Hold Me Down

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/15181529.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Category: F/M
Fandom: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Relationship: Sam/Josh Washington, Mike Munroe/Sam
Character: Sam (Until Dawn), Josh Washington, Mike Munroe, Jessica (Until
Dawn), Emily (Until Dawn), Matt (Until Dawn), Melinda Washington, Bob
Washington, Hannah Washington, Beth Washington, The Stranger
(Until Dawn), Makkapitew (Until Dawn), Chris (Until Dawn), Ashley
(Until Dawn), Dr. Alan Hill (Until Dawn), Wolfie (Until Dawn)
Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Justice for
Josh, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Mental Health Issues, Bad
Parenting, Friendship/Love, Child Abuse, Josh Lives, Fix-It of Sorts, My
Poor Baby Washington Deserves Better, Explicit Sexual Content,
Explicit Language, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Self-Harm,
Character Death
Stats: Published: 2018-07-06 Updated: 2022-05-25 Chapters: 37/? Words:
76571

Hold Me Down
by Junesong

Summary

Samantha James is not a coward.

So what if she has to face the horrors of Blackwood Mountain to save the broken boy she
left behind?

So what if she has to do it all by her frayed, traumatized lonesome?

So what if the mountain is inhabited by flesh-eating monstrosities eagerly awaiting their

next Not-So-Happy Meal?

Samantha James is not a coward. No, she is not.

But she's scared shitless.

Notes

See the end of the work for notes

 Mourning Doves
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Samantha James has never been to a funeral before.

Sure, there was that one time seven years ago when she found a dead bird on their porch and
decided - much to her mother's chagrin - that she would bury it beneath their prized willow tree in
the yard, effectively offending both her cat and her parents in the process.
Her cat, because she had the nerve to deny him such a tasty little morsel, and her parents for having
to live with the fact that there is a decaying corpse haunting their beautiful garden forevermore.

This is nothing like that. Not even close.

She keeps her eyes locked on the grand tombstone that now resides on the plot of dirt covering a
very expensive, very impersonal and very empty coffin.

"Sam?" Mike calls her name softly, bringing her attention to a pair of beautiful brown eyes filled
with gentle concern. He smiles, taking her hand and interlacing her slender fingers with his own.
They're rough; weathered and scarred after venturing through the nightmarish planes of the
Sanatorium, fighting off cannibalistic monsters and - oh yes - almost losing two digits to some
freaky Jigsaw-trap.

She forces a smile back and gives his hand a small squeeze.

"I'm fine."

"Sam..."

"I said I'm fine, Michael."

He backs off, but she can tell she's hurt him. That seems to be all she does these days. That, and
burrowing so far down in her sheets she could pretty much out-burrow any burrowing woodland
creature in existence at this point.

She pinches her eyes shut and imagines herself underground. Six feet under, to be exact. On the
dot. She imagines herself lying in that empty, extravagant coffin, listening to the dirt being thrown
on the closed lid and the voices slowly fading away into nothingness. She imagines her parents in
the place of the Washingtons, burying their only child in that expensive box of wood as if the
ridiculous price of the container could make up for the loss of a life that would never again grace
this Earth.

I wonder if they would find me as repulsive and unsightly as that bird, she thinks drily. I bet they
would, somewhere in their minds. Their perfect little offspring reduced to nothing but meat and
bones, good for nothing but fertilizer...

Her morbid thought process is interrupted by the voice of the priest - a tall, forgettable organism
more lifeless than anything below their feet - thanking everyone for coming and showing their
support to the Washingtons in light of the tragic recent events.

"Do you want to stay for a while?" Mike asks quietly, still eyeing her like he expects her to fall
apart at any given moment. She's grateful for his presence - she really is, especially considering the
fact that out of everyone in their merry little band of misfits, including Chris, he's the only one who
actually bothered showing up - but his constant mothering is starting to get on her nerves.

I can't blame him. I really can't. He's just worried about me, and I need to appreciate that.
Chewing him out won't do either one of us any good, and he's all I have now. It's not like he's being
a worrywart just to annoy me, after all.

"Sam? Do you want to stay for a bit?" he repeats, a little louder this time. She nods silently,
watching people leave through the gates like sheep being herded into a pen, and a tiny, cynical
smile etches its way onto her lips.

"How much do you wanna wager the almighty Mr. Bobby Washington had to pay these lowlifes
for coming to his son's funeral?" she muses out loud. Mike looks at her, startled by the cold and
distant tone in her voice. It's so... un-Sam-like, and she knows it.

She knows it all too well.

It's something Emily would say, and the last thing she wants is for anyone to compare her to Emily
flippin' Davis, but she can't help it. She doesn't feel even a tiny bit like herself these days.

"Dunno?" Mike shrugs, observing the crowd thoughtfully. The slight tilt of his head and the
intense look in his eyes give the impression of him trying to solve an exceptionally difficult math
problem, and despite herself, she finds it strangely adorable. Not that she'd ever admitted it to him,
though. Hell, she doesn't even want to admit it to herself.

Not here. Not now.

"For the gents in the front, I'd bet a fifth of whiskey and a lifetime supply of fedoras." He grins
when his joke earns him a snort of laughter.

"Hardy-har, Mike." She kneels down onto the loose dirt, tracing her fingertips slowly over
the golden letters etched into the smooth, polished marble surface of the tombstone:

Joshua Benjamin Washington

11/06/1995 - 14/09/2015

"They didn't even bother with an epitaph," she whispers, mostly to herself. Of course, they didn't
bother with a fucking epitaph. They didn't know their son at all, not even a tiny bit. But then again,
did she? Did she really know him? Could she ever - in a million years - have imagined him doing
something so sick? That he could be so twisted and broken?

I did know him. But at the same time... I didn't.

Not at all.

Because she really, really thought she did. God, she thought... she thought she understood who he
was, enough to feel like they had a real connection. She still feels that way, but the uncertainty is
gnawing at her. Did she really understand Josh after all? In some ways, he was always an enigma to
her, but in other ways, she felt like she did know him. She did understand him, at least better than
most - if not all.
How could it be possible for someone to feel so close and yet so far away? So intimate but still so
distant?

"Hey, Mike?" she whispers, hazel eyes glued to the elegant golden cursive etched into the
gorgeous black marble, still unable to truly process what they're seeing.

She sees the letters. She reads them perfectly.

Repeatedly.

And still... it's his name. It's not supposed to be there. It doesn't belong there. Not on a fucking
grave marker! It's wrong. It's horribly, painfully, ridiculously wrong and unfair and... She presses
the palm of her hands against her eyelids - hard - as if trying to manually remove the image from
her retinas. Maybe if she can do that, then... then it won't be real anymore.

God... She lets out a long, shuttering breath she didn't even know she was holding. God, Josh...
why? You fucking asshole! Why'd you have to go and get yourself killed, huh? Why did you have to
bring us all back there? Why? For a lousy prank? We could have helped you - I could have helped
you - and instead, you chose to pull something so completely messed up just to screw with us, and
now we're here and I am broken and you're dead.

She bites her lip and feels the sting of tears beginning to burn behind her eyelids. I will not cry. I
will not cry. I will. not. fucking. cry.

"Sam? Were you saying something?"

"Huh?" She looks at him, dark blonde eyebrows pulled together in confusion.

"You, uh, you started saying something. You said my name, and, uh... well. My name. Mike.
That's me," he jokes, tapping his index finger against his chest. "Michael Munroe, Class President!
Certified dreamboat and..."

"Yeah, uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, Prince Charming," Sam cuts him off and punches him
lightly in the shoulder. He grabs it and gasps audibly, staggering backward with a horrified
expression etched onto his handsome features. "Milady, you wound me! My pride! My fragile,
delicate pride! However shall I recover?!" he wails dramatically. She rolls her eyes at his antics,
but she does grant him a tiny smirk before turning to face the tombstone again.

"I was just wondering..." Sam pauses, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip before continuing.
"Do you think anyone ever actually knew him? Josh? I mean... the real Josh. Hell, do you think
even he knew who he really was?"

"What do you mean?" Mike comes up behind her, peeking over her shoulder at the polished grave
marker.

"All the things he did to us. The..." She almost says torture, but the word feels wrong on her
tongue. Josh never intended to torture them, did he? No. No, she refuses to believe that. He had
thought of himself as a healer. Someone who - through twisted and fucked up means - brought
people together.

And in a weird, messed up sort of way he kinda did.

"... The horror show," she finally says. "All that crap he did to Chris and Ashley, for starters. The
whole... haunted-house-basement-dungeon crap. Do you think anyone knew he was capable of
that? I mean, I know he was completely obsessed with horror and gore and all kinds of dark shit,
but..." Sam trails off, stealing a glance at her somber companion.

"Do you think there's anything left at all? Anything for the Washingtons to... I don't know, maybe
understand him better?"

"Well, to be fair..." Mike says thoughtfully, eyes narrowing in contemplation. "The lodge was
pretty crispy by the time the rescuers came for us, and I don't know about you, but... I dunno... I
mean, it's morbid as shit and everything, but..." He scratches his chin and looks off into the
distance.

"What, Mike?" Sam prompts, still feeling the name of her best friend's older brother branded into
her eyeballs like some kind of sadistic tattoo, all twisted and burning with regret and resentment.

"I feel like... all the work he put into those thingamajigs should at least be honored in some way,
y'know?" Mike drags a hand through his dark hair, effectively ruining whatever hairstyle he
decided was funeral-worthy.

Yeah. I do know, she thinks bitterly to herself.

Never mind the fact that they were designed to torture, scare and emotionally demolish the living
shit out of all of us - they were definitely really fucking brilliant. You were brilliant, Josh. And I
fucking hate you for wasting your talent on something so twisted. I hate you for tormenting us and
making us jump at imaginary shadows. I hate you for being indirectly responsible for Jessica and
Matt almost dying in the mines. I hate you for taking my fucking clothes, for videotaping me in the
damn bath, and stalking me through the entire fucking house in nothing but a tiny
goddamned towel. I hate you for being directly responsible for ALL OF US almost dying in those
godforsaken, horrible Tunnels of Death. I hate you for making me watch you fucking die. But most
of all, Joshua... most of all I hate you for actually being gone this time.

"He would have made an amazing movie producer."

That's all.

That's all she manages to say without crumbling into fifteen billion pieces right then and there.
That's all she manages to choke out. So meaningless, so shallow and empty and unimportant.

Just like the last words she ever said to Josh directly.

Sam pinches her eyes shut as the memory of the last time she ever spoke to him infiltrates her mind
and the overwhelming feelings of guilt and self-loathing that always accompanies it make her
clutch her stomach like she's going to be sick.

Hell, throwing up on Bob Washington's shiny, polished shoes would probably be an amazing
distraction right about now.

'"Okay... Josh. Do you have the keys for the cable car?" Her own words echo in her head,
mercilessly forcing her to relive the worst moment in her entire life.

"Uh... y-yeah. Here." Josh's voice. Fragile, uncertain. His hands, bloodied and injured as they dug
around his pockets for the keys, and all the while Sam just wanted to throw her arms around him
and hug him and kiss him and scream at him for being such a goddamned idiot and a million other
things fighting for dominance on her tongue. And what, pray tell, were the magnificent words of
wisdom that finally managed the Herculean feat of crossing her lips?
"Oh, good."

So damn meaningless. So useless. So casual. Nothing in those words indicated how much she
cared for him, how important he was and still is to her. Only the brief touch of their hands - the
tenderness in it, the lingering of Josh's hand in both of hers as she took the keys from his open
palm...

That small interaction spoke volumes.

Sam clenches her fist as she thinks back to how he tried reaching out to her in the basement, about
how she recognized his sincerity and his vulnerability but was too scared of her own feelings to
answer in kind. Her nails dig into her palm so deep they're probably drawing blood, but she doesn't
care. She deserves the pain.

"You know, Sam..." Josh drawls, halting to a stop. Sam takes in the straight line of his back; that
taut, slender build that made her severely and aggressively reconsider her preference for muscular
males, and when he turns to look at her over his shoulder for just one brief second, her heart
somersaults.

"Yeees, Josh?" she replies, her tone light and teasing.

"I just wanted to say... uh..." He pauses, the serious expression on his face catching her completely
off guard.

"What?" Sam tilts her head, trailing after him as he continues his journey further into the dark,
cold basement. She can feel the chill of the cement floor through the soles of her shoes, and her
toes feel like icicles. Seriously, the only thing she wants in this world is a long, hot bath in the
Washington's huge, enormous bathtub. Was that really so much to ask?

Josh speaks up again, that same heaviness still lingering in his low, raspy voice.

"It really means a lot to me that... everyone came back this year, and y'know, that... you came,
Sam."

God. The butterflies in her stomach had threatened to burst through her skin at that moment, and
she was so torn between confessing to the uneasiness of being back at the lodge and reassuring
him. She had paused for a moment, wanting so badly to say something, anything, that could
confirm to him that she felt something special for him as well, but what decided to come spilling
out of her stupid, cowardly mouth instead?

"Josh... We're here for you. Really. Whatever you need..." Sam swore she could see the
disappointment in his large, green eyes and the way his face fell, and she wanted to take back the
words, wanted so, so badly to rephrase them, but she continued just the same.

Because she's a stupid, cowardly idiot.

"... whenever... we're all gonna make it through this. Together."

But that didn't happen, did it? Somewhere on that hellish mountain, the body of Joshua Benjamin
Washington - or whatever remains of it - lies cold and alone and abandoned in those horrible,
horrible mines, and 'together' seems like a cruel joke now.

She barely registers the gentle hand on her shoulder, but it still manages to pull her out of that
familiar, black pit that threatens to consume her if she lets her guard down for even one fraction of
a second.
 "Let's go home, Sam."

Home. It has a strange, unfamiliar ring to it. Home? Home... where is that? Ever since she came
back from the mountain she hasn't really felt at home anywhere. Her blanket burrito continues to
increase in size every other night, but no matter how tightly she bundles them around her cold,
shaking body, she still can't seem to stop losing herself to the dark, dank terrors of the mine.

Josh... I never should have left you.

With one last look at the tombstone with its cold, distant surface, she can't help but feel as empty
and hollow as the casket underneath it. And in her mind, she etches the words of her own epitaph
beneath the golden letters carved into the shiny, black marble.

So fly on

Ride on through

Maybe one day I'll fly next to you

Fly on, ride on through

Maybe one day I can fly with you

Chapter End Notes

look at how far we've come

look at this mess we've made

I'm still praying that the sun

tears my body from the shade

tell me that we're too far gone

tell me that we'll be okay

swear to God I'd leave right now

if Heaven wasn't so far away

 No Place Like Home
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Sammyyy... Sam-Sam-Sammy-bird? Sammy-Sam-Sammy-Sammy-Sam... Saaa-aaam...

The voices echo out into the darkness of her cool bedroom, changing from Josh's teasing sing-song
voice to the deep and distorted voice of the Psycho until it twists into something else entirely;
something unnatural, something monstrous. It's all Sam can do not to scream at them to shut the
fuck up and let her get some goddamn rest because she's sick of having her name called, screeched,
sung, and whispered from every wall and every corner of the airy space.

"Shut up..." She pulls her blankets tighter around her tiny frame, shielding her body from the
haunting echoes of the past.

"Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up!" Her voice is muffled against the pillow. It sounds so weak and
powerless against the crushing darkness with its wide, grinning mouths filled with razor-sharp teeth
and those eternally hungry eyes searching for something - anything - to rip apart and devour.

Sammy... Why're you hiding from me, Sammy-bird? His voice whispers teasingly in her ear. She
can almost feel the cold breath against her skin, almost smell the dank wetness of the mines and
the tangy, salty scent of blood lingering ever-present in the air.

"Go away," she mutters, digging her nails into her scalp until she nearly draws blood. The pain
keeps her grounded, reminds her what is real and what isn't, but his presence refuses to leave her
alone. It hovers in the air above her, circles the bed around her, slinks under the blankets next to
her.

Why'd you leave me, Sam? Sammy... Sam... you came back for Mike. You came back for Mike but
you left me.

"I didn't leave you!" Sam wants to scream. "I didn't want to leave you! I was coming back!"

And she would. She would have come back for him. It was never her intention to leave him, or
Mike. It just seemed like the best course of action to take! Josh never would've made the climb,
there was no way. Maybe Mike could have, but Josh couldn't. Not in his condition. No, she wasn't
gonna leave him. She would've gone back for him. She would. The problem is...

She never should have left him in the first place.

My beautiful little Sammy-bird... why'd you fly away and leave me all alone with Douchy
McDickerson Munroe?

"Because I'm a fucking idiot, okay?!" she hisses into her pillow. The last thing she needs is her
parents hearing her talking to herself again. They already thought she was nuttier than a bag of
M&M's, even if they didn't say it to her face.

"Because I thought... I thought it was the best thing to do."

His throaty laugh brushes against her neck, sharp razor teeth scraping mockingly along her
collarbone like some sort of fucked up Wendigo kiss.
 And was it?

"No." She laughs bitterly, the sound muffled by the wall of feathers she's trying to block it with.
The fabric is soft against her skin, but it doesn't comfort her one tiny bit. The smell throws her off.
It's supposed to smell like laundry detergent, shampoo, and perfume, but now it only smells like
dirt.

Dirt... and blood.

Y'know, Sam... Josh drones sleepily, icy fingers trailing slowly over her exposed hip. She shivers
violently, both from fear and excitement. His touch feels so real, so tangible she can't help but react
to it. He leans down and nips gently at her throat, huffs of freezing cold breath causing
goosebumps to erupt over her entire body.

It really did mean a lot to me that you came, he purrs against her neck, chapped lips lovingly
tracing the outline of her jaw. The tip of his tongue flicks against her earlobe, sending a flurry of
cold shivers down her spine.

Too bad you were such... a fucking... disappointment!

