well, and with two unarmed victims at her mercy, the balance of power had shifted. She had frozen him in place, a desperate fool reloading his gun, incapable of doing anything. Unable to stop her from turning her bitter gaze upon his best friend, the ray of sun in the suffocating darkness of his mind, from uttering those cursed woods, ordering him to take his life. Unable to look away from the bloody hole in Billy’s head, the slow descent of his corpse onto the ground, the pool of crimson spilling from his head.
“Penance,” she had called it. As if his life were something that could be paid in due.
Then she told him to sleep, as if it were so simple, sleeping the darkness away.
It had been that simple.
He had awoken, bound in rope, gagged. No shine, but a massive, groggy migraine blasting through his brain. A hangover, but he had been sober for years. It had been blissfully still for a moment, no hurt clouding his thoughts upon regaining consciousness. It was as if everything were as it should be, with Billy beside him, a soft surface underneath the two as they whispered their secrets between one another. As if Abra were miles away, safe, waiting to tell him about her latest escapades at school. As if everything hadn’t gone to shit, as if it weren’t entirely his fault. But neither his idyllic vision or his moment of calm could be anything other than a fleeting, false hope.
“Well, hello there.”
Silence. An answer was unwarranted, and impossible anyways. They were long past the point of civility.
“We have the girl.”
Lovely to hear, upon waking up after being kidnapped and drugged, that your efforts were for naught. He couldn’t even respond, the cloth digging into his skin so deeply he could feel the warmth radiating from the irritation. All he could do was grunt in what he hoped was a menacing enough manner. It did not seem to instill fear into whomever was in the room with him- it sounded unlike the venomous teenager from before, which led him to believe he was in the presence of the ringleader, a fellow magician so to speak. But he was all out of tricks.
“I assume you’re wondering where you are, and I also assume you’ve come to the conclusion that you’re entirely at our mercy, which leads me to wonder if you’ve accepted the fact that you’ve lost or if you’re desperately scrabbling together some remnants of hope and wishful thinking under the guise of a plan,” said the disembodied voice, footsteps gently approaching. He sees a pair of bare feet briefly, and then a tight hold on his hair forces his head upwards, the opposite hand of his captor gripping roughly under his chin and placing a face to a voice. She tilted his head slowly from side to side, contemplating, searching somewhere deep in his eyes for an answer. Bright eyes, full of cunning and wicked, framed by raven hair that reflected the recesses of her soul. She wore a short black top hat, the head of a circus of murderers, and though she smiled at the man in her grasp, it held none of the good humor her voice had exuded. In short, her entire personality was just a facade, a performance put on by a monster.
Her motion stills, and she pulls his face closer to herself, seemingly having found her answer. “Look at your face, so full of anger, defiance, and yet…”
He waits for her to finish her sentence, wondering perhaps a little foolishly, a little fearfully, if she’s seen the truth, that he is some false being, a pinnacle of everything that has ever failed to succeed.
“There’s something about you that gives me hope.”
That was not the answer he had expected. He struggled against his ropes, a clear response (he hoped) to her words, that there was no reason for her to hold any well wishes towards him. She continued, disregarding his actions and leaving his message as ineffective as his squirming.
“Even at your age, even with all that grime that coats your shine, you could be part of something beautiful, something far greater than yourself. You could live a life void of consequence, doing whatever you please, if you would just… let me in.”
He stills, and it finally clicks, the answer she had been searching for- she cannot get into his thoughts. He is an enigma, a puzzle she is unable to solve, and it irks her. It’s the reason he hasn’t been killed yet, hasn’t been tortured for steam. She cannot kill him, not until she has all her answers. Her hand gently traces the side of his head, the grip on his hair released to wonder at his existence, to question the mind that dared to defy her. He can see it now, the burning desire to understand, to consume the secrets of his mind. She knows, understands that she is far from the omniscient being she pretends to be. A Performer in her entirety, a fake front.
She loosens the gag, allowing him to move his mouth for the first time it what seems like ages (and perhaps it was, for who knew how long he had been laying there), and clicks her tongue pityingly, as if it were not her who had held him in this position in the first place.
“You could eat well, and live a long, long life. Little remains here for you- what would you stay for? You have no more friends left for you, no more comfortable home waiting, nothing left to protect. Take a fresh start, become something greater than this, and find a new purpose in us.”