His voice transforms into something malicious - something deep and hoarse and not entirely
human - and she falls out of her bed with a shriek as invisible claws descend on her; ripping
through her torso and splitting her open like a morbid piñata from Hell. She doesn't even register
her own screaming before her bedroom door slams open and her mother is shaking her fervently.

"Samantha! Samantha, it's okay! For God's sake, what is wrong?!"

Sam doesn't respond. She can't. Because for a minute, just before the darkness leaves the room, she
swears she can see a tall, lanky figure perching on top of her wardrobe.

A tall, lanky figure dressed in tattered blue overalls covered in dirt and grime.

A tall, lanky figure wearing the most unsettling grin she has ever seen; it's both human and animal,
his left cheek ripped into a jagged, bloody version of the Glasgow smile, razor teeth glinting in the
moonlight. His eyes are still huge and green, but they're wrong. A milky film seems to have
developed over them, making them appear both dull and agonizingly sharp at the same time. They
seem to reflect the lights in a predatory, almost feline manner, and he snaps his jaws playfully
above her mother's head before dissolving into nothingness with a hoarse chuckle.

"Josh..." Sam whispers his name like a prayer, as if he'll miraculously appear in front of her again
if she just wishes it strongly enough, but of course, he doesn't.

Imaginary beings tend to do whatever they damn well please, after all.

"Samantha, are you okay? Did you have a nightmare again?" Her mother touches her cheek
gingerly, peering into her face with a worried crease on her forehead.

"I'm fine. Everything's fine."

Yep. Yeah. She's fine. She's always fine, isn't she?

Except that she isn't.

Chapter End Notes

Chapter End Notes

pay no attention
to the man who tried to change you

he's a dark familiar stranger

but that's the danger

the storm is strong

but it won't be long

and no matter where you roam

there's no place like home
 Cover My Eyes
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"Good morning, Samantha."

Not really.

Dr. Alan Hill smiles at her and rests his elbows on the obsessively tidy desk in front of him. Really,
his entire office is immaculate.

Excessively so.

Jesus. I bet he even uses a ruler to line his pencils like that. OCD much? Maybe I should be
shrinking him instead...

"Sit down, please."

Yeah, why not. Not like I have a plethora of options, is it? Sam thinks drily and plops down in the
chair across from him.

His unsettling eyes study her silently for a very long and very uncomfortable minute, and she's
starting to feel the urge to dive through the open window and make a quick getaway when he
speaks again.

"So, how have you been since our last session?"

Fucking awesome, Doc. I was visited by my dead crush last night. Oh, and he has claws now. No
biggie.

"Fine."

Dr. Hill sighs and leans back in his chair.

"Samantha, we have already talked about this. You need to start opening up to me, otherwise, I
can't help you."

She cocks an eyebrow at him, incredulous. Help her? And how exactly does he plan on doing that?
Prescribe her the wrong kind of medication like he did with Josh?

Yeah. That was really fucking helpful, wasn't it.

"How are the nightmares?"

"Oh, they're absolutely fantastic," she replies sarcastically.

"Nothing like having your name screamed at you about fifteen billion times by monsters and dead
people. Really, it does wonders for your mind. You should try it sometime, Doc. Oh, and did I
mention they live in the walls? Yeah. Yep. Uh-huh. No lie. They live in my damn bedroom walls.
Don't even pay rent, the mooching bastards. I should press charges."

"Mm-hmm," he mumbles and scribbles something down on a notepad. God, she wants to grab that
stupid thing and whack him over the head repeatedly with it.
"I see... I see. And these auditory hallucinations, do they occur often?"

Sam opens her mouth to answer, but a movement in the corner of her eye catches her attention, and
she instinctively turns her head to look at the bloody corpse swinging slowly from the rope
attached to the spotless white ceiling. Its head is missing, but that doesn't matter.

She knows who it is.

It's the flamethrower guy.

He looks just as dead and mauled as he did when they found him hanging in the mines, only this
time she can see every tiny, morbid detail of his mangled body without the darkness to partially
conceal it.

S'okay, Sammy, a smooth voice purrs softly in her left ear.

S'only another dead loon. Y'know, it's been kinda lonely down here since you barbecued my
darling little sister in the cabin. I mean, I get that she was trying to eat you and it was kind of a
stressful situation for everyone involved and all, but that was exceptionally uncool of you.

"I know," she whispers. "I'm sorry. I had to."

"Samantha?" Dr. Hill looks at her curiously.

Sure. Sure sure sure. Keep telling yourself that, babe. Maybe one day you'll actually believe it.

She bites her lip and tries to ignore the sting of guilt and doubt brought on by his words. Her
fingernails dig into the soft skin of her palms, and she's just starting to draw blood when she
manages to snap back to reality.

"Yeah. No. Uh, what?"

"What happened there, Samantha? And be honest with me. It'll be so much easier for us both if you
cooperate."

Hah. He used the same line on me, too. Whatcha think, Sammy? Loving my sloppy seconds head
doctor yet?

"Jesus Christ, Washington," she mutters and pulls her blonde hair out of its signature bun, running
a hand through the tangled strands. God. She really needs a fucking shower.

Just joshin' you, girl. Not a lot of entertainment value in being dead, to be honest with ya.

She used to think it was so cheesy when he said that. It was one of his favorite lines whenever he
delivered one of his patented Washington-jokes, always earning him a chorus of collective groans
from pretty much everyone within a thirty-mile radius.

God... She misses that crazy, creepy asshole so damn much.

Aw, I miss you too, gorgeous. Who knew the afterlife would be so damn boring, right? I mean,
y'know, they could've at least... I dunno... could've at least given me something to play with besides
your pretty little head. Not, he adds, and she can literally hear the damn smirk in his voice - that I
don't enjoy being inside you.

"Christ..." She massages her temples to ward off the incoming headache. Even the imaginary
version of Josh is infuriatingly inappropriate, and she feels the ever-so-familiar urge to smack him
over the head with a chair. "Can I ask you a question, Dr. Hill?"

"Please, Samantha. I think we're beyond the formal stage now, don't you?"

Nope. No, I do not. Sam forces a strained smile and puts her hair back up, mostly just to keep her
hands occupied.

"Why did my parents hire you? How did they think it would help me?"

"Well..." He stands up from his chair and walks over to the window, staring out into the sunny
afternoon for a while before answering.

"After the unfortunate incident on Blackwood Mountain, they did indeed feel like I could possibly
bring you some... closure... in regards to Joshua's untimely demise."

Unfortunate incident? Untimely demise? Jesus fucking Christ, is he for real? She has to dig her
nails back into her palms to keep from strangling him to death where he stands.

Sheesh, Sammy. Violent much?

"Josh didn't just die," she snaps. Dr. Hill turns to look at her, but he doesn't say anything. Those
strange, all-seeing eyes seem to bore into her like a damn searchlight, and she has to keep from
crouching down under his desk to hide from his scrutinizing gaze.

God, he is so freaking creepy. He gives me the heebie-jeebies. How can someone so eerie and
unsettling be entrusted with the responsibility of repairing fragile, broken minds? I wouldn't even
trust him to clean my cat's litter box!

"What do you mean by that, exactly?" he asks, calmly prompting her to continue when she doesn't
say anything else.

"What do I mean? What the hell do you think I mean?"

"Joshua's death was a tragic accide..."

"He was killed!" she sneers at him before he can finish his sentence. God, she hates that stupid,
twitchy eyebrow so much. She wants to grab a razor and shave it all off.

Gone. Dead. Erased from reality.

"He didn't get caught in a fucking landslide, he didn't choke to death on a piece of freaking apple,
he did not fall off a cliff, and he didn't break his neck freaking snowboarding down some stupid
slope! He. Was. Murdered."

Dr. Hill calmly sits back down in his chair and looks at her with a disarming smile that inspires
about as much trust as a dead rat.

"I understand that you are still processing these things, Samantha. It's a lot to take in. First, the
tragic deaths of Hannah and Beth Washington a year and a half ago, and then everything that
happened with you and your friends. Really, it's perfectly understandable. Your mind is still trying
to make sense of everything, and fear can do horrible things to one's mentality. It's a powerful
emotion and a dangerous tool in the wrong hands. Do you think... that maybe..." He folds his hands
under his chin and looks at her with something akin to sympathy, but it comes across as nothing
but pure arrogance and superiority.
Like someone trying to explain the concept of eating with a spoon to a toddler.

"Maybe... the reason why you keep imagining these monsters... is because somewhere deep down,
after the trauma and the terror inflicted upon you by someone you trusted, someone you cared
about..."

Where the hell are you going with this, you creepy old asshole? She wants to punch him. She wants
to grab the letter opener from his desk and jam it in his jugular. She wants to bash his skull in with
the ugly paperweight balancing on his immaculate desk.

Tut tut, Samantha. When'd you decide to go all 'I Spit On Your Grave' kinds of loopy on me? Being
twisted is my thing, remember? You're supposed to be the good one.

Shut it, Washington. She pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers and sighs, impatient for
the session to end so she can just get the hell out of there already and bury herself beneath ten
heavy blankets. She wants to be crushed by them, consumed by them. She needs the weight to pull
her back down and remind her of what's real and what isn't because her mind is starting to unravel
faster than the ball of yarn her cat stole from her mother's crochet basket.

Dr. Hill continues on with his preachy presumptions, as calm and composed as ever despite her
growing restlessness. "Samantha, do you think that maybe these monsters, these... delusions... are a
direct representation of what Joshua has become to you?"

"You're saying..." Sam slowly rises from her seat, rage boiling and burning like acid in her
stomach.

"... that the monsters were just a figment of my imagination? That we - all seven of us - just
fucking imagined being attacked by cannibalistic asshole horrors because we were so messed up
over Josh's prank that our minds needed to replace him with mythological goddamn creatures from
Native American legends?!"

"Please sit back down, Samantha. Let's just..."

"Fuck. You," she hisses through clenched teeth. It takes all of her willpower not to grab his head
and smash his creepy narrow-minded face against his desk repeatedly until he stops breathing.
Instead, she turns on her heel and slams the door behind her when she leaves.

Burn in Hell, you asshole, I know what I saw. I know what happened. Hannah was real. The
monsters in the Sanatorium were real. They were real. She's practically seething by the time she
reaches the exit, and she aggressively yanks her worn leather jacket from the coat rack next to the
receptionist's desk with such force it sends the entire thing clattering to the floor.

Loudly.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she mutters. Considering the distance between herself and the door, she
frowns and turns on her heel, leaving the mess for someone else to pick up - another very un-Sam-
like thing to do.

You've changed, Sammy-bird, Josh whispers in her ear. The sound of his voice freezes her on the
spot because it's so Josh. Not the Psycho. Not the hoarse, screechy voice of the Wendigo.

It's just Josh.

You used to be kinder, y'know? Softer. Sweeter.

 "Yeah, well..." She stomps across the parking lot, eyes trained on the white Sedan parked in the
shade of a willow tree. She can see her mother through the windshield reading one of her
magazines, completely oblivious to her daughter's internal debate with her dead crush.

"You used to be alive, asshole. So I guess we both changed."

Her mother looks up from the magazine when her seething daughter throws herself down into the
passenger seat and snaps her seat belt on with a loud click!

"What happened? Did you finish early?"

"Sort of."

"What?" Helena frowns, looking across the parking lot with a confused expression on her face.
Sam follows her gaze, almost expecting Dr. Hill to stare back at her through the huge windows in
his office, notepad in hand.

Thank God he doesn't. She's had enough of that presumptuous, arrogant creep for an entire
lifetime.

"Please, mom. Let's just go home, okay?" Usually, this would result in some sort of third degree,
but the exhausted look on Sam's face keeps her mother from asking any other questions. She just
nods her head and pulls out onto the highway.

Sam looks out the window and presses her forehead to the cool glass. It feels amazing against her
blazing hot skin, and she closes her eyes with a small sigh.

"Is everything okay, Samantha? Do you want to talk about it?" asks Helena gently.

"... fine. It's fine. I'm just tired, that's all. And I have a headache. I just wanna go home and sleep
for fifteen thousand years."

"I don't think the alarm clock can be set that far into the future," her mother remarks. Sam laughs,
and it feels wonderful and strange and unfamiliar all at once.

"Well, shit. Guess I have to rely on my dear mother to do it the old-fashioned way, then."

Helena takes her hand and gives it a small squeeze.

"I'll see you in fifteen thousand years, then. And I'll still be just as pretty and youthful as ever!" She
winks and turns her attention back to the road.

Sam smiles and closes her eyes once again. The sun warms her face, and a slight breeze ruffles her
hair.

It smells like apple blossoms.

She's fallen asleep - or is about to - when a voice echoes quietly somewhere in the back of her
mind:

I'll see you soon, Sammy-bird.

Chapter End Notes

cover my eyes, cover my ears
tell me these words are a lie

it can't be true that I'm losing you

the sun cannot fall from the sky

can you hear the heavens cry

the tears of an angel
 Flawed Design
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Sam is pretty sure she's losing her mind.

Well, she's not one hundred percent positive but, she's also preeetty sure sane people don't
normally hallucinate their dead crushes tearing into their mother's flesh at the dinner table.

"Samantha? You haven't touched your food," Helena notes with her intestines hanging from a
gaping wound in her abdomen.

It takes every ounce of willpower in Sam's body to look at her mother without throwing up. The
sound of Josh chewing and slurping makes her stomach turn violently, and the air is thick with the
smell of rust and decay.

"I'm not... uh... I'm not hungry."

"But... it's vegetarian lasagna. Your favorite!"

Yes, mother. I am very well aware of what my own favorite food is, thank you ever so much. I'm
just a tiny bit put off by Wendigo Washington currently chewing on the inside of your stomach. No
offense or anything, it's just that watching my mom being turned into a walking snack pack doesn't
really do much for my appetite. Go figure.

"At least have some salad, okay? You have to eat something." Her mother looks at her from across
the table, concern etched into her delicate features.

"Philip, please tell your daughter to eat something. She looks positively ill!"

"She's nineteen years old, dear. I'm quite sure she is old enough to decide whether or not she's
hungry," her father replies without removing his eyes from the TV. Helena throws her arms in the
air, exasperated.

"At least talk to her! I mean, look at her, for Pete's sake! She looks awful!"

"Child still in the room," Sam remarks sarcastically, putting her fork down. Honestly, she loves her
parents to absolute bits but the way they talk about her like she's not even present sometimes makes
her question whether or not she possesses the strange ability to suddenly become completely
invisible at the most inconvenient of times. Either that or her parents must both be in possession of
the remarkable ability to go selectively blind whenever it damn well pleases them.

Don't blame her, Sammy, the twisted image of Josh purrs and licks the blood from his torn lips. His
eyes gleam up at her, reflective and predatory from the darkness beneath the dinner table.

S'not her fault, really. Women can never focus on anything when I'm eating them out.

"Holy shit, that is so damn inappropriate, even for you," she mutters and pushes away from the
table. Helena turns her attention back towards her, raising a very disapproving eyebrow in the
process.

"You have not been excused, young lady."

"I did not ask to be excused, madam," Sam snaps back at her.

"Samantha, really! Where have you picked up such a horrible attitude? Is this Michael's
influence?"

Oooh, here we go. Mrs. James never approved of Mike, not even one fraction of the tiniest bit. Her
father, however, seems to have adopted him as the son he never had. The hours they would spend
tinkering away at some four-wheeled spectacle in the garage, yapping about sports and beer and
other manly-man stuff her lady brain wasn't programmed to compute...

Sam massages her temple and sighs quietly. "I'm sorry, mom. I'm just tired, and my head hurts like
he..." she catches herself at the very last second, seeing the way her mother frowns at her.

No cussing in this house. Nooo, sir. A proper young lady does not resort to cussing like a common
simpleton. Nope. All prim and proper here, yes ma'am.

"... like heck. Hurts like heck. Can I please go to my room?"

Helena's stern facial expression softens slightly, and she purses her lips thoughtfully.

"I really do wish you'd eat something..."

"Okay, yeah. Fine. Whatever." She stuffs a piece of the cold lasagna in her mouth and forces
herself to chew. It goes down about as well as rubbery sandpaper and leaves a metallic taste on her
tongue, but she takes a few more bites anyway. It's torture, but at least her mother seems to
appreciate her sacrifice.

"There. Can I go now? Please? I really need to close my eyes for a bit."

"Alright, alright. I'll put some food away for you and you can heat it up later. You may be excused,
but we will be having a chat about your attitude later."

Yippee.

Sam rises from her seat and forces a smile for her mother's sake. Her skin feels tight - too tight -
and she can almost hear the strained creaks of her mouth trying to remember how a normal,
functional human being expresses happiness and contentment.

"Okay."

"Okay." Helena nods, obviously pretending not to notice the unnatural way her daughter's face
seems to be doing its very best Joker impression.

"Have a good rest, sweetie."

Not bloody likely.

"Yeah, thanks, mom." Sam walks up the stairs to her room, carefully avoiding any dark corners like
the Pink Panther until she closes the door behind her with a soft thud.

Alright. No hovering nightmare creatures? Check.

She looks under her bed like a small child, expecting to see the grim visage of her new visitor
grinning at her from the blackness, but there's nothing.

No blood, no writhing intestines, no beating human hearts in glass jars.

 "All clear," she mumbles and lets go of her bed cover. She gets back on her feet and closes the
curtains on the cloudy, moonlit night outside after making sure her windows are locked up good
and tight. Paranoid? Yep. Necessary?

Also yep.

So far, so good.

She strips out of her jeans, folding them neatly over a chair and removing her hoodie, leaving her in
a fitted T-shirt and underwear. Then she crawls under her covers, pulling them all the way up to her
chin.

"Okay... Josh, if you're there, please do me the courtesy of leaving me the fuck alone tonight,
okay?" she calls into the darkness. Then she waits. And she waits.

Nothing.

Maybe he finally decided to let her have some much-needed rest. Or maybe he got his fill at the
dinner table. Whatever the reason, she's relieved to have some headspace, however short it may be.

God knows she really, really needs it.