It’s almost tempting, given his lack of other options. They have Abra. He cannot feel his shine, no Tony to save himself, and no Billy… nobody to return to.
But this is the woman who orchestrated this misery, the one who has taken his momentary peace, his contentment, and entirely decimated it. If he were to accept her offer, it would be just as damning as his guilt. He would spend an eternity locked by her side, and that seemed much more hellish than the reality he had found himself trapped in.
So instead of accepting her most gracious offer, he did what seemed to be the most sensible thing in the moment- he spit in her face.
A pause, a momentary calm before a storm. She slowly, carefully, wiped the saliva from her cheek, her eyes just as calm as before but betraying a cold, vindictive hatred. Clearly, she hadn’t been pleased by his response.
“Well, I see you still might need some time to mull things over. Perhaps your answer will change, given some… persuasion.”
With that, he felt the gag being placed back in place, just as suffocating as it had been prior. Then, gently, almost tenderly, he felt his head being placed back upon the ground, his entire body lowered back to the dirt where he felt he belonged. A moment's pause, the woman’s feet (for that was all he could see from his position) began a slow retreat from his enclosed space, leaving him alone again.
Faster than he could comprehend, the woman whipped around, her foot connecting with his nose with a resounding crack, he could feel blood gushing from his face as he struggled to release himself, the pain radiating from his face his sole focus.
Which is why he hadn’t seen the shifting position, the glint of a silver reflecting on the ground, wasn’t anticipating the sudden grasp of hands turning him onto his back, the pressure of another person restricting his movement further and stifling his breathing. Her face, now a contortion of malicious glee, was inches away from his own, her breath glancing over his ear as she whispered into what seemed to be his consciousness.
“You know, my friends, they call me Rose the Hat. It’s my staple, my ever-present trick, full of so many useful little tools. It’s so nice, having something like this,” a scalpel waving in front of his face interrupting her speech, “at the ready, in case I meet someone who insists on being especially difficult. I find that a quick incision here and there can do wonderful things for people.”
Sharp, biting pain digs into his shoulder, quickly followed by another incision. There was blood soaking through his sleeve, a sickly warm feeling coating his arm. She continues on the other shoulder, then makes her way towards his torso. Blade meets bone, a sickening scraping sound barely audible to others but the most prominent sound in the world to himself. That warm feeling has spread, coating his chest, strangling him. He can see the sadistic frenzy of mania dancing in Rose’s eyes as she cuts through his flesh, leaving incisions on his collarbones, his upper arms, his chest. It felt like an eternity, playing doctor with someone so eager for a vivisection. But eventually, her actions cease.
She stands up, blood dripping from her hands, and alters her position from above him to beside. She tuts, going to wipe tears (he wasn’t aware he had been crying, that his anguish could ever be audible to a world where someone like this could exist) from his face, leaving a slick smear of blood below his eyes.
“We’ll have to dose you again darling. But don’t worry- when you awake, we can continue spending your precious, fleeting time together.”
A sharp prick, a numb coolness, and then nothing. Peace again.
Peace could never last for him. For the next three days, when he wasn’t driving in and out of consciousness, he took turns with Rose and the Snake, alternating between being tormented… and tormenting himself.
It was more bearable when it was out of his hands entirely, when he was simply a victim underneath a madwoman, a monster, unable to stop the beatings, the bleeding, the taunts. But when the Snake, the devil disguised as a little girl, took control over his actions, it felt like being a marionette for an audience composed of his ghosts.
She had started small, stilling him as she undid his ropes. Then, she gave him a small knife, perhaps just over an inch and a half, and had him cut a small incision up his forearm. When she had been satisfied with her level of control over his actions, she had begun the real torment. Long, deep cuts ran over his legs, his forearms, his face. She had given him fire, and he had burned himself with a heat only akin to his rage, his hatred threatening to boil over and consume his every waking moment. He had broken his fingers, one at a time, on his left hand, as she watched with a self-satisfied smirk. Remorseless.
It might have made him feel better if there had been a purpose, “pain purifies steam,” if they had been at the very least feeding off him, because that would indicate an end to his predicament. But being dosed kept his shine buried away, unaware of his suffering, unable to surface and offer him solace. This was solely for the fulfillment of their circus from hell, for vengeance on the broken man who had lost everything. They reveled in his pain, and he almost couldn’t blame them. He deserved to be punished for his failings, for his complete inability to protect those he had held dear, but still… to receive any sort of judgment from the people responsible for so much misery was unacceptable.