Josh, if this is how you felt, dealing with those visions and hallucinations all by yourself... I can
definitely understand why you went completely batshit.

Really. She does understand. She thought she understood back at the old hotel after reading
through his files, after finding his lair. She thought she understood him. She thought she knew
everything.

But she didn't.

Not even close.

Chapter End Notes

and I will turn off

and I will shut down

burying the voices of my conscience

hitting ground

and I will turn off

and I will shut down

the chemicals are restless

in my head

'cause I lie

and if I could control it

maybe I could leave it all behind
yeah, I lie

not because I want to

but I seem to need to all the time

'cause I lie
and I don't even know it

maybe this is all a part of my

flawed design
 Romeo
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"Josh."

Sam reaches out and touches his shoulder, gently. He doesn't reply, but the slight tilt of his head
indicates that he's listening.

"What are you doing? It's practically sub-zero out here!" She shudders and pulls her jacket tighter
around her tiny, shivering frame.

"I'm... just..." He trails off, looking out towards the ocean. The waves crash violently against the
pier, dousing them both in sprays of seawater. It's below freezing, but Josh doesn't seem to notice.
His eyes just continue to stare off into the distance - lost in a world that only he can reach.

"You'll freeze your balls off, you know. I bet you're already infertile."

He chuckles lazily but doesn't move. Doesn't even look at her. His hand grabs for hers - cold,
slender fingers interlacing with her own - before pulling her down to his level, almost causing her
to fall head over ass straight into the ocean.

"Josh," she hisses.

"Sam," he says, mimicking her tone perfectly. She shoves him gently, unable to really hold on to
her annoyance for more than a few seconds and hating herself for it. He always does this to her.
No matter how infuriating he gets, she always forgives him instantly. Hell, she'd probably forgive
him even if he did send her splashing nose-first into the freezing depths of liquid pneumonia.

Eventually.

"So what are you doing, anyway? The party's inside. Or didn't you get the memo?"

He looks at her then; his big, green eyes heavily lidded as per usual, giving him a permanently
sleepy expression.

"Existing."

"No duh, Washington. We all exist. It doesn't exactly make you special, you know. As much as you
like to believe it does." She smiles teasingly, effectively removing any kind of edge the comment
might've had.

Seriously. Why do I like you so damn much, you creepy friggin' weirdo? Am I just a sucker for
punishment, or what's the actual deal here?

Honestly. Five long years of friendship and she barely feels like she's even managed to scratch the
surface with this guy.

In some ways, she knows him so, so well.

She knows his quirks, that messed-up sense of humor, his lame jokes, and his unholy love for
horror movies.
She knows how his eyes tend to bug out randomly whenever he talks about something that excites
him, she knows how his entire face lights up when he laughs, and how the sound of his voice makes
her entire body tingle like it's Christmas morning.

She knows how he makes her feel. But how does he feel? What is he thinking? His expressions are
impossibly unreadable, and he's constantly joking around, deflecting every question with humor,
perverted comments, and general smartassery - quite annoyingly sabotaging any and all attempts
at every real connection she tries to make with him.

Who are you, Joshua? How can I reach you?

He blinks owlishly at her, tilting his head ever so slightly, and for a split second, she feels like he
can see right through her.

"D'you know... what it feels like..." He reaches out and tucks a few rogue strands of her long,
blonde hair behind her ear, causing her heart to race like the freaking energizer bunny on
steroids. Those large, green eyes peering into hers, somehow managing to look unhinged,
drugged up, and completely gorgeous all at once.

She almost forgets how to breathe when he leans closer, slightly chapped lips only mere inches
away from her own.

"... to be stung by a jellyfish?" He pulls back, cool as a cucumber. She blinks rapidly, trying to
recover from the minor heart attack she just experienced.

"... What."

He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair and stands up, offering the same hand for her to grab.
His skin connects with hers, and she swears she can feel sparks of actual electricity running
through her body as soon as it does.

"I hear it sucks. If y'ever go swimming, watch out for the jellyfish."

"... Yes, Joshua. That is exactly what I planned to do when I came out here. Go for a cozy little
swim with the freakin' jellyfish. You got me," she says, rolling her eyes so hard she suspects she's
managed to pull a muscle somewhere in her left eyeball.

The tall brunette smiles dreamily, throwing one last look at the ocean over his shoulder before he
pulls her into him and wraps those long, beautiful arms around her small body. He buries his face
in her hair and sighs, utterly content and annoyingly ignorant of the impending heart attack he's
currently inflicting upon her.

I swear to God this boy will be the literal damn death of me. Rest in pining peace, Samantha
Nicole James. It's been real.

"Sammy," he breathes, voice sounding almost reverent. As much as she likes to pretend to be
bothered by the nickname, it always causes her heart to flip juuust a tad whenever Josh uses it, and
the way he bristles at anyone else trying to do the same thing makes her stomach flutter like a
million tiny butterflies.

Not that she'd ever admit to it, of course.

Sometimes she wonders how much he actually knows about the extent of her feelings for him. At
times he seems completely freakin' oblivious - infuriatingly so - and other times... well... other
 times he does shit like this and sends her into a damn tailspin and she doesn't know how
the motherflippin' heck she's still able to breathe with him being all huggy and sweet and
adorable -

"... I'm hungry."

Aaand it's gone.

Chapter End Notes

first in line

for the wishing well

for a long time

can't you tell

you see, I would have killed Romeo

and saved Juliet

but I don't write stories

that time won't forget

so won't you pass me the kerosene

let's burn to the ground

you've be looking for meaning

did you like what you found

forgive me, I've been lonely

but it's not like I don't know my way

I don't know my way

 You

If you must wait

wait for them here in my arms as I shake

If you must weep

do it right here in my arms as I sleep

If you must mourn, my love

mourn with the moon and the stars up above

If you must mourn

Don't do it alone

If you must leave

leave as though fire burns under your feet

If you must speak

speak every word as though it was unique

If you must die, sweetheart

die knowing your life was my life's best part

If you must die

Remember your life

 If you must fight

fight with yourself and your thoughts in the night

If you must work

work to leave some part of you on this Earth

If you must live, darling one

Just live

Just live

Just live
 Breaking Free
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Step. Grab. Step. Grab. Breathe. Step. Grab. Step. Grab. Hold. Step. Grab. Breathe. Breathe.
Breathe...

"You're doing great, Sam!"

She looks down. Michael gives her two huge thumbs up and nods enthusiastically, dark hair
dripping with sweat after his own workout. Despite the easy smile playing on his lips, he can't fool
her. His brown eyes are filled with concern, and his long, muscular arms keep jerking in her
direction, almost like a reflex.

Ready to catch her. Ready for something to happen. Ready for her to fail.

Again.

"Just take it easy, 'kay? You got this, girl! I'm rootin' for ya!"

Sam grits her teeth and finds another holding point. She's made it pretty far this time and she
refuses to give up now, even though her muscles are screaming in protest and every item of
clothing is sticking to her like glue.

Okay. Okay. Breathe, Sam. You can do this. You've done this a thousand times. Easy does it. Easy.
Okay. One more plateau.

She reaches the second to last alcove and hauls herself up, throwing herself down on the smooth
surface. She's exhausted and dehydrated, and she's pretty sure her entire body will be beyond
useless in the morning, but she made it.

Only one more to go, and she'll be okay.

"Just one more, Sam," she whispers, wiping her face with the sleeve of her thin jacket. The material
is slick and smooth and does little to nothing for her predicament, but at least the stinging subsides
a bit.

"Sam! You okay up there?" Mike calls up to her, concern now evident in his voice.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she responds. She's out of breath, but otherwise okay. She just needs to finish this
next level and everything will be perfect. She'll be herself again.

But will you, though? Josh questions, almost on cue. Sam groans internally and drowns her
frustration in the lukewarm water from the bottle strapped to her waist.

"Yes, I will," she mutters defiantly, taking another swig. "I'll be fine. I'll be good. So shut up."

Oh, really? Really, really, really?

He's mocking her, but that's not what causes the breath to catch in her throat and stones to form at
the bottom of her stomach.

It's the fact that he's doing it in the exact same way as he did when she confronted him after his big
reveal. The memory hurts her - slams into her like a ton of bricks - and suddenly the air is far too
thin. She can't breathe properly. There's not enough oxygen in the world to fill her lungs, and her
chest aches with the realization.

"No," she whispers, clutching her bottle like a lifeline. "No. No, I'm stronger now. I'm better now.
You can't... you..." her voice trails off, head throbbing and tongue drying out like sandpaper in her
mouth, and she knows she's in trouble when she starts hyperventilating.

"Breathe, Sam," she tells herself, placing her head between her knees and focusing on her breathing
the way they taught her in trauma therapy: inhale through her nose, exhale through her mouth.

In. Out. Slow, controlled breathing. In. Out. In and out.

"Just breathe. It's okay. You're okay. You're fine. Just breathe. Focus on your breathing. Just
breathe. Just breathe. It's not real. It's not real. It's-"

Oh, but I am real, Sammy-bird, he coos in her ear.

I'm as real as you want me to be, babe. And let's be honest. Y'really want that, don't you? She feels
his cold, slender fingers running down the side of her face, and she knows he's right. Some fucked
up, messed up part of her really does want him to be real.

She needs him to be real, even if he's not, even if he's just a figment of her fucked up imagination.
Even if he's just a ghost from her past. Even if it means she's legitimately going crazy, even if he's
just a nightmare created by her brain to torment her... she needs him to stay there.

Because losing him - even this horrible, twisted version of him - would be worse than ending up in
a straight jacket.

Sheesh, Sammy. If you wanted me inside you so badly, all you had to do was ask.

"I should have helped you," she whispers, her fingers desperately reaching for his but finding
nothing but air.

"God, Josh, I should... I should have done more. I should have tried harder. If I had... maybe..."
Maybe what? Maybe Josh hadn't been dragged away from her, away from his friends and his safety
and his salvation?

Maybe they hadn't tied him up in the shed and he'd still be alive?

If she had just said something... done something...

She curls in on herself, arms wrapping around her knees so hard her muscles practically scream out
in agony, but she doesn't even notice. She presses her face against the slick fabric of her workout
tights, trying desperately to keep herself together.

She can see it now. So clearly.

His villainous gloating, the manic glint in his huge, dark eyes as he declares his victory over them.
Ash and Chris sitting dumbfounded in their chairs. Mike staring disbelievingly at the raving
lunatic in overalls monologuing like some kind of criminal mastermind...

And Sam, trying to reason with him.

"Hook, line, and sinker for every little stinker!" Josh laughs, and it's a distorted sound. It's a
disturbed sound. It's the sound of someone seriously riding the crazy train.

"Josh..." Sam steps forward, hands raised mid-level, like she's approaching a wounded animal.
Her voice is soft, rational. Desperately trying not to agitate the situation further. Josh looks at her,
and she wants to launch herself into his arms and beat him senseless for scaring her and kiss him
for being alive and cry and laugh but she does none of it.

She just stands there, her eyes betraying the calm exterior as she continues. " Your fingerprints
were all over this. It was obviously you."

"Oh, really? Really, really, really?" He looks at her, challenging her.

Come on, his eyes tell her. Prove me wrong. I dare you.

"You're crying out for help, Josh! Come on, you wanted to get caught, didn't you?" Please! her
mind screams at him. Begs at him. Please. Please listen to me.

Please.

He scoffs at her, eyes flashing in anger and denial, and something more. Something lost and
vulnerable, like a small child feeling its way through a pitch-black tunnel, silently begging for
someone to save him. "Oh, sure. I'm totally just crying out for help," he says, mocking her. "Help
me! Ohh, help me! Help help!" His voice trails off into a nervous laugh, one he's trying to disguise
as indifference.

Sam doesn't buy it. He's making fun of her, sure, but there's something real there, too. Somewhere
in all that mania and hysteria and the overall insanity, there's a real person crying out for real
help. She's one hundred percent sure of it. The quivering desperation in his voice gives it away, no
matter how much he wants to deny it.

"Come on!" he shouts at them, almost pleadingly. "Come on! It was just for fun! I mean, so you
got a little bit of egg on your face, right? Nobody got hurt-"

"What are you talking about, you ass hat?!" Mike interrupts, his eyes boiling with fierceness and
hatred and disbelief. "Jessica's fucking dead!"

Josh stares at him, glee and merriment giving way for actual concern. "... What?"

"Did you hear me? Jessica. Is dead. And you're gonna fucking pay, you dick!" Mike advances on
him, fists clenched, and Sam knows she has to do something. She has to say something, but then it's
too late, and Josh is on the ground.

Unconscious. Helpless. Vulnerable.

"Josh..." Her choked sobs sound almost unnaturally loud surrounded by all the stone in the alcove,
and she knows Mike can hear her. She knows he's already trying to reach her, but the ever so
dashing Class President Michael Munroe is no mountain climber. He's still coming, though. Oh
yes. She knows that. She knows he'd rather kill himself trying to get to her than allow her to go
through this alone.

"Sam! Sam, it's okay! We're gonna... I've got you, alright? Just... fuck... just-just stay there! Stay.
There!"
No. No. She doesn't want him right now. She doesn't want his help.

He punched Josh. He dragged him out into the snow. He tied him up in the shed. He left him there,
alone and defenseless, and why? Why? Because fucking Emily of all people was more important?
He could've brought Josh with him. He could've saved him. He could've... he could...

"God!" She bites down on the inside of her wrist to keep from screaming. There had been so.
many. chances. So many damn chances for Josh to be saved, and they all let him down. They all
betrayed him. He was sick! He was sick, and they knew it, and they left him anyway. And Mike...

He hurt him.

He hurt him.

He hurt him... but so did she. And what's worse? She failed him as well.

"I'm sorry," she whispers into the cool surface of the stone wall. She doesn't even remember
curling up beside it, hiding in the corner of the alcove, but it feels good against her flushed skin.
"Josh, I'm so sorry... I'm sorry... I'm so, so, so sorry!" Her fingernails dig into her scalp, but she
doesn't even feel the pain anymore.

It's nothing compared to the hellish flurry of emotions waging war inside of her.

"Sam..."

The voice is so gentle. So careful. He's all concern and worry and strong arms pulling her into him,
cradling her like he's trying desperately to put her back together. Like she's made from nothing but
fragile, delicate porcelain and he's afraid she's going to crack.

"Sam, God, I'm..." Mike doesn't know how to finish. He doesn't know how to help her. She's not
even sure whether or not she even wants him to. She wants to scream and push him over the edge
and beat him up and hug him all at once and her mind is nothing but a scrambled, useless mess.

He just sits there, letting her cling to him like he's the last tangible thing keeping her from losing
her mind completely - her last thread to reality - and he strokes her hair and whispers gentle words
that she doesn't even register, but the soft murmur is soothing all the same.

"You're okay, Sam. You're okay. You're okay..." Mike repeats those same words over and over
again, and she's not sure whether he's trying to convince her or himself.

Maybe both.

Really, Sammy? Him? Josh sounds hurt. Almost impossibly so.

"Please... please... don't..." she begs, feeling the pain and regret starting to consume her all over
again. "Please just... don't."

D'you know what he did to me out there in the shed? Hm? D'you know? His voice turns cold,
vindictive. Vengeful. He tied me up. You know that, don't you? Held a gun to my face, too. Josh
chuckles darkly, and the sound is both familiar and foreign all at once.

He does that, doesn't he? Pretty President Asshole. He loooves waving his gun around, doesn't he?
Wanna bet he's compensating for somethin'?

"Just be quiet, please," she mutters against Mike's chest. He doesn't respond, only tightens his grip
 around her and rocks her gently back and forth, trying to comfort her the only way he knows how.

"Please, just please be quiet. Be quiet."

I'm sure darling Christopher already told you the riveting tale about the stark raving lunatic with a
hankerin' for pizza, huh? I mean, really. Did that warrant a beating? I was fucking hungry! I'm
always hungry. Right, Sammy? Sammy-bird? You know, right? I'm always... so fucking...
HUNGRY! The last word comes out in a shriek so deafening it causes her to jerk violently, almost
sending both her and Mike straight over the edge of the narrow alcove.

Probably would have, too, if Mike didn't have such good reflexes.

"HolyJesushotsauceChristmascakeareyouokay?!" He peeks over the edge and shudders visibly.

"Fuu-uck. That was scary. Thaaat... was scary. Don't-don't do that again, please. I only brought one
extra pair of underwear! One!"

She finds herself chuckling, despite everything, and his eyes light up at the sound of it.

"And don't ask me to show them to you," he says, winking as he taps a finger playfully against the
tip of her nose. "They're animal printed. A man's gotta have his pride, even when his private parts
are infested with cartoon characters."

God, Sam thinks as he grins at her, obnoxiously satisfied with himself for making her laugh.

He's such a dork.

"Well, as much as I enjoy dangling from a cliff with a pretty girl..." He jumps to his feet and
reaches down to help her up. She grabs his hand, and somewhere in her mind she can't help but
notice how warm and strong his fingers are as they interlace with hers.

"... I'm kinda full up on the whole near-death experience thing unless it involves questionable food
trucks. Whaddaya say, gorgeous? Let's make like a baby and head out. I'm starving."

He walks to the edge and looks over his shoulder at her, sheepily rubbing his neck.

"Uh... so... any idea how to get down from here?"

Chapter End Notes

you're not my savior, just someone I used to see

I am broken, something's wrong inside of me

I feel violent

like I'm dying

I feel broken, maybe I'm just breaking free

 Migraine
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"You what?" Her mother stares at her, unable to fully process the information she just received.
Sam shrugs, pulling her blonde hair out of its bun and letting it cascade down her back. It's
longer, she thinks as she picks up a hairbrush. Helena grabs it from her and turns her around to face
the mirror, jaw set in a tight line as she starts brushing her daughter's hair. Or, well, more
like pulling every damn strand violently out of her freaking skull.

"Ow, ow, ow! Mom! Seriously? Child abuse!" Sam protests, giving her mother a sharp glare
through the mirror.

"I'm sorry, honey. I just..." Helena sighs and starts brushing again, a lot more gentle this time. Sam
closes her eyes and lets the familiar sensation calm her down before she takes the plunge yet again.

"I said I don't want to see Dr. Hill anymore."

"Yes, I heard you, Samantha. What I need to know is why. Dr. Hill is one of the best psychiatrists
available, and..." "He's freaky. I don't like him. He gives me the creeps, always staring at me like
I'm some kind of science experiment!" Sam shudders, the memory of those unsettling eyes still
fresh in her mind.

"And," she adds. "He's exceptionally arrogant. And gloaty. And self-righteous. And condescending
as fu-"

"Samantha, language!"

"... fudgestickles." Fudgestickles? Really? She can almost hear the sound of the invisible
facepalm. My god, could I be any lamer...

Hazel eyes - so identical to her own - search her face through the reflective glass in front of her.
She reads both doubt and concern in them, mixed with a quiet determination that makes her
stomach twist with its familiarity.

Uh-oh. She knows that look. She knows it all too well.

"Nevermind," she says before her mother can voice her thoughts. "I'll manage. Somehow."

Helena brushes Sam's light blonde hair into a long, silky braid and lets it fall down her back before
placing her hand on her daughter's cheek, eyes gentle.

"Sweetheart, I know it's difficult," she says quietly. "But I honestly think he can help you. He's an
extremely qualified psychiatrist, if a bit eccentric, and he comes highly recommended. Just... just
please try to stick with it, okay? Just for a while longer. Give it a few more weeks, and if you still
feel this way then we'll talk about finding someone else for you, okay?" She wraps her arms around
her daughter's slender frame and kisses her lovingly in the back of her neck.

"We'll get through this together, my darling. Philip and I will do everything we can to make sure
you get the help you need, and we'll be with you every step of the way. We love you so much,
Samantha. I hope you know that."
Must be nice, Josh sneers at her. She feels every hair on her body stand on edge, and even her
mother's embrace isn't enough to keep the sudden chill at bay.

Please, she thinks pleadingly. Please, Josh, please just let me have this. Please just leave me
alone. Just this once. Please.

"Are you okay, honey?" Helena grips her shoulders carefully, turning her around to look her in the
eyes. She puts her hand on her forehead and frowns, confusion and worry painted clearly on
her beautiful face.

"You feel cold," she mumbles and flips her hand around, feeling her skin with the back of it this
time. "You're a bit clammy, as well. Are you feeling okay? Do you want me to make you some
tea?"

"Yes, please," Sam whispers, eyes locked on the nightmarish apparition crouching on her mother's
pristine vanity. Josh grins, razor teeth stained a deep crimson and those dull, piercing eyes flashing
dangerously at her. He pulls his limbs tighter - like a predator getting ready to pounce - and she
knows she won't be able to stifle her scream if he decides to jump her.

Not real. Not real. Not real. Not real. Breathe, Sam, breathe. He's not real.

"Come on, sweetie. Let's get you a nice, warm blanket and a hot cup of tea. Hopefully, you'll feel
better."

"Okay. Yeah. Yeah, tea sounds..." Sam swallows, skin prickling as she feels that hungry,
animalistic gaze pierce her body. "... good."

She follows her mom into the kitchen and sits down on one of the bar stools whilst Helena starts
preparing the kettle, wary eyes hunting for any potential hallucinations lurking in the shadows with
their sadistic grins and taunting words.

"Here you go, sweetheart. Just the way you like it."

Her favorite mug is placed in front of her, and she grips it tightly with both hands. It's scalding hot,
but her body feels unbearably cold all of a sudden. She shivers and takes a sip, careful not to burn
her tongue. The warmth feels amazing, but the taste... the taste is way off. It doesn't taste like her
favorite blackberry and raspberry mix at all, not even close. It tastes salty and slightly rusty, and it
leaves a strange, metallic tang in her mouth...

Holyfuckingshit! She spits it out onto the counter, and the crimson liquid makes her stomach turn
violently. The entire mug is filled to the brim with blood, and she swears she can see a human
fucking heart beating in the morbid soup from Hell. She drops the mug and scrambles to her feet,
stool clattering loudly to the floor, and she barely makes it to the sink before her stomach empties
itself of all its contents.

"Dear Lord!" Helena exclaims, rushing to her daughter after recovering from the initial shock. She
rubs her back soothingly, trying to coax her to wash her mouth out with a glass of sparkling water.
Sam eyes it suspiciously, but it looks perfectly normal. She's still skeptical when she takes the first
tiny sip, but there's nothing weird or disgusting about it.

"Is that better? Do you need me to call a doctor?"

"No," Sam replies and shakes her head. "No, no, I'm... I'm fine. I just... maybe I just ate something
bad." Liar. "I'll be okay. I think I just need some rest. I didn't sleep much last night, so, maybe
that's it."
 "I don't know..." "Mom, I'm fine. I promise. I'll be fine. It's probably just a bug or something. One
of those twenty-four-hour things." She smiles at her mother, trying to reassure her, but it's really
rather difficult to act convincingly when the grotesque parody of her crush is currently lapping
blood up from the floor less than two feet away from them.

He lifts his head and looks at her, grinning as he offers her the still-beating heart lying amongst the
broken shards that were once her all-time favorite mug.

For you, babe. Be my Valentine? He tilts his head, torn lips dripping crimson down onto his filthy
overalls. They're frayed and worn; edges smudged with coal from the mines and the blue fabric
completely caked in dried dirt and blood.

"Oh, God..." Sam turns away from the grisly scene. She's quite sure her skin has turned a sickly
shade of green at this point.

Aw, come on, Sammy! 'S just a little bit of corn syrup, y'know? He crawls over to her, movements
both smooth and jerky at the same time, and those huge eyes staring unblinkingly into hers. He
offers her the heart again, and this time she can even hear the heavy beating like a drum in her
ears.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

"Go away, she whispers. "Go away!"

He smiles at her, and for a second it seems more sad than malicious. Okay, Sammy. I'll leave you
alone. For now. Then he's just Josh again; the same broken, wounded boy they found roaming
around the mines lost in his own head, and she regrets her words instantly.

But it's too late.

"Bye, Sammy-bird," he whispers softly. "I'll miss you."

And then he's gone.

Chapter End Notes

behind my eyelids are islands of violence

my mind ship-wrecked

this is the only land my mind could find

I did not know it was such a violent island

full of tidal waves, suicidal crazed lions

they're trying to eat me

blood running down their chin

and I know that I can fight

or I can let the lion win

I begin to assemble what weapons I can find

'cause sometimes to stay alive

you gotta kill your mind

 Friends
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"Hey, Sam?"

"Mm?" She looks over at her best friend, squinting against the bright sunlight. Hannah slips off her
shoes and lets her feet soak in the cool ocean water splashing gently against the edge of the beach.

"Have you ever been in love?"

Sam pushes herself up on her elbows, considering the question. Her gaze automatically flickers
towards the tall, dark-haired enigma currently playing water polo with Chris, Matt, and Jessica a
few yards away from them. Her heart jumps in her chest when his laugh reaches her ears, and for
a moment she finds herself unable to look away.

He's not conventionally handsome - not like Mike or Matt - but there's just something about him.
Sure, some people might even call him strange-looking with those huge, green eyes, and that
impossibly angled jawline, but Sam isn't one of them.

"Hellooo-ooo? Earth to Space Cadet Sami!" Hannah waves a hand in front of her face, grinning.
She clears her throat and tries to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks. Did her best friend seriously
just catch her checking out her big brother?

Yeah. Awkward.

"Should I take that as a yes, then?" Hannah teases her, raising her eyebrow knowingly.

"I... uh... no. I mean... I'm... not sure," she admits. Her eyes catch Josh's, and she swears her heart
damn near stops. He's looking straight at her, green eyes bright and beautiful against his tanned
skin. The sunlight reflects off every drop of water running down his chest, shimmering like
diamonds.

He's not exceptionally muscular, but he's not a twig either. The slight muscle tone suits him
perfectly, she thinks. She usually goes for more athletic types - being a fairly active person herself
- but this is Josh. Her breath catches in her throat when he smiles at her; that slow, enigmatic
trademark Josh Washington-smile, and she instantly melts into a puddle.

He's so damn beautiful.

They maintain eye contact for a few seconds longer until Chris shouts something at him and he has
to turn his head to catch the ball. Sam lets out a shivering breath and turns back to her friend.

"I mean, maybe? How do you even know for sure?"

The brunette laughs and gives her a pointed look. "Uh, hello? Remember who you're talking to?
I'm the official No-Date Kate. The closest thing I've ever come to having a boyfriend is reading
about it. I'm about thiiis far away..." she measures a couple of tiny inches between her thumb and
her index finger "... from joining the convent."

"Oh, come on, Han," Sam smiles reassuringly. "You're just shy. There's nothing wrong with that.
Besides, whatever happened to that cutie you met at the library last week? You were so excited! I
mean, I swear I even heard wedding bells in the distance for a second there."

Hannah blushes and twirls her hair nervously. "Oh. Him. He, uh, he's... yeah. He's gay."

"Oh." Sam doesn't really know how else to respond. She feels terrible for her friend; she had been
so happy and flustered when she told her about their first meeting and how they were into all the
same books and...

Oh. Well. Shit. Okay, maybe she should have seen that one coming after all.

Hannah loved romance novels, particularly the works of Jane Austen. She liked to joke about how
she was born in the wrong century, and Sam felt inclined to agree. Hannah was far too sweet and
gentle for this harsh world. She belonged in an era of romance where courtships involved flowers
and dancing, not hooking up once or twice in the back of some dude's car after one too many
beers.

"I'm sure you'll find your Prince Charming someday, Hannah. There's bound to be some good ones
amongst the troglodytes at our school."

"Well..." Hannah chews her bottom lip and glances over at her, brown eyes twinkling. "There's...
one guy. Bu-"

"What?!" Sam interrupts, grabbing her arms excitedly. "Who is it? Do I know him? Do you need
me to stalk him for you?"

The middle Washington-child blushes furiously, refusing to meet her eyes as she mutters: "It
doesn't matter. He's way too popular, I mean, I'm not even a blip on his romantic radar. Trust me,
Sami, he'd never be interested in me."

"Hey," the blonde says sternly, hazel eyes peering seriously into brown. "You need to give yourself
more credit, okay?" She pulls her friend into her, giving her a tight hug. "You're an amazing
person, Han. You're kind, and you're sweet, and you're considerate, and you're so beautiful. You
just need to see it for yourself."

Hannah wraps her thin arms around her, hugging her back."That's easy for you to say. You and
Beth, you're.. you're so much braver than I am. Beth, she's... she's never afraid to go for the one
she wants. Girls, guys... it doesn't matter. If she likes someone, she just goes all in. I could never do
that, Sam."

Sam pulls back and smiles, eyes gentle. "You don't always need to compare yourself to Beth, you
know."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. So, a-ny-way!" Her best friend raises her eyebrow and grins. "Are you ever
going to tell him? And don't even pretend not to know what I'm talking about, Sami. I can read you
like an open book." Hannah adjusts her glasses, eyebrow raised.

"No way!" Sam blurts out, earning her a gentle laugh from the brunette. "I mean... come on. He
calls me his little sister. His little sister, Han. I've been freakin' sister-zoned. There's just no way."
She looks back at Josh but immediately regrets it.

Jessica has her arms wrapped around his neck, hands playfully ruffling his wet hair. She's all flirty
smiles and battering eyelashes, and Sam finds it hard to breathe. It feels like her heart is being
crushed by an icy iron glove. She can feel her nails digging into her palms, but the pain is a
welcome distraction.
It's fine, Sam. It's fine. He doesn't belong to you. He can do what he wants.

"Sami? Sam, what's..." Hannah follows her gaze, eyebrows furrowing in sympathy, and
understanding. "God, that girl is positively incorrigible," she huffs.

"Who're we talking about?" Beth dumps her towel haphazardly down onto the sand next to Sam.
She's wearing a black swimsuit, and that perpetual beanie looks so ridiculously out of place it
almost makes her laugh, but this is Beth.

She does whatever she damn well pleases.

"Jessica," Hannah mutters, shooting the blonde bombshell a nasty look. "She's putting the moves
on Josh, and we do. not. approve."

"Gotcha," Beth replies and yanks something out of her sister's beach bag before she stands back up
and walks into the water. Sam exchanges a questioning look with the other Washington twin, who
in return shrugs and shakes her head, mouthing "I don't know."

"Hey, Jezebel!" Beth yells, startling everyone around her. "Paws off my brother, you damn
octopus!" She throws something at them, causing Jessica to squeal and let go of Josh to avoid
being hit by it.

It being a tennis ball.

Josh takes the full brunt of it straight to the face and curses loudly. "Fuck, Bethany! What was
that for?" He stares accusingly at his sister, eyes both wide and narrow at the same time, which is
quite impressive. Sam snickers, somehow not feeling entirely too sympathetic about it.

"Nice one, B," she comments when the younger twin plops back down and stretches out on her
towel, basking in the sunlight. Beth grins and gives her a conspiratorial wink.

"I've got your back, girly. As much as the thought of Josh being romantically involved with, well...
anyone... disturbs me..." she shudders, grimacing. "I'd much rather see you with him, and not
that... that gold-digging harpy."

"I fully, completely, and wholeheartedly concur," Hannah agrees. Sam laughs, pulling the twins
into her. She hugs them tightly, so incredibly grateful for their existence in her life.

She honestly has no idea what she would do without them, and she never wants to find out.

"I love you guys so much."

"We know," Beth replies teasingly, then she plants a peck on her cheek. Sam looks over her
shoulder, catching Josh's eyes on her. He doesn't look away, and she doesn't expect him
to. Another thing she definitely does not expect him to do is to break into a damn run and literally
throw himself over her, completely ruining the moment.

"JOSH!" The twins yell his name in unison when they're attacked by a wave of sand and ocean
water crashing down on them as he lands. Sam - however - is far too distracted by the fact that
Josh freaking Washington is lying on top of her, huge green eyes staring into hers, sparkling
beautifully in the bright sunlight. She swears she can see them flicker down to her lips for just a
second, but it happens so fast. Too fast. It might as well just have been wishful thinking.

"What?" He says, voice husky and low in his throat. She wants to kick herself in the face when her
 entire body goes weak at the sound of it.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. He doesn't see you that way.

"I mean, 's just a family hug, right? I'm family. Big bro Joshua. Right, Sammy?" He looks at her,
his expression completely unreadable. She honestly can't tell whether or not he's messing with her,
and she wants to punch him right in his stupid, beautiful face and kiss the ever-living fuck out of it
at the same time. Why can't he just be a normal freaking guy and not this... this... frustratingly
confusing, enigmatic creature?

Honestly. How much is one single, fragile human heart expected to survive before it completely
gives in, anyway?!

Ugh, God. She really, really wants to hit him. Just this once. It'd be so easy.

It should be so easy. He's right freaking there being his own usual gorgeous, infuriating self, but
all she can do is smile at him, and her entire being just melts into a puddle when he smiles back.

That slow, lazy, all-knowing Joshua Washington-smile.

That smile should be classified as a nuclear weapon, she thinks drily. But she can't deny the
immediate effect it has on her. She wants to freeze that moment forever; if only to preserve this
feeling of complete and utter happiness.

"One big, happy family," Beth grins.

"Forever," Hannah chimes in.

Josh raises his hand and brushes a strand of hair away from Sam's face, fingertips lingering on her
jawline juuust a tiny bit longer than necessary, the tip of his thumb briefly caressing her
cheekbone.

"Forever," he whispers.

Chapter End Notes

all of your friends have been here for too long

they must be waiting for you to move on

I'm not with it, I'm way too far gone

I'm not ready

eyes heavy now

heart on your sleeve like you've never been loved

running in circles

now look what you've done

give you my word as you take it and run

wish you'd let me stay

I'm ready now

 Already Gone
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"I really. hate. hospitals," Sam mutters as she walks down the sterile, bright hallway. It smells like
antibiotics and cleaning products, and she's pretty sure she already cheated death at least twice by
dodging, ducking, and diving out of the way every time one of The Afflicted crossed her path.

Who even decided that having a bunch of sick people roaming the halls willy-nilly was a swell
idea, anyway?! Aren't they supposed to be freaking quarantined or something? I mean, they can
totally end up infecting the entire world and killing everyone, right? I mean, that's what happens in
every zombie movie ever...

"A-chOO!"

"Ah, fiddlesticks!" she exclaims, barely managing to twist her body away from the spray of germs
being shot at her from the flank. She glares daggers at the culprit - a small, red-nosed child
clutching a teddy bear - and shivers involuntarily at the sight of her bloodshot, fevered eyes.

Do not approach me, plague bearer! the petite blonde thinks as the girl takes a step in her
direction. And then another. Her internal screams of warning and alarm are being thoroughly
ignored by the receiver, and yet another step is taken.

Nope. Nope. Nopety-so-much-freaking-nope. Sam breaks into a sprint, just barely missing a figure
dressed in white as she rounds the corner. There's the clattering of a note board hitting the floor and
a startled outcry left in her wake, but she doesn't turn to look.

It's every man, woman, and child for themselves in such perilous situations, after all. Besides,
anyone who works in such a place voluntarily clearly has a death wish, and who is she to stand in
the way of anyone attempting to prematurely punch their ticket to the grand toga party in the sky?

"Hey, no running in the halls!" they shout after her. She sighs and slows down, continuing forward
in a quick shuffle.

After all, she was only told not to run.

At least my bouquet survived. Sam glances down at the increasingly distressed arrangement of
flowers in her hands, frowning. For the most part, anyway. She pulls out a couple of broken lilies
and drops them to the floor, not even bothering to look for a trash can.

"Lookie-look, Joshie. I'm littering. Anything you wanna say about that? Anything at all?"

Silence.