Three days of hell. Three days, not that he could quantify that time, and then he was lifted up by the Crow, as if he were simply an object to be thrown around (and if the past three days had taught him anything, it was that he could be reduced to something so vulnerable), and was brought out to a clearing, tossed into the dirt to stare into the fading sky, light of the world slipping through his fingers like his fleeting happiness had. The gentle sound of footsteps approaching, and then a looming face. Rose, dark hair falling beside her face as she slowly knelt down beside him, a gentle hand reaching towards his face, the caress reminiscent of a lover, the bite of a bitter winter. Perhaps she had brought him out here to bury him, to finish his miserable time on this plane of existence.
“Poor dear… you’re barely recognizable. Where is that anger, that bitterness from the other day? Where is that fight?”
It was difficult to fight back, given that he had consumed no food, no water, that his time here had been spent in agony or drugged to the point of unconsciousness. Still, he supposed it was reflected in his eyes, his complete and utter exhaustion.
“I wouldn’t normally do this, but I’ll make you the same offer I did once before. You could join us, become part of something magnificent… find a place to belong again, people who will care for you. Or, you can die here, with nothing left to lose, with no one to mourn your loss. It’s your decision, truly, but I believe anyone can see a world of difference between the palatability of both options.”
Join us, or die. An ultimatum, not a choice.
His response was already cemented in his mind, no question about spending the length of ages with these people. He narrowed his eyes, unable to release the string of curses he so wished upon them. And the devil above him simply smiled.
He was left there then for hours, the drugs slowly leaving his body, but too weak to resist, to fight back. He knew what was coming, understood that the end was soon to be upon him, as he watched the night sky begin to shine with the light of a thousand stars, as he counted them all for the last time.
When Rose approached him again, she was no longer alone. The Snake and the Crow towered over him, preparing for his final act, both poised to watch his last moments. The gag was undone, and he realized how he had taken his freedom of motion for granted before, how relieving it was to be void of bonds digging into your skin. He grasped at the sensation, trying to hold onto it for as long as he could, his final comfort, as Rose settled in on top of him, pinning his lower body down.
“Well then, I see no reason to hold up the party any longer. Let’s see what tricks I have in my hat this time.”
A dagger, scalpel, needles, to draw blood from him. Matches, to burn through his flesh, leaving an ever lying ache. Nails or shards of glass, to be placed through his skin. A whip or riding crop. All objects she had pulled from her hat previously, as if she were simply reaching for a rabbit.
This time, she pulled out her dagger, encrusted with a ruby studded hilt, to reflect the blood she so loved to spill. But when she reached into her hat again, he was confused. She had never before reached for two objects at once. And what she pulled out was something entirely new, at least to him.
He remembered being young, being in school. He remembered bits and pieces of classes, different rules he had to learn. He remembered safety precautions, implemented to keep kids safe from dangerous substances… like acid.
She ignored his panic, uncapping the vial and carefully placing the dagger beside herself. She slowly, painstakingly slowly, began to drip the chemical onto an open wound just one drop at a time. And then she stopped, and waited.
She didn’t have to wait for long. The instant acid made contact with his open skin, it began to eat away at his flesh, an unbearable searing burn coursing through him. He grit his teeth, unwilling to let them hear him suffer, to hear him scream.
Apparently, this displeased the group above him. Rose carefully poured a larger amount of the substance across his chest, onto all his previous cuts and bruises, and let it eat away at him. After a minute, after another exhale, they receive their prize, steam pooling from his mouth.
And they eat. And Rose then digs the dagger deep into his skin, reveling in the release of pain, of his shine. And he can feel her, trying to slip into his mind within his weakness, hoping that she will be let in unwillingly. And he promises himself that unless he lets her in with open arms, she will be barred from what she wants. She cannot have his secrets.
Out of everything he has done, this seems to be what has enraged her the most. She cannot enter his mind, and it is slowly driving her mad. She cannot be the god she is playing at, not when someone can defy her so. He can see it in her face, her desperate grapple for control.
So, when she suddenly changes expressions to one of calm, sadistic pleasure, he is greatly unnerved.
“It really is a shame, that you have to go like this… you won’t make even the smallest sound for us. I suppose you think this is some form of defiance, an honorable thing to do in your final moments. But it really is a shame… didn’t you want to see your little friend again? Miss Abracadabra herself?”