It's been three days since the last time Josh spoke to her. He hasn't said a word since the kitchen
incident, and she knows she should be happy about it. Okay, she should be more than happy about
it. She should be elated! Ecstatic! Over the flippin' moon!

The silence should be a blessing... but it isn't.

It's a curse.
It feels wrong. Empty. Lonely. Unsettling.

"God... I can't believe I actually miss that crazy asshole..." She pinches the bridge of her nose
between her fingers, sighing deeply.

Of course, she shouldn't miss him.

Well, not that version, anyway. Not the night-time terrorist. Not the bloody, torn up creeper who
apparently seemed to be under the very deluded impression that handing her a beating human
heart is the equivalent of a proper romantic gesture. But then again...

How much did she even know about the real Josh Washington? He always did have a warped,
twisted sense of humor... but even so. Would he actually present the object of his affection with
a real live heart? Even as a joke? Despite thinking this, it doesn't invalidate the fact that him being
gone, regardless of the fact that he was just an illusion created by her mind to torment her... it feels
like she lost him all over again.

He did use real pig intestines to mess with Chris and Ashley, Sam. He left a rotting pig carcass
lying around for them to find. How can you even put anything past that lost, twisted boy
anymore? Who would even do something like that?

"No, Samantha, stop it! You're driving yourself crazy!" Sam frowns, eyes darting across the empty
hallway. If anyone caught her actually arguing with herself like some sort of loon, she'd be wheeled
off to the funny farm for sure.

Well... maybe that's where she belongs, anyway.

It wasn't his fault, she tells herself. He was just sick. He needed help. That's all.

She finally reaches her destination. Room 34. The letters and the numbers blend together before her
eyes, shifting and pulsating as if they're warning her of some kind of life-threatening presence
being contained within, which is ridiculous. She blinks once, twice, and it's gone. She presses her
ear against the door, listening intently for... what, exactly? Danger? No. No, of course not. That's
completely insane.

What kind of danger could possibly be lurking in a freaking hospital room?

It's completely absurd. She knows it is. Why is she even here if she can't even bring herself to
actually knock on the damn door?!

"Stop being a weirdo, Samantha," she whispers to herself. There's a slight murmur coming from
the other side, but nothing particularly monstrous. It sounds like muffled voices, for the most part.
Human voices. She can't figure out whether it's the TV or actual live human beings, however. If it's
the former, then there's no problem. If it's the latter... well...

If it's the latter then she desperately wants to turn her heel and nope the fuck out of there. Just bolt
for the exit and whoever is in there would be none the wiser. Yes, that sounds like an excellent
idea. Just leave and come back in five years or so. A fabulous plan.

Because running and hiding from every problem in the entire world is totally something she wants
to do for the rest of her life.

Jesus, when did you become such a scaredy-cat, Sammy?

Her breath stops for a second, and the familiar sound of that dark, sleepy voice nearly brings her to
tears before she realizes he's not actually back. It's just an echo, a memory. He said the exact same
thing to her a few years prior after she refused to jump down from the treehouse in his backyard
because she'd somehow convinced herself she would definitely break every bone in her fragile little
body and die horribly.

To his credit, Josh only teased her savagely and relentlessly for about ten minutes before he smiled
that blindingly beautiful Joshua Washington-smile and opened his arms wide, looking up at her
with those impossibly huge eyes.

C'mon, Sam. Don't be scared, okay? I'll catch you. I promise.

She remembers listening to those words. The sweetness of them, the tenderness in his voice,
making her believe every single one without question. She remembers digging her fingernails into
the wood, breathing deeply.

Once. Twice. Three times.

She closes her eyes and feels everything: the rush of adrenaline as she throws herself off the edge,
elation, and excitement and fear fighting for dominance inside of her. The sensation of being
completely weightless. She feels the wind rushing through her hair and it seems as if she's just
going to fall forever... and then she feels those warm, strong arms around her body, steadying her.
Keeping her eyes closed, she presses her face against the soft fabric of his shirt, desperately trying
to catch her breath.

It's as if every sound in the entire world has been muted, and the only thing she can hear is the
rapid beating of her own heart. She can smell his aftershave - a very recent addition to his
morning routine - and that clean, expensive cologne he always wears. Every fiber of her being is
tuned into him, and she finds herself wishing she could just stay in this one, breathtaking moment
forever.

See? Josh whispers, soft lips brushing gently against her neck.

I'll always catch you, Sammy.

"God, Josh..." Sam swallows hard, the lump in her throat making it almost impossible to breathe. It
feels like she's choking. The air seems far too thick and heavy and far too dense all of a sudden, and
her heart is pounding in her ears. No, no, no, no... please... She rests her forehead against the
door, desperately trying to regain control of her senses.

Not here. Not here. Not here. Please...

Why did this happen to her? Why couldn't she go one single freaking day without being tormented
by his memory? If she loved him so much, why didn't she react more severely when she first
learned of his horrible fate back at the cabin? When Mike told her what happened to him? Why
didn't she go back to see for herself?

Why didn't she even try to save him?

It's all your fault, Sam. It's your fault he's dead. You deserve this. The nightmares, the
hallucinations, the anxiety, the depression...

You deserve every. little. bit of it.

She rubs her eyes raw with the back of her hands. The throbbing in her head is unbearable, and the
bright white lights really don't do anything to lessen the pain at all. She curses under her breath and
grabs the door handle, hesitating.

"Okay, Sam. Come on, girl," she tells herself.

"It's just a band-aid. You're already this far. You didn't brave the plague-infested hallways from
Hell for n-WHOAA!" A hand lands on her shoulder, startling her - quite literally - out of her
fragile, frazzled mind. She spins around, brandishing the flower bouquet over her head like a
weapon ready to strike.

"Wow, chill! I'm sorry! I didn't mean... to..." Matt pauses, fixing his eyes on the flowery attack in
progress. Some of the petals are still fluttering gracefully around them, a couple of pink ones taking
up residence in his dark hair.

"Uh, are you... gonna hit me with that?" he questions, hands raised. "I come in peace, I promise.
I'm unarmed. See?"

Sam lowers the bouquet, painfully aware of how utterly ridiculous she must've looked. He doesn't
laugh at her, though. He just looks at her with those warm, brown eyes brimming with concerned
confusion, and in some ways, she'd probably have preferred the laughter.

Mike would have laughed.

"Uh... yeah. I mean, no. Hi," she says lamely.

"Hey."

They stand there, looking at each other in silence for a minute before he clears his throat and
smiles. "So, you here to see Jess, or do you just randomly stand around yelling at yourself in front
of hospital rooms these days?"

"Don't forget about the impressive display of my deadly flower-wielding," she comments drily. He
laughs, and the awkward tension dissipates.

"Right, right. My bad." He scratches his cheek and glances at the door. "Is this your first time here?
I mean since, well... everything."

"Yeah. I mean, I've..." Sam hesitates for a second, gathering her thoughts before continuing. "... I've
kinda been putting it off for as long as possible, you know? I've been putting a lot of things off, to
be honest. I just want to... I need to stop doing that. I need to stop being so afraid of everything, all
the time. And I... I figured this would be a good place to start." She takes a deep breath, mentally
patting herself on the back.

Good job, Sam. That actually sounded half-way believable.

"No, yeah, I hear ya. Things have been..." Matt trails off, and his dark eyes seem to slowly glaze
over. He suddenly feels a thousand miles away, and Sam almost wants to shake him.

But she doesn't.

"Matt?" she calls his name quietly, trying to coax him gently back to reality. He gives his head a
quick shake and smiles apologetically at her, awkwardly rubbing his neck.

"Sorry, what?"
"I think I lost you there for a second. You okay?" She tilts her head at him, raising her eyebrows
slightly.

"Yeah," he replies. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

Liar.

She knows he's lying, probably better than he does. She knows that because he looks and sounds
exactly like she does whenever she's trying to convince someone she's fine.

She's always fine, right? Always. Waking up from a nightmare? She's fine. Experiencing horrible
hallucinations with enough blood and gore and guts to make Freddy goddamn Krueger run
screaming and crying to his mommy? She's excellent. Clenching her fists hard enough to puncture
her own skin with her fingernails? Peachy. Fucking. Keen.

She's fine.

Just fine.

"So, we doing this or what?" Matt grins. Sam nods, clutching her bouquet like a lifeline. "Yeah,
let's... get this show on the road, I guess. I mean, we could just stand here like a couple of idiots
until we either die of old age or, y'know, starve to death, but..."

Matt laughs and places his hand on the doorknob. "Well, they do probably have a geriatric ward
here..."

"I swear. They just need, like, something to bond over, y'know? Some sort of... traumatic event to
send them into each other's arms. I mean, at this rate they'll be in the geriatric ward before Chris
makes a move."

Sam closes her eyes, groaning. So this is how it's going to be from now on, is it? She doesn't have
her own private nightmare hallucination taunting her anymore so now she's being haunted by actual
memories?

Yeah. No. Screw that. She'd rather go with the creepy monster asshole, thank you very much.

Clack. Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Her entire body freezes on the spot as soon as the sound reaches her ears. For just a tiny fraction of
a second, she thinks she can hear the clicking of his long, deadly claws clattering down the
hallways towards her, and her neck nearly snaps in the process as she whirls around to look for the
source of the sound, heart racing.

Is it him? Is he back? She wants to call out to him, but she doesn't. Her eyes dart from side to side,
even checking the ceiling, but there's no sign of him anywhere. What is that sound? Where is it?
Could it really be him? Could it be...

No.

She swallows the bitterness of her disappointment when she sees a nurse walking into a room a
few doors down, long red nails tapping against the clipboard in her hand. She wants to yank the
damn board out of her grasp and slam it across the woman's face, and the violent urge actually
scares her. Did she really want to see that monstrosity again? Did she want it - need it - so badly it
made her completely unhinged? What the hell was the matter with her?
"Sam? You coming?" Matt calls from the doorway. He looks at her questioningly, and she's
straining to remember how normal people shape their lips whenever they want to smile in a
completely sane and I'm-not-crazy-I-swear manner.

Yeah. He doesn't buy it at all, that much is obvious. But he's not commenting on it either,
something she very much appreciates.

"Coming," she says. He nods and disappears into the room.

Sam takes a deep breath and gathers herself before following, closing the door quietly behind her.
The air is cooler in here, and the harsh fluorescent light is replaced by a dimmer, yellowish glow -
something her impending migraine is very grateful for. Matt already left his jacket hanging on a
coat rack, so she removes her own and places it carefully next to his.

It's the same one he wore on the mountain, that much is clear. The white leather is scratched in
several places, and the sleeves are frayed and torn along the edges. No doubt he'd already been
given the option to replace it by the school principal or his coach, but for some reason, he hadn't.

Maybe it's his lucky charm. Aren't athletes kinda weird about that stuff? I mean, I guess
he did kinda survive falling off a freaking fire tower at the very tippy-top of an actual freaking
mountain and then crashing into the freaking mines and then surviving a freaking Wendigo
attack... though that was probably mostly because of the flare gun and not so much because the
cursed thing admired his choice of wardrobe... Sam smirks at her own joke.

Hey, laughter is the best medicine, right? The cure for everything and anything that ails you! Harr
harr. At least, that's what they say. Who's they, anyway? Why do these obscure, mysterious people
get to dictate what is right and what isn't?

Sounds fishy if you ask me, she thinks as she desperately rearranges the poor flower bouquet into
something at least resembling its former grandeur. Three roses and one lily ends up in the bin next
to the door, but the rest of them look fine. Samantha James is indeed not very skilled in the art
of flower arranging at even the best of times, but she feels pretty satisfied with the result anyway.

Now it only looks a tiny bit frazzled.

She rounds the corner, pleased with her magnificent effort. Matt and Jessica are talking quietly
together, faces only inches apart and fingers intertwined on top of the fluffy duvet.

Well, well, well. What have we here... Sam raises her eyebrow, but she doesn't comment on it. No
way in HELL is she getting involved in any kind of drama between Jessica Riley and Emily Davis,
of all people. No way. Nu-uh. Nope. Despite her hair color, she likes to think she's relatively smart.
Sometimes. Maybe. And smart people do not put themselves in the middle of a freaking nuclear
war.

Matt finally notices her presence. He clears his throat awkwardly and pulls his hand back, cheeks
tinted red. The bedridden blonde, however, remains unflustered.

"Hey, Sam. Uh... sorry. Guess you, uh... caught us in the act."

Jessica snorts. "In the act? Seriously, Matt? It's not like she walked in on us banging it out or
anything," she says, rolling her eyes. "God. Socially inept, much?"

Wow. Harsh, Jess.

Her eyes soften, and she gently places her hand on top of Matt's. "I'm sorry. I was trying to make a
 joke, but... I guess I'm not completely over my mean girl phase yet. Forgive me?"

Matt looks at Jessica. His brown eyes practically radiate tenderness, and Sam finds herself smiling
despite the awkwardness of the situation. She has to admit, they suit each other. Matt and Emily
never made much sense, at least not to her. He's always so kind and so patient, and Emily is... so...
well, Emily.

"So..." Jess says, biting her lip nervously. "I... guess we have some explaining to do."

Well. This should be good.

Chapter End Notes

remember all the things we wanted

now all our memories are haunted

forever wasn't meant for you and I

even with our fists held high

even with our hearts aligned

we were never meant for do or die

 Neptune

Pitch black, pale blue

It was a stained glass variation of the truth

and I felt empty-handed

You let me set sail with cheap wood

so I patched up every leak that I could

'till the blame grew too heavy

Stitch by stitch I tear apart

if brokenness is a form of art

I must be the poster child prodigy

Thread by thread I come apart

if brokenness is a form of art

surely this must be my masterpiece

I'm only honest when it rains

if I time it right, the thunder breaks when I open my mouth

I wanna tell you but I don't know how

I'm only honest when it rains

an open book with a torn out paqe and my ink's run out

I wanna love you but I don't know how

I don't know how

I wanna tell you but I don't know how

No, I don't know how

 I wanna love you but I don't know how

Pitch black, pale blue

these wild oceans shake what's left of me loose

just to hear me cry mercy

A strong wind at my back

so I lift up the only sail that I have

this tired white thread

I'm only honest when it rains

if I time it right, the thunder breaks when I open my mouth

I wanna tell you but I don't know how

I'm only honest when it rains

an open book with a torn out page and my ink's run out

I wanna love you but I don't know how

I don't know how

I wanna tell you but I don't know how

No, I don't know how

I wanna love you but I don't know how

I don't know how...

 Save Me
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"Josh. Open the door. I know you're in there."

There's no answer. The silence screams at her, clawing at her insides and twisting them painfully.

It's too loud, too heavy, too... ominous.

"Joshua Benjamin Washington, open this damn door!" She's pounding on it now, kicking it, glaring
at it. She is getting into that room today or so help her God. He's been locked up in there for three
days, and now her patience has come to an end. If he doesn't open that freaking door
right freaking now she has every intention of going full-on Jack Nicholson on his ass.

"Fine. Fine. You know what? I'm gonna go find an ax and chop this stupid thing to firewood and
then you explain to the parental units why your room looks like a motherflippin' war zone!"

Silence.

More silence.

Even more silence. And then...

Click.

She yanks the door open before he can change his mind, her breath already drawn in preparation
for the angry rant of righteous fury she intends to rain down upon him, but when her eyes register
the broken, wounded wreck of a person before her, the words get stuck in her throat.

His dark hair looks messy and disheveled, deep purple bruises decorating the skin around his eyes.
There are claw marks on his cheek, his eyes are red-rimmed and swollen and his lips are bitten
and torn to absolute shreds. His skin is pale, his cheeks sunken.

Hollow.

He hasn't been eating, that much is obvious. Hell, he probably hasn't been sleeping much, either.

If at all.

"God, Josh..." she whispers. He doesn't say anything, just turns around and retreats back into his
room. At least he doesn't shut the door on her, so she follows him to the edge of the bed and sits
down on the floor next to him. He pulls his legs up against his chest and wraps his arms around
his knees, curling in on himself. He feels so far away, and she doesn't know how to reach him.

But she's damn well going to try.

"I like what you've done with the place," she comments, taking in the cosmic chaos that is his
bedroom. The sheets have been torn from his bed and thrown on the floor, bunched up and made
into some sort of impromptu campsite. The closet doors are wide open, clothes scattered
everywhere. The curtains have been drawn, blocking out the sunlight entirely. It's freezing despite
the warm summer weather outside, and Sam shivers. She rubs her hands up and down her naked
arms, attempting to stay warm.

"You cold?" he asks, voice cracked and broken. She startles, not expecting him to actually say
anything. "Yeah, a little," she admits."If I'd known you were trying to reenact The Donner Party I
would've brought my snowsuit."

He gives a short, hoarse laugh and grabs something from the bed, handing it to her. It's a black
hoodie - his favorite - and she gratefully accepts. The fabric is soft and smells so much like him
that it takes every ounce of willpower she has to resist the urge to bury her face in it and inhale
deeply.

Don't be a creeper, Sam. Seriously.

He gives her a side-eyed look. "What?" she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. Did she put it
on the wrong way? No. No, she did not. She specifically remembers feeling the slight brush of the
patch in the back of her neck. So why is he looking at her like that? Oh dear God, did he actually
somehow manage to read her creepy hoodie-sniffing thoughts?!

"What." she repeats, demanding an answer. He gives his head a slight shake, but she doesn't
relent. "Joshua. Explain the look. Now." She pokes him in the ribs, and a pang of worry shoots
through her when she hits nothing but bone and muscle. God, he's so thin...

"Y'look like a midget," he finally replies. She blinks up at him, confused. Then she frowns. "Wha?
Hey! Is that a dig at my height? Are you calling me short?"

"If you gotta ask..."

"I'll have you know I am not short, thank you very much! I'm... I'm just... I'm just vertically
impaired, okay?" she huffs. A tiny smirk ghosts across his lips and he shrugs, eyes drifting to the
other side of his room.

"Yeah, sure. Okay, Sammy."

No. No, Josh, don't do that. Don't you dare shut me out again. Not this time.