Desperation rips through him, and a strength he hadn’t known he still had emerges full force as he struggles against his bonds, against Rose. He can feel his broken fingers behind him, the lacerations down his back opening up and bleeding, and he cannot bring himself to care. If Abra is truly here… if he can just see her again, tell her how sorry he is…
Cold, cruel laughter snaps him back to the woman above him. “Where is she?!!” he demands, his voice little more than a snarl.
False shock illuminates her face, her dagger-less hand flying to her chest. “Why, she’s right here!” she exclaims, reaching towards the Snake, for someone behind her… or something.
When she turns back towards him, she is holding a large, silver canister. At first he is confused- what was she planning to do with that?
And then her implication dawns on him. This, this jar, this silver trap, is all that is left of Abra. Her steam, her shine, is stuck within it, her life reduced to nothing but food for these monsters.
He opens his mouth to scream, his eyes ablaze with fury… and Rose gleefully drips acid into one of his eyes. His scream is shattering, his vision going blurry, eyes closed in agony. She cackles, thoroughly enjoying his misery, the demons above him consuming his steam as he cried out in agony.
The torment, the torture, stops for a while, as tears stream down his face. When he can finally open his eyes, one is entirely no longer functional, likely a liquidated mess of tissue. He closes it in some feeble attempt to stem his pain, closes his eyes to the horrible sight that is his tormentors, and wishes that he were back a week prior, when everything made sense, when his demons were at bay.
Then the dagger stabs directly through his chest. What escapes his mouth this time is not a scream, but more so a strangled, weeping gasp, mottled by the blood flooding from his body. And he feels her prying for his mind, desperate to uncover what lay underneath, dying to be let in.
And so he lets her.
He is fueled by anger, by vengeance, and he envelops the entire group inside of his mind. They are spread throughout his labyrinth, unable to depend on one another for support.
He finds the Crow first. He had murdered Abra’s father, and hunted Abra herself relentlessly. He had left a cold, lifeless body on the floor for his wife to find, stepped over his corpse with its daughter in his arms, carrying her to her demise. So he stabs him through the chest, in the same fashion he left Mr. Stone. He leaves him to suffocate on his blood, uncaring of his final moments.
The Snake is next. Her mind tricks are useless here, unable to manipulate him any longer. With more time, he could watch her suffer an eternity. But even with all his hate, even with every ounce of malice he could muster, it would never be enough to make up for what she had done to Billy, to Abra. Instead, he plays a trick of his own, turning her shine against her. Her own voice echoes through the space, and the once dark cold of the maze is set ablaze as the girl in front of him is reduced to a screeching ball of fire, then to ashes that will be buried underneath the snow.
Now all that is left is the self proclaimed magician. So, he sets a stage for her, and snaps her into the blinding spotlight in an instant. She faces an audience of faceless children, motionless and condemning. He stands beside her, waiting, watching her every action. So when she lunges towards him, he pulls a cord, and goes falling, tumbling into the depths of the stage, until she finally lands on a pile of grasping, moaning corpses, pulling her underneath as she screams and reaches towards the light, towards Danny.
He pulls a rose from his sleeve, and tosses it down. Then he closes the trapdoor, and leaves.
Snap back to reality. He has maybe a minute left here, his blood pooling out of his chest, his breathing staggered and strained. His vision is blurred, every fiber of his being crying out in pain. He looks to his sides, finding nobody beside him. Abra’s final trick, a manipulation of his mindscape. It feels only fitting that she had been a part of their downfall, a small act of retribution.
He can see himself standing there, shaking his head. No satisfaction should be earned for his actions, not when he is responsible for the demise of so many, his loved ones. He condemns himself. He watches his final moments, to ensure his own death.
He closes his eyes. He can see them all waiting for him, calling for him. Abra, waving towards her Uncle Dan. Billy, arms outstretched, welcoming him into peace. And his mother, smiling, waiting for him to come home, to finally hold her boy again.
He cannot wait to be there with them. He opens his eye (for there is no longer a point in opening his ruined eye, not when it only serves to aggravate his condition further), and sees a new set of legs before himself. He looks up, and sees his father.
Angry. Drunken. Disheveled. Bitter. His father has come to finally watch him die, the way he longed to all those years ago. He has come to watch his son join him in eternity, to finally be entirely out of his reach, with the people he loves most of all.
And Danny Torrance closes his eyes again, searching for those waiting for him.
And he spends his final moments, haunted.