She takes a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for the impossibly terrifying thing she's about
to do, and grabs his hand. He looks down at her, surprise evident in his dark eyes. She laces their
fingers together, studying his broken nails and bruised knuckles.

"Talk to me, Josh," she whispers, pleadingly. "Just talk to me, okay? I... we're all worried..." His
face seems to close off again, taking him further away from her, and she curses herself inwardly.
She knows damn well that she won't be able to break that infuriating mask of indifference once it's
back in place, and she's not having it.

Not even a little.

Don't be such a damn coward, Sam! Jesus. Just say it. Just say what you're thinking for once in
your miserable freaking life.

She gives his hand a slight squeeze, locking eyes with him again. Her heart beats wildly in her
chest, but she ignores it. She has to say this, she has to make him understand. She has to show him
that she's not there because she feels obligated to. Not just because Hannah was her best friend.
Not just because she feels so guilty she wants to die.
Not just because he's the only one she's got left, or because he's the only one in the entire world
who can possibly understand what she's going through.

She's there for him. Because she cares about him.

"I'm worried about you, okay?"

Sam rubs her thumb across his broken skin, swallowing hard. What did he even do? Punch a damn
wall? Knowing Josh, that's exactly what he did.

He punched a damn wall. Hard.

"Want me to get you a punching bag?" she says, attempting to lighten the mood a little. "We could
string it up... well..." She studies every nook and cranny of the chaotic space, frowning. "...
anywhere, I guess? Dude, your room is bigger than my entire house."

"D'you just say 'dude'?" Josh asks, smirking. She narrows her eyes at him. "Yes. Yes, I did. If it
offends you then feel free to type out a written complaint and drop it in Kyle Braedan's mailbox.
He's a bad influence."

Josh shifts, jaw clenching for a second before relaxing again, and it's such an odd reaction she
can't help but stare at him, quizzically.

"What?" she questions, almost not expecting him to reply.

But he does.

"You hang out with him a lot, 's all."

"Well... I mean, yeah? He's my chem lab partner. We sort of... have to? It's kinda hard to get any
work done if you don't, ya know, talk."

"Mmmhmm." His eyes drift across the room again, and she feels the wall between them growing
thicker.

Heavier.

God, why is she so incompetent at reaching out to him? Why does she suck so badly at this? Does
she just always say the wrong thing or what? She wants to connect with him! She just wants him to
know that she's there, to confide in her and mourn with her and know that he's not alone, that she
feels the pain and the loss and the sorrow and the heartache just as much as he does.

After all...

Sam lost her sisters, too.

They both lost two of the most important people in their lives on that damn mountain. He's all she's
got left and she needs him to stay, she needs him to be with her and just grieve and open up to her
and God! Why won't he just freaking let her in already!

"They..." Josh licks his lips, hesitating. His fingers tear at the frayed edges of his pajama bottoms,
unraveling them even further. "They called off the search, Sammy. Gave up. Just like that. Just
like... like... like they never, God, like they n-never fucking... fucking mattered a-and..." He takes a
deep breath, shaking. "How... how could they just... how can they do that, Sam? How?" He's
looking at her now, eyes wide and desperate, t he naked vulnerability in them hitting her like a
freight train

"Why? Why! It-it's not even been a year, and they... they could be alive? Right? Sam? Sammy?"
Josh stares at her, begging her to agree with him. Please! his eyes are screaming at her. Please tell
me I'm right! Please...

"Yeah," she whispers, though deep down she knows better.

If Hannah and Beth were alive, they would've been found by now. Just about half the damn country
was up there looking for them, what with the Almighty Movie Mogul Washington throwing bags of
money at every uniformed individual on the planet. If they were alive, someone would have found
them. The search went on day and night, relentlessly, and Sam knows perfectly well that the only
reason why they would give up looking for them was that Bob Washington told them to.

Because he reached the same conclusion that she did. Because he knew that nobody could survive
up on that mountain for such an extended amount of time completely unaided. Maybe they'd even
fallen in the river and been taken downstream, or they could've been caught in an avalanche and
buried underneath several tons of snow. They could've been eaten by wildlife, or crushed by a
rockslide. The possible scenarios were endless, but none of them ended well for either one of the
twins.

Sam knows this. She knows this. But there's no way in Hell she's going to tell him that, not when
he's breaking into pieces right in front of her.

No way.

"Yes, Josh. It's possible. They haven't found their..." Sam halts, hesitating. No. She can't say it. She
can't bring herself to say the word. It's too painful to even think about.

"I mean, we don't know for sure that they're not alive," she finally says, clutching his hand tightly.
"There's no evidence telling us they're not, right?"

"Right! Yeah! I-I mean... I mean... t-they..." He's tearing at his hair, frantically clawing at his skin
with his free hand. She takes it and keeps it locked in her own, preventing him from doing even
more damage to himself. His cheek is already bleeding from old scratches being reopened, and his
bottom lip is bleeding from the abuse as he bites down on it repeatedly, muttering to himself.

It hurts to see him like this, so fragile and broken, but she doesn't know what to do. She doesn't
know how to help him.

She has never felt so powerless in her entire life.

"Josh..." Her voice cracks, and he looks at her. His wild, manic eyes trace the features of her face
with almost burning intensity like he's searching for something.

She doesn't know what he finds but whatever it is, it gives him pause.

He gently frees his right hand and tentatively brushes his thumb across her cheek, wiping away
tears she's not even aware of. Her throat feels all too tight, and she wants to say more but she can't.
She's choking on her own sobs and her body is shivering so violently she feels like she's got a fever.

"Sammy," he whispers, his eyes mirroring every emotion that's raging inside of her, and then he's
hugging her. Carefully at first, and then all together; his arms desperately crushing her against
him, his sharp, untrimmed nails digging into her shoulder blades. The physical pain doesn't even
register with her, doesn't even come close to the overwhelming sense of loss and hopelessness she
feels with every fiber of her being.

I love this boy, Sam thinks and hugs him just as tightly in return, her face buried in the crook of his
neck as his body is wracked with desperate, heartbreaking sobs. Each one tears into her like a
knife, twisting and turning until every breath feels like a shard of glass inside of her.

I love this broken, fragile mess more than I can stand.

For once in her stupid, cowardly life, Samantha James does not hesitate.

She lifts herself up and closes the distance between them, kissing him fervently. She just needs to
feel something - feel anything - anything but this crushing, devastating void inside of her, and she
needs to fill it with something... anything...

Josh freezes in place and Sam's not even sure whether or not he's breathing anymore. She looks up
into those huge eyes, and they're practically bugging out at her, bigger and wider and darker than
she's ever seen them before. She's just starting to regret her actions when he curses under his
breath and clutches her shoulder hard, pulling her back into him.

It's not a tender kiss.

It's sharp. Biting. Desperate.

His lips are chapped, broken. They taste like blood and cigarettes, but she doesn't care. She just
wants him to hold her closer. Tighter. She wants him to crush her against him until their bodies
merge together and leave them as one single entity.

Her fingers close around the fabric of his shirt, tearing at it impatiently. She wants it gone. She
wants it to just stop existing, to stop creating barriers between them.

She's had enough of these freaking barriers.

She wants them all. gone.

"Sam... fuck, just..." He tries to slow her down, but she's having none of it. She wants every piece of
clothing on this boy to disintegrate and never come back. All these walls and barriers and masks
he's continually hiding behind - they all need to just get. the fuck. out.

Josh pulls back, taking her hands and gently pressing them against the floor, pinning her down.
His eyes are searching her face for something, but all she can see is how swollen his lips are and
how his half-open shirt is exposing his sharp collarbones. He's all angles and shadows and
bruises, but he's so beautiful, so impossibly beautiful it almost hurts to look at him.

"Please," she whispers. "Josh, please..."

That's all it takes for him to break, and his lips crash back down onto hers with renewed vigor,
devouring her. She digs her nails into his back, pressing against him.

Kissing him feels so ridiculously good it almost makes her forget her own name.

No more walls, Sam thinks as she tears at his shirt again, and this time he's helping her. He throws
it haphazardly into a corner and surges down to kiss her again before she has time to fully register
how emaciated he looks.

But she can feel it.

She can feel every ridge and every valley of his spine under his skin, and her heart aches with
every touch. Oh, God... oh, my God... She pulls away and looks up at him, sympathy and worry
etched into her features.

"Sammy?" he whispers. His voice is soft; uncertain. "Are you... is this okay?"

Sam bites her lip and looks away, suddenly aware and ashamed of her actions. "Josh, I..." Her
eyes spot a bunch of empty liquor bottles under his bed and she pauses, frowning.

"Have... have you been drinking?"

Josh follows her gaze, and he sighs. His muscles strain as he gets off of her and throws his
bedspread over the mattress, hiding the evidence.

"Nope," he says, capturing her face in his hands and kissing her again, hungry and impatient.
"Josh, you're... you've been drinking. We shouldn't be doing this," Sam says, bracing her hand
slightly against his chest. It's almost ridiculously hard to resist kissing him again, the skin of her
palm practically burning from the touch and those eyes - those deep, dark, breathtaking eyes -
staring so intensely into hers it feels like her entire body is on fire. The words seem to evaporate in
her brain before they can reach her lips, and when he moves to close the distance between them
again, she almost gives in.

She really, really wants to.

Oh, Lord, does she want to.

But she can't.

"It's... I'm sorry. It's not..." she pauses, biting her lip. She almost tells him she shouldn't have done
that, but after so many times of literally shoving her foot in her mouth with him, she knows that's
the worst thing she can say right now.

"I think we should... wait," she begins, carefully selecting each word to minimize the damage as
much as possible. "We're both pretty messed up right now, and I just think..." He interrupts her
with a short, bitter laugh and gets to his feet, jaw clenched. His face is completely unreadable.

He's closing himself off again, and this time it feels intentional.

It feels directed at her, and it hurts.

It hurts. God, it hurts.

"Yeah, sure. Okay, Sam," he drones, not even really looking at her anymore. "I get it."

No. No, he doesn't. He definitely doesn't get it. That much is obvious. He doesn't get it at all, and
she wants to tell him that. She wants to tell him that so badly, but she also knows him well enough
to recognize the look of someone who either can't or doesn't want to be reasoned with.

He picks up his shirt and yanks it back over his head, his movements choppy and abrupt. She
stands up and walks towards him, slowly, like she's approaching a wounded animal.
 He jerks when she puts her hand on his arm, but at least he doesn't push her away.

"Josh," she says, softly. "I know what you're thinking and it's not true, okay? It's not. I want this.
But with Hannah and Beth being..." Sam catches herself before she says 'dead' and mentally pats
her own back. "... with them being missing... we're both pretty messed up, right? You've been
drinking, and I'm a complete mess and the two of us aren't exactly one hundred percent stable right
now, shall we say, and... and we should be. Don't you think? At least sixty to seventy-five percent.
Maybe fifty-three on a particularly bad day."

He laughs again. This time it's more genuine but still carries an edge to it. "If y'wanna wait for me
to be stable, Sammy, you'll die a virgin."

"Harr-di-harr, Joshua." She rolls her eyes and punches his shoulder lightly, trying her best to
salvage this complete and utter wreck of a situation. "Hey, you gorgeous, freakishly tall asshole.
Turn around and give me a hug before I start searching for some juicy blackmail material in this
dump you call a bedroom."

Josh scoffs, a crooked smirk forming on his lips. "Just try it. I'll sic my lawyers on you, James.
Perks of being a rich kid," he says drily, but he still wraps her in his arms and rests his chin on top
of her head, exhaling shakily.

Sam smiles and closes her eyes, savoring the feeling for as long as she can.

"Bring it, Washington."

Chapter End Notes

hello

from the dark side end

does anybody here wanna be my friend

just want it all to end

tell me when the fuck is it all

gonna

end

voices in my head

telling me I'm gonna end up

dead

so please save me

before I fall

save me
just save me

please

save me

save me
 Fragile
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"It was..." Matt sighs, tiredly rubbing his hand over his eyes before continuing. "It was everything.
Just... everything. All of it. Big things, small things... The fights, the drama, the belittling..."

"Matt..." Jess takes his hand and rubs her thumb gently over a fading scar running across his
knuckles. He smiles briefly and continues, voice low and steady.

"I'm a pretty patient guy, y'know? But even I have my limits. And lemme tell ya, Emily sure knew
how to push every. single. one of 'em."

Sam wants to laugh at this, but she doesn't. Matt didn't make fun of her for temporarily turning into
some kind of flower-wielding lunatic out there in the hallway, and she's not going to make fun of
him now. Sure, everyone knows what kind of person Emily is. Anyone and their damn
grandmother could take one look at this gentle, precious boy and declare in no uncertain terms
how much of a freakin' train wreck their relationship would be.

Surely, somewhere deep down, Matt already knew that even back then. No point in rubbing salt in
the proverbial wound.

He seems to know exactly what she's thinking, those deep brown eyes staring steadily into her
own. "I mean, sure. I knew this before I started datin' her. I knew what she was like, man. Not
gonna lie and say I didn't. I guess I was just stupid enough - or arrogant enough - to think it'd be
different with me. Sometimes she was... alright, y'know? Like, actually cool."

Sam can tell Jessica wants to shoot off some snide remark, but thankfully she settles for an
impressive full-body eye roll and a slight huff instead.

"I knew she was just hangin' out with me to get a rise out of Mike, and yeah, that sucked. But we
did have genuine moments so I guess I kinda just decided to focus on those and take whatever I
could get because hey, I actually liked her. Maybe I could've even loved her, eventually. Things
seemed to be changing between us for a while. Seemed... better. No drama, no nothin', just us.
Bein' teenagers. Bein' together. Nice, simple. But then..." Matt pauses, the muscles in his jaw
working as he considers what to say next.

"All the jealousy and fightin' with Jess at the cabin, and later finding out from Ashley that she was
actually flirting with Mike instead of going to find you-" he looks at Sam, annoyance clear in his
expression. Sam bites her lip, feeling irrationally guilty about this revelation. But why? It's not like
she actually had anything to do with whatever ridiculous potential two-timing plan Emily decided
to set into motion, after all.

Come on, Samantha, she tells herself, exasperated. You had nothing to do with it. Stop feeling
guilty over something you didn't even know about, for Pete's sake.

"That was it. I was going to step up and stop being such a dude-shaped doormat and just...
just confront her about it, and goin' to get her stupid bag was the perfect opportunity for me to do
that, but then we actually had... fun. We were jokin' around, flirting, and she didn't even talk down
to me..."

Jessica raises an eyebrow at him, and he chuckles.

"... that much," he adds. "And I thought, 'hey, maybe this can turn out to be a pretty chill weekend
after all!' so I just... left it. Like, whatever, ya know?" Matt drums his fingers restlessly against his
leg, the sole of his foot tapping rapidly. He seems guarded, on edge, and Sam knows that feeling.

Holy shit does she know it.

The urge to move around, the inability to focus on anything for more than a couple of seconds, and
that overwhelming sense that something dark and twisted is going to jump out at you from every
nook and cranny within a fifty-mile radius. It's what she's been feeling every day since they left
that damn mountain, and her jittery behavior is really starting to take a toll on her mental faculties.
Sam finds herself checking every inch of the dimly lit hospital room with paranoid urgency, and
she wants to laugh out loud at her own stupidity.

Jesus Christ, woman. Get it together. She unclenches her jaw and cracks her neck from side to side,
shaking her fists discreetly at her sides as Matt goes on, his words sounding strangely muffled all
of a sudden like he's talking underwater. She resists the urge to tilt her head and slap the shit out of
it to empty the water from her ears and finds herself staring intently at his lips, trying to decipher
the words being formed between them.

"It was good. For a while, anyway. I mean, there was the occasional jump scare along the way, but
nothing too major. We got crowded by some crazy-ass deer on the way and almost fell off a cliff
but, whatever. Just more mountainy weirdness. Nothing new there, I guess." Matt laughs, but
there's an edge to it that tells her he's not at all as casual about it as he wants her to think.

"Then there was that damn fire tower. We climbed the stupid thing like a couple of morons so we
could use the radio and finally get some help, and then... then I don't really know what happened.
One minute there's a dude on the other end tellin' us to wait until dawn for them to come and get
us, and then I hear this freaky sort of... screech? Howl? I don't even... I don't even know, man, it
just... it sounded freakin' wrong. Not natural, y'know? So I hear that, and suddenly everythin' just
goes to absolute shit..." Matt shakes his head and frowns, feet tapping intermittently against the
white floor tiles.

Jessica says something to him and gently cradles his face in her hands, but their words don't
register to Sam anymore.

It's as if she's completely forgotten how to speak and understand English, the language sounding
odd and foreign in her ears as the human voices turn into piercing, bloodcurdling shrieks echoing
in her mind, bouncing off the walls around her and drowning out everything else. Sam shivers as a
phantom chill runs through her, freezing the blood in her veins and putting every nerve in her body
on edge.

She's not in the hospital anymore. She's in a deep, dark place with dripping walls and rotting
bodies. The intense stench of death and decay surrounding her makes her stomach turn violently.
There's a sense of dread in the air, and she knows she's being watched.

Like a deer catching the scent of a hunter.

She feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and the cavernous mines seem to shrink. She's
pushed forward against her own will, the bloody walls closing in on her on both sides, threatening
to crush her to dust between them. Her fingernails catch and break against the unyielding stone,
desperately seeking purchase as she's being pulled forward rapidly through the continuously
narrow space.

And then she stops.

She's in a small cave, no bigger than her bedroom. Actually, it is her bedroom - or some kind of
twisted version of it.

Her desk is made up of rotting floorboards balanced between two big rocks, and there's a strangely
familiar chair pushed up against it. A figure sits hunched in it, head bent forward at an awkward
angle, and Sam struggles to breathe.

It's her.

There's her blonde hair, now hanging loosely down her back in long, stringy knots. There's her
leather jacket and her plaid skirt. The very same outfit she wore on the mountain. The very same
outfit Josh took from the bathroom when she was forced to navigate the hellish balloon maze in
nothing but a tiny, flimsy towel.

The very same outfit worn by the creepy-ass dummy in the basement of the old hotel.

"Saaaa-mmyyy..." The eerie, almost playful calling of her name makes her jump, but her body stays
frozen. She wants to run, but her feet remain rooted to the spot. Against her own will, she's forced
to watch helplessly as her arm moves at its own accord, fingers clutching the back of the chair and
turning it towards her, its movements painfully, horrifyingly slow.

The rusted joints creak as the chair moves. Sam feels lightheaded from holding her breath but her
lungs won't obey her even though they're screaming out in desperate need of air, and her head is
throbbing so badly it feels like someone just roundhouse kicked her in the skull with a cinder block
shoe.

Creeeeaaaaaak...

The noise sounds almost deafening in the small cave, and she wants to stop.

She needs to stop.

But still, she keeps going.

I don't want to see it. I don't want to see this. I don't want to be here. Please, someone, please
just get me out of here!

The dummy slowly raises its head, a nightmare creature made from rotting flesh and moldy
stuffing, the leathery skin stretching all too tightly as it smiles, writhing maggots falling from the
cracks. Sam opens her mouth and screams, but not a sound comes out.

"Welcome home, Sammy-bird."

Her body is twisted around as a clawed hand digs into her shoulder, and there stands Josh. Taller
and skinnier than ever, his face looking gaunt and hauntingly terrifying. His lips are chapped and
broken, jagged teeth cutting into them and slashing across his left cheek, opening further and
further until the corners of his mouth reach halfway across his jaw and the smile just keeps
stretching wider and wider, his skin tearing with a sickening sound as dark red blood stains his shirt
an even deeper shade of crimson.

"I missed you," he whispers before his ruined lips claim hers, his razor teeth destroying her mouth
as he devours her. She screams out in pain when she feels them digging into her flesh, tearing it and
giving her the same morbid, grotesque smile, like a nightmarish version of the Cheshire cat from
Alice in Wonderland.
"Sammy..."

"Sam?"

"SAM!"

Her eyes tear open, and she's staring at the ceiling. Or, well, she should have been, if it weren't for
the two pairs of concerned eyes and confused faces covering her entire field of vision.

"Ho-oooly shit! Holy shit holy crap holy shit! Jesus, Sam, you scared the ever-living crap out of
us!" Jessica pulls her into a ferocious hug, not caring one bit about the needle still stuck in her hand
or the fact that she's still just wearing that flimsy hospital gown.

"You really went lights out there for a while," Matt says, trying to smile but failing spectacularly.
"Do you need me to, like... shit, I dunno, get a nurse or a doctor or somethin'?"

"A doctor? Great plan, doofus," Jess replies, her blue eyes rolling practically all the way out of
their sockets.

"Do you want them to lock her ass up in some loony bin? She's probably just got low blood sugar
or something! Right?" She looks pointedly at Sam, and Sam just nods gratefully. She certainly
doesn't need the good Doctor Alan Hill running the door down with his stupid, creepy eyes and his
even stupider creepy face, giving her a damn lecture on top of everything.

"I dunno, Jess, that was..."

"Matt... just, like... please just go get her some water or a soda or something, okay? Please."

"... Okay, yeah. Sure thing, babe." He kisses her on the forehead and rises from the floor, hesitating
for a second. His dark eyes turn to Sam, and she lifts an eyebrow questioningly.

"I'm, uh. Yeah. I'm gonna get you a sandwich too, okay? You gotta eat somethin', you really don't
look good."

Sam smirks, appreciating his concern but still unable to resist a tiny dig at him. "Gee. Thanks, dad.
And here I was thinking partially comatose was a particularly good look for me."

He laughs. "Yeah, I... don't know about that. I'd keep tryin'."

"Just go fetch us some calories, okay? Jeez!" Jessica hits him playfully with a pillow and rolls her
eyes at Sam.

"Fine, fine. I surrender!" Matt shakes his head and leaves, though Sam swears she can hear him
muttering about violent females and ridiculous weapons of choice before the door closes behind
him.

"You know, I adore the heck out of that guy, but sometimes I wish he'd just do as he's told and be
done with it. Anyway, giddy on up, girl!" Jessica pulls Sam off the floor and pushes her into Matt's
chair. "You just sit there and get some color back in your pretty face before Mr. Worrywart comes
back, 'kay? If you keep cosplaying Casper the Fainting Ghost he might change his mind about
Head-Shrinking McGee after all."

Sam gives her a salute and grins. "Yes, ma'am."

"Attagirl."

The older blonde pulls out a box of neatly wrapped chocolates and shoves a truffle against Sam's
lips. "Here. Chocolate. Yum-yummy calories, amirite? If it works for friggin' Harry Potter, then it
works for us. Shit's magic, ya know." She grins.

"Wha..." Sam doesn't get to finish the sentence before the chocolate fills her mouth as Jessica quite
literally force-feeds it to her.

It's rich and sweet, but her stomach still feels queasy from the whole maggot-riddled dummy-thing
experience and makes it hard to swallow. Jessica puts away the box and tilts her head, blue eyes
watching her carefully.

"You went all Catatonic Cathy on us there, you know? It was freaky as shit! I honest to God
thought Matt was gonna hyperventilate himself into a coma for a second or something. As I said, I
absolutely adore the crap out of that boy, but he's not very useful when it comes to an emotional
crisis. Poor guy just ran 'round in circles flailing his hands like someone rubbed mustard in his ass
and lit it on fire or something."

"I'm sorry," Sam says when she finally manages to force the chocolate down her throat. It goes
down about as well as a medium-sized rock, but she manages to fight off the urge to spit it back
out.

"It's... probably just low blood sugar as you said. I haven't been eating a lot recently."

"Not sleeping a lot either, by the looks of it. Girl, you are rocking some serious dark circles," Jess
remarks, raising an eyebrow and tutting disapprovingly. "I mean, you're still hot, but right now
you're a hot mess. You've got more bags under your eyes than a local convenience store, for freak's
sake!"

"Oh, that's just for aesthetic reasons," Sam quips. "All the cool kids are doing it these days. Haven't
you heard?"

Jessica looks at her for a long time, and it seems like she wants to question her further, but
thankfully she doesn't. Instead, she grabs her hand and squeezes it gently. "Look, Sam... I know we
haven't exactly been, like... BFF's, or anything, but... Mike told me what happened when he found
you down there, you know, in the basement, and... he said you asked about me, that you were
concerned for me, and I just... well... thank you. Really. That was... that was really sweet of you."

Sam smiles, a warm feeling spreading in her chest.

"Don't mention it."

"No, Sam. I mean it. I've given you so much shit about your morals, and your diet, and your tree-
hugging "let's all be friends!"-attitude, and I flirted shamelessly with Josh, like, all the time, even
when I knew how much you liked him, and just... God... I'm just, like, I've been a bitch to you, and
I'm sorry. I am... so fucking sorry. For everything that I did, and said, and just... yeah. All of it. The
whole, messy ass birthday cake of shit I threw in your face. You never deserved to be treated like
that. I guess, well, I just knew that Mike always had a thing for you, and I know you never made a
 move on him, and I know that I'm like the biggest hypocrite in the entire goddamn world for
saying this and I'll probably die a horrible karmic death..."

"Hey, Jess. Chill, okay? It's fine. I get it."

Soft, blue eyes meet hazel, and they both smile. "You knooow..." Jessica says, her smile growing
alarmingly wide. "Josh was never into me. Like, not for one single second. It was annoying as shit,
and I literally thought he was gay for an entire year until I realized that the boy had it bad for you.
Like, so, so bad. And... for what it's worth, I think you make a good couple. You and Mike, I mean.
You always had way too much damn chemistry anyway, it was bound to happen one way or
another."

"What?" Sam looks at her, incredulous. "Wait, no, Mike and I aren't..."

"Oh, come on! Why do you think I always gave you all that crap? Even a freaking cyclops with
exactly one functioning brain cell and a cathartic eye can see that you two are ridiculously good
together! I know he used to be kind of a giant dick, but hey. People change. I mean, who would've
thought you and I would be sitting here talking about boys and braiding each other's hair?"

Sam smirks at this, raising an eyebrow at her. "Oh, really? I see no braids. Honestly, the lack of
braids is appalling."

Jessica laughs and grabs the hairbrush from her bedside table. "Well, let's fix that, then. Rapunzel,
Rapunzel! Undo that godforsaken bun and let's give you an actual hairstyle for once!"

Dear Lord. I have created a monster.

Chapter End Notes

no one knows

the trouble I've become

or how I’ve come

just a little bit undone

breaking down and letting go

please don’t leave

please don't leave me alone

dug in deep

now I’ve buckled down

I must love me

before there's ever loving you

patience please
for the hell I'm going through

please don't leave

leave me here without you

 Staying Up
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"Hello again, Samantha."

Sam doesn't reply. Her tired, bloodshot eyes stare blankly out the window, looking but not really
seeing. She doesn't even bother trying to hide her insomnia anymore, making the purple bruises
practically shine against her pale skin. What are they going to do, anyway? Throw her in the loony
bin for looking like something straight out of one of those damn Romero-flicks Josh used to be
into?

Yeah. Right.

The last time she checked, insomnia didn't warrant a one-way ticket to the funny farm.

"Let's try this again, shall we?" Dr. Hill folds his hands together and places them on his desk,
undeterred by her unresponsiveness. Nothing ever rattles him, and that annoys her. It annoys her
more than anything has ever annoyed her in her entire life, and that includes listening to Emily talk
about handbags for three hours straight.

Just once she would like to watch the good doctor squirm. Seriously, is that so much to ask for?

"Hello, Samantha," he repeats, calm and composed as ever.

God. Why must she suffer this way? Being here, in this abnormally tidy office with this abnormally
creepy human being is not how she wants to spend her Friday afternoon. And yet, here she is.
Sitting in the same chair. Staring out the same window. Listening to the same voice she's been
hearing regularly for much too long.

She is so sick and tired of it, she wants to scream.

"Hello, Dr. Hill," she finally replies, every syllable practically dripping with sarcasm. He raises an
eyebrow at her, openly expressing his nonchalance at her tone.

"Well. Not the most enthusiastic greeting, granted, but we can work on that," he says, scribbling
something down on his notepad before looking back up at her. "So, how have you been since our
last session?"

"Fine." The word falls so easily from her lips, she doesn't even have to think about it anymore.

"Samantha, we have been over this. Repeatedly. If you're not honest with me..."

"I said, I'm fine," she snaps at him, eyes narrowed into thin, hazel-colored slits. The lack of sleep is
really shortening her patience, and she starts tapping her feet restlessly against the floor. "Can we
please move on now?" She stifles a yawn with her hand, wishing desperately for the session to be
over so she can return to her room and hopefully pass out for a few hours. Maybe, if she just really
works at it, he'll let her off early.

The thought is laughable, of course. The esteemed Doctor Alan Joseph Hill, ending a therapy
session early because she's tired? The same guy who told her to soldier through despite being
practically on her freaking deathbed with pneumonia? And besides. Considering the fact that she,
quite literally, told him to go fuck himself before storming out of his office the last time she was
here...

Yeah. Him ending the session early after that stunt?

Not bloody likely, girl.

Dr. Hill stands up from his chair, fixing her with his unsettling gaze as he grabs her chin and
studies her, not caring one iota about the fact that he is being exceptionally unprofessional. Not that
she's claiming to be an expert or anything, but she's pretty sure he's not supposed to manhandle his
victims patients in such brutish fashion.

Really. She could probably sue him for... something.

Note to self, Sammy, she thinks drily. Research legal actions and punishments against invasion of
personal space.

"You haven't been sleeping," Alan Hill notes, turning her head this way and that. He tuts over her
glorious eye bags before returning to his seat, ignoring her sarcastic eye roll and taunting smirk.

Also: research legal ramifications of murdering one's psychiatrist. Asking for a friend, Sam thinks
darkly before replying. "Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. How'd you manage that deduction? Brilliant
detective work, I must say. I can definitely understand why you're top tier around here. Bravo."

He raises an eyebrow at her, unimpressed by her attitude. "Deflection, sarcasm, humor... they're all
fine and well on their own, but inherently crippling as a defense mechanism, Samantha."

"Yeah?" She tilts her head at him, giving him her best 'could not care less'-expression.

"Yes," he simply replies, colorless eyes not giving her one second's worth of peace. "So let's, ah...
what is it that you young people like to say so... eloquently..." He pretends to think for a bit before
snapping his fingers like he just solved the damn Antikythera mechanism.

Honestly, she's surprised he doesn't jump up from his seat and shout 'eureka!' at the top of his
freaking lungs while he's at it. Y'know, just to be even more obnoxious.

"Let's cut the crap, shall we?"

"Sure thing, Doc." She smirks at him, leaning forward in her chair. "I'm positively shaking with
anticipation. So, let's hear it, then. Tell me how you're going to fix my head with your fancy big
boy-words. God knows you couldn't fix Josh, so I mean, it's not like you've got the best track
record in the world, but..." Sam shrugs, returning to her previous position.

"Even a broken clock is right twice a day, isn't that how the saying goes?"

"Your glibness does you no credit, Samantha."

I'll show you where you can stuff your glibness, you arrogant... She just looks at him and yawns,
not even bothering to cover her mouth this time. Quite the opposite, in fact. She stretches her jaws
so wide she could probably swallow his head if she tried.

Dr. Hill writes something down in his precious little book and tuts to himself, quietly mumbling
something between sentences. Most of it is indecipherable, even when she leans ever so discreetly
closer to him, but some of the words stand out to her.
Words like "disrespectful", "dosage" and "regression," amongst others. Well, isn't that lovely.

"So," he finally says, clicking his pen and putting it carefully back in its place. "You mentioned
Joshua earlier, correct?"

No. Nope. Nu-uh. No way.

The last thing she wants to do is talk about Josh right now, especially with him of all cursed people.
The very same man who gave Josh the wrong medication, the very same man who...

No. Stop it, Sam. Don't go there. Not now.

"Let's talk about that for a moment," Dr. Hill continues, completely disregarding the warning look
on her face. "When you first came to see me, you were plagued by nightmares. Hallucinations.
Paranoia. Severe PTSD. This is completely understandable, considering everything you have
experienced in such a short amount of time. I understand you were very... close... with the twins,
and with Joshua. Losing both Hannah and Bethany Washington simultaneously in such a horrible
fashion, and then exactly one year later Joshua, all three deaths happening on Blackwood
Mountain..."

For some reason, hearing the proper name of the mountain sends a violent chill down her spine.

It sounds too creepy, too ominous. Like something ancient and powerful beyond human
understanding, a place where spirits roam free and turn perfectly normal human beings into urban
legends. She much prefers it when people refer to it as Mount Washington, if they have to talk
about it. It sounds a little more normal, more mundane, and manageable. It feels like a completely
different place.

Mount Washington.

She remembers everything about it. The cold, crisp mountain air, the feeling of seclusion, of
complete isolation. The howling of the wind blowing through the snow-covered trees at night, the
crackling of a warm fireplace, and the taste of hot chocolate after playing outside for hours... It
used to be such a wonderful memory.

It used to be her happy place.

Much like the spirit of the Wendigo, Blackwood Mountain had possessed her beloved Mount
Washington. Twisted it and corrupted it and turned it into a nightmarish version of itself.

"Did you know... what he was going to do?" Sam whispers, not sure whether she's asking Dr. Hill
or herself.

"Pardon?"

She looks at him, hands clenched tightly at her sides. She doesn't want to talk about it, but she has
to know. She needs to know. She needs to feel closer to Josh - the broken Josh - to understand why
he did what he did. Why he pulled such a horrible, traumatizing stunt with them. Why he did what
he did. Why - instead of opening up about his problems - he chose to punish them instead.

Punish her.

Why did he target her? What did she do? Was it because she let him down the year before, with
Hannah? Did he want revenge because Sam failed to keep her from running off that night? Because
instead of going to find her, she should've stayed put outside the bedroom door to intercept her best
friend and stop her from going inside? Stop everything from spiraling out of control? Because if she
did manage to stop Hannah, Beth would've never gone after her and ended up dying in the mines?
They would've finished their vacation, gone home, and everyone would still be safe and alive.

She could have stopped it all. Is that why he did it? Is that why he hated her so much? Because
she's the reason why his sisters died? Because she failed them all?

I already knew that, Josh, she thinks to herself, the familiar sense of blame and helplessness
threatening to choke her. I already knew I messed up, and I'm still punishing myself for it every
single day.

"Samantha?" Dr. Hill raises an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to continue.

And she does.

"Did you know about his plan? Before the... before everything?" She remembers the text
messages, the mentioning of an e-mail from Josh where he let Dr. Hill in on his plan, but how old
was that e-mail? When did he send it? Before he left for the mountain, or after? If it was before,
why didn't the doctor do anything to prevent it? Even if it was after, he still could have done
something. He could have alerted someone, tried to stop Josh before he could go through with it.

He could have done something!

"I did know... some of it," Dr. Hill finally admits, folding his hands together and studying his
thumbs before continuing. "I knew he was planning something, some sort of... childish revenge
scheme, but I didn't know the extent of it. Not until I received the e-mail you mentioned in one of
our earlier sessions. In fact, I do believe that was the first time a patient has ever struck me."

Wait, what? Did she hit him? No, she didn't... wait. Oh. Yes.

She did do that.

"Even if you didn't know everything, why didn't you tell someone? Why didn't you warn anyone?
His parents? Hell, you could've given us a little head's up about how maybe going to some
secluded mountain in the middle of bumfuck nowhere with someone who wanted to hurt us wasn't
the best freaking idea in the entire world, and yet you did nothing! You just sat there with your
thumbs up your ass, and we went through hell because of it! Josh is dead because of it!"

She doesn't even register that she's standing up before she's charging at his desk, slamming her
palms down onto it with enough force to cause what probably looks like complete and utter
mayhem in his eyes, meaning she manages to send exactly three of his pencils clattering to the
floor.

Well. That just won't do.

"Why the fuck didn't you do anything to help us?!" Sam swipes her arm across the polished marble
surface, effectively sending his coffee mug flying. It hits the wall with a sharp crack but doesn't
break.

Oh, great. She can't even throw a violent tantrum properly.

Dr. Hill sighs and starts tidying up his desk, a slight frown creasing the corners of his mouth. He
doesn't say anything for a while until everything is back in order as if her previous fit never even
took place, and that annoys her.
"I think we need to reschedule, Samantha. You are clearly in no state of mind to properly continue
this session, and I have no desire to see my entire office destroyed on a childish whim if you don't
mind. Now, I'm going to give you a temporary prescription for Zopiclone. Normally I would advise
against it, but in this case, I think we need to make an exception. I want you to take one right before
bed, and should you experience any..."

Oh, hey. Whaddaya know. Turns out if I want to end the session early, all I have to do is fail to
break a damn coffee mug. Noted.

"Yeah, yeah, I already know this part. It's not exactly my first time," Sam mumbles and accepts the
piece of paper he offers her. Usually, she would keep pressing the issue, but right now she really
just wants to go home and stop existing for several hours.

At least she knows how to leave early now, just threaten the safety of his beloved office and he'll
throw her head over ass out of there.

Good to know. God... I need some serious sedatives right now, she thinks and cradles her head in
her hands. Her migraine is killing her, there's a painful tension in her neck and a strange humming
in her ears that she can't seem to get rid of. It sounds oddly familiar, but she's too busy keeping her
head from exploding to pay much attention to it.

"I do believe your phone is ringing," Dr. Hill notes after several seconds of watching her cover her
ears on and off, stretching her neck and turning her head from side to side like a confused owl.

"Wha... oh," she says, feeling exceptionally unintelligent. So that's why it sounded so freaking
familiar.

She yanks her phone up from the pocket of her leather jacket, expecting her mother's picture to
flash across the screen. How did she know they were finishing up early?

"I swear, it's like she's got freaking surveillance cameras on..." Her voice trails off, eyes staring
down at her phone. It doesn't register with her at first, but then it hits her all at once. She drops the
device on the floor, the screen still flashing and blinking towards her, demanding her attention.

It's not real. It's not real. It's just my head playing tricks on me.

There's just no way.

She tries to swallow the lump in her throat, but her mouth is dry. Her skin is prickling, feeling too
cold and too hot all at once, and it seems like all the air has been sucked from the room. Her
fingernails are cutting into her flesh, opening old scars, and creating deeper ones, but she doesn't
even register the blood dripping down her clenched fists and onto the floor.

She's entirely too focused on the name flashing in front of her eyes.

It can't be real.

But it is.

Joshua Washington is calling.

Chapter End Notes

all the time I sit and try

you think I'd be tired

every night I'm sick

but why

I'm staying up this time

how can I sleep if I don't have dreams

I just have nightmares

how can it be that I still believe

something is out there

 Sleep

I need some sleep

I can't go on like this

tried counting sheep

but there's one I always miss

everyone says

I'm getting down too low

everyone says

'you just gotta let it go'

you just gotta let it go

you just gotta let it go

I need some sleep

time to put the old horse down

I'm in too deep

and the wheels keep spinning 'round

everyone says

I'm getting down too low

everyone says '

you just gotta let it go'

you just gotta let it go

you just gotta let it go

you just gotta let it go

 Let Me Down
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that? If I didn't know any better I'd think I just heard you say
something incredibly stupid! But hey, that's probably just my brain blocking my ears, right?" Mike
looks at her, disbelief painted clearly across his handsome face. Sam bites her lip and averts her
eyes, turning her phone nervously in her hands.

"I know, Mike," she says pleadingly. "Trust me, I know, but... you saw it, right? The log? You saw
it! I didn't imagine it, right? I mean, how would that even be possible when it's right freaking
here, Michael? What if he's..."

"He's dead, Sam," Mike replies quietly. His voice is gentle, but his words still cut like a knife.
"Listen. I know you don't want to believe it, and I get that it's a messed up thing to accept, but you
have to move on, okay?" He puts his hands on her shoulders, shaking her slightly. "Come on, girl. I
know you're smarter than this. It's probably just a fluke. A glitch in the Matrix, right? I mean, we
blew the entire damn thing to smithereens, everything went boom. Right?" His eyes are begging for
her to agree with him, to see reason.

Begging her to just listen to him.

But she can't.

She knows what she saw. Josh had called her. He called her, and that wasn't her imagination
playing a nasty trick on her. It wasn't a technical glitch or wishful thinking. It was his
number, his name on her screen.

He called her.

"It probably just... fucked his phone up, somehow, or... or... God, I dunno, I'm not a tech wizard. I
mean, with this face?" Mike points at himself, tilting his head up to show off his sculpted bone
structure. "I can't be both smart and pretty, mkay? Them's the rules."

Sam smiles, despite herself. Mike isn't a moron, and he knows that. She knows he's just trying to
lighten the mood, and while she desperately wants him to agree with her, she also knows there's no
way in Hell he'd ever let her put herself in danger over something so vague, even if the proof had
been more substantial. Mike wasn't like that. He was protective, almost to a fault at this point, and
really. Did she ever honestly expect him for one fraction of a second to actually... what, just allow
her to go on a freaking suicide mission over something that could just have been a technical glitch?

"Even if that's true," Sam begins, and his eyebrows already knit together disapprovingly. "Even if
that's true," she repeats, giving him a look that clearly expresses how much she does not want to be
interrupted by his logic right now, even if it does sound more reasonable than her receiving a phone
call from a dead person.

And besides, when was love ever logical, anyway?

"Why now? If his phone did get all jigged up in the blast, why did it take this long to malfunction?
It's been months, Mike, why didn't it happen sooner? And why did he... why did I get the call?"
Sam shakes her head at him, demanding an explanation. "It could've been any of us, even his
parents. Or Dr. Hill. He didn't have many contacts on his phone list besides us, but still. Why didn't
it happen to Chris? Or Ash? It could've been Emily, Jess, or you. Even Matt. Why did it happen
to me?"

"Did you call back?" Mike asks her, avoiding her questions with one of his own. His voice is kept
carefully even and non-accusatory because he doesn't want to upset her, and she knows that. He's
not the insensitive asshole he used to be before everything happened. Hell, she wouldn't even have
recognized him if she didn't know exactly how much a person could change from traumatic
experiences.

She used to be different, too.

She used to be kinder, softer. She used to be the peace negotiator, the mediator in every conflict,
and - at times - the only one that seemed to have all of her shit together constantly.

Not anymore, though. Nope.

Now she's just one tiny, broken mess of a person, someone who hallucinates her dead crush ripping
her mother's flesh open with his claws and tearing into her like a starving wolf.

But is he really dead, though? Really dead?

Did Mike even see him die? Had he ever told her specifically that he did? Did he tell her back on
the mountain? She pinches her eyes shut and tries to remember exactly what he had told her when
they met at the cabin after escaping the mines. She asked him about Josh when they entered the
building, and he said something that devastated her, but had he specifically told her Josh was dead?

What did he say... what...

Remember, damn you, she demands and feels the familiar throbbing of a migraine starting to
emerge, but she pushes past it. She has to remember, really remember. She has to remember
exactly what Mike told her, and whether or not he ever brought up the subject again after they left
the hellish mountain. She has to know, needs to know whether or not he actually confirmed that the
boy she loved met his horrible demise down in those godforsaken mines.

Cold. Wet. Her clothes are soaked from the icy water and she's shivering so bad she can barely
move, but she has to. They're following her, she can hear them moving through the forest at
inhuman speeds, screeching and cooing at each other.

Looking for her. Hunting her.

There are so many obstacles in her path, almost as if someone or something wants her to fail,
wants her to crash into a tree trunk, or slam her face on a branch. She gives herself simple
instructions to follow as she rushes towards the cabin, her tiny headlight doing a very poor job at
fighting the darkness around her. She's running on pure adrenalin, the will to survive pushing her
forward even though her body feels like it's going to collapse in on itself.

Duck. Jump. Left. Left. Right. Left. Don't fall. Don't trip. Duck. Jump. Jump! So close. Come
on, Sam, you're so close. The cabin is right there. Come on. Come on!

She's exhausted and frozen, and every time she hears that god-awful sound anywhere close to her
she can feel those sharp razor teeth brushing against her throat. Every snap of a branch, every
rustle of leaves signals her impending death but the cabin is right there and she breathes out a
short sigh of relief, but it soon gives way for desperation.
The doors are locked. The doors are locked!

No. No. Nononono! Please!

"Hey! Hey! Come on, open up!" She's banging her fists against the glass window, her voice
cracking with urgency. "Guys! Come on! Are you there?! Let me in!"

Oh, God. Oh, God. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die.

"Sam."

She jumps ten feet into the air and spins around, letting out a startled "huff!" as she prepares to
meet her doom, almost expecting a Wendigo to stand there in front of her, mimicking the voice of
her friend to lure her into a false sense of security before it rips into her. She pictures herself
hanging upside down in the mines, head missing and dark, red blood dripping from her neck...

But it's not her doom coming to decapitate her. It's Mike. It's Mike! ...Is it Mike? He doesn't look
well. He's bruised and bloody and broken, and his eyes look dull and lifeless like a zombie, but at
least he's not a Wendigo. Of course, unless they somehow managed to figure out how to shapeshift
as well as mimic voices now. In that case, she'd be one hundred and fifty-five percent fucked.

"Shit... Mike? Oh, gosh, you look terrible." Good grief, Sam. Of course, he looks freaking
terrible! Even Michael Munroe is capable of looking like shit, you know, and you probably don't
look much better yourself!

"Yeah," he replies tiredly. "I'll look even worse if we stay out here." He peers over his shoulder,
eyes alert and serious as he scans the forest for incoming threats before turning back to her.
"Come on."

Right. Yes. Survival. Good thinking. Sam nods and grabs a fist-sized rock from the ground. Now
that Mike's here, her brain seems to function a little bit better. Safety in numbers, and all that.
Funny how not running on pure survival mode helps her actually survive.

How ironic.

She smashes the window and reaches in to unlock the door, ignoring the stray shard of glass
cutting into her forearm. Her hand is shaking like crazy and her fingers are completely numb from
the cold, but thankfully she finds the handle quickly and turns the lock. The door swings open and
they rush inside before Mike yanks it shut behind them.

"Okay..." Sam mutters, looking around the empty cabin. There's nobody around, and she can only
hope they're all safe and sound somewhere else. Speaking of safe and sound...

Oh, God. Mike. Mike came alone. Mike came alone and Josh isn't with him.

Josh isn't with him!

"Mike... Mike, what happened to Josh?" she asks quietly, fingernails digging tiny craters into her
palms. She doesn't want to know the answer, but she has to. Maybe he's hiding out somewhere,
maybe he went into his head again and Mike stashed him somewhere safe, and maybe...

"It got him."

No. No. No. No. No. Nonononono! Oh, God, no...

Her brain refuses to believe him, completely shutting down at those horrible, horrible words. My
fault, she thinks as the reality finally hits her, the gravity of what he's just told her. It's my fault.
My fault Josh is dead. It's my fault. I left him. I left him! God, no... please... She can feel herself
falling apart on the inside, but she has to say something. She has to say something but she's
completely forgotten how to speak and her head isn't working and oh my God Josh is dead.

Josh is dead.

"God... What an... awful way to go," she finally manages to say, flipping the light switch without
even thinking or caring about the consequences. She can't bring herself to care about anything
anymore, her body running purely on autopilot. She knows this is no time to break down, but the
boy she loves is gone and she has no idea how to make herself work properly again.

I've lost them. I've lost them all.

Hannah. Beth.

... Josh. Oh my God. Josh. Josh is dead. Josh is dead. Josh is DEAD!

Mike reaches over and flicks it again, turning the lights off immediately. He shakes his head gently
at her. "Not good," he says softly. She nods, but her mind is dazed.

Her body feels sluggish and weird, and she can't feel anything anymore.

"Sam?" Mike's voice pulls her back to reality, and she looks up at him. "Are you okay? You
checked out again. Where'd you go?"

She doesn't reply, not immediately. She needs to collect her thoughts a little. Back at the cabin,
Mike didn't say Josh died. He said the Wendigo got him. It was Sam who assumed he meant Josh
was dead.

Oh, God...

"Hey, Mike?" She bites her lip and looks at him, worry and anticipation churning around her
stomach. "Did you... actually, see Josh die? I mean, did it..." Sam swallows hard, forcing herself to
finish the sentence even though she's terrified to hear the answer. "Did the... the Wendigo... did you
see it... kill him? Like, really see it, totally definitely one hundred percent? Did it..."

"Her," he says quietly.

"What?" She frowns at him, not quite understanding what he's talking about.

"Not it. Her, Sam. It was... it was Hannah. Josh recognized her. It was probably her the first time,
too, y'know... in the shed."

"Hannah..."

And the hits just keep on comin', don't they?

"What?" Sam says for the second time. "Wait, so, if Hannah did take him the first time, she left
him alive. She left him alive. But they don't do that, do they? Keep people alive? They didn't seem
to care much about that when they were hunting us all, Michael! I mean, what about that guy with
the flamethrower? Chris said they just... just freaking chopped his head off on the spot!"
"Okay... Yeah, okay, and?"

"And," she repeats, anger and dread threatening to choke her before she can get the words out.
"That means Hannah could have left him alive again the second time! You said she got him. I
thought you meant he died! And you just meant... you just meant that she took him away again? He
could've been alive when we left that damn mountain for all we know! We abandoned him!
Again!"

Mike looks at her with resolve, obviously doing his very best to stay calm. "Going back down there
again would have been suicide. You know that as well as I do. And for all I knew, she was only
keeping him alive as bait. Or a midnight snack pack!" He runs his hand nervously through his hair
and sighs. "I couldn't risk it, okay? I'm sorry, Sam."

Josh could've been here. Josh could've been safe. Mike left him to die and he didn't tell me. He left
him to die again. Just like he did in the shed. Hell, he didn't even go back down to the mines to get
him, he just went for the goddamn keys, didn't he?

"You would've gone back for Jessica," she says coldly. He doesn't reply, but the look in his eyes
answers the question for him. Yes, yes he would have. He would have gone back for Jess. Hell, he
would've gone back there for Sam, too, or even Emily! Didn't he drop everything and rush to her
aid when she came running down from the mountain in a panic, screaming like a banshee? He
would've come for Emily fucking Davis, the worst human being to ever curse their little group of
misfits.

But not for Josh.

Never Josh.

"Did you leave him on purpose so you could get out alive?" The question leaves her lips before she
can stop it, and part of her doesn't even want to. She wants him to be honest with her. She wants
him to make her understand why he did what he did. Mike wasn't a coward by anyone's standards,
but he never liked Josh. Not really. He tolerated him well enough, but he never liked him.

And as far as she remembers, the feeling was mutual.

"Wha..." He just stares at her, incredulous. "Sam. Come on. Do you really think I'd do that?
Seriously?"

He sounds hurt. He looks hurt, too. She doesn't want to hurt him. God, he's the only one who's
stood by her through it all, the only person who came to Josh's funeral with her, the only person
she can really talk to about everything that happened to them. Ashley is too broken, and Chris is
still too wrapped up in his own guilt to function properly. Emily... no. Just no. And Matt and
Jessica have each other now.

It's just Mike.

"Sam, do you really think I'm that kind of person?" he asks again, capturing her face in his hands
and forcing her gently to look him in the eyes. "Answer me honestly, okay? Do you really think I'd
sacrifice him like that just so I could save my own ass? I mean, yeah, sure, I wanted to beat the shit
out of him for what he did to us, and yeah, sure. At the time I thought he was at least partially
responsible for what happened to Jess, but come on. Seriously?"

"Did you at least try to save him?" she whispers, the burning rage already seeping out of her. She
feels so empty in its absence, and when he clenches his jaws and averts his eyes shamefully, she
 finally cracks. Her body collapses in on itself, violent sobs ripping through her to the point where
she feels like every bone in her body is breaking from the sheer force of it. Mike wraps his arms
around her, whispering "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," as he strokes her hair and presses his lips
to her temple, repeating the same words again and again in a broken voice, rocking her gently from
side to side like a toddler.

"I'm sorry, Sam, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

That does it for her. That's the last straw. Maybe Mike didn't mean to let her down, but he did.
He did. And now Josh is lost to her.

But not for long.

If he's alive, there's no way she's going to abandon him ever again. She's going to save him. She's
going to save that beautiful, broken boy and bring him back home if it's the last thing she'll ever do.
Even if it kills her.

And it just actually might.

Because that's when she decides to go back. That's when she decides to leave everything and
everyone behind and actually do something good with her miserable existence. She is going to
confront her nightmares head-on, seek out the ghosts from her past, and finally do something useful
instead of cowering in the shadows of that cursed place.

She is going.

Back to Blackwood fucking Mountain.

Chapter End Notes

this night is cold in the kingdom

I can feel you fade away

from the kitchen to the bathroom sink and

your steps keep me awake

don't cut me down, throw me out, leave me here to waste

I once was a man with dignity and grace

now I'm slipping through the cracks of your cold embrace

so please, please

could you find a way to let me down slowly?

a little sympathy, I hope you can show me

if you wanna go then I'll be so lonely

if you're leaving
baby

let me down slowly

 Stay Away
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"Well, hello, friends and fans... alright. Let's do that again..."

Sam stares down at her phone, an overwhelming sense of dèjà vu washing over her as Josh's old
video invite plays on her screen. She's tried to delete it so many times but always stops short of
actually doing it. Watching it now, feeling the movement of the train as it brings her closer and
closer to the place of nightmares, she can't help but feel nostalgic and even a little hopeful.

"Alright.... well. Hello, friends and fans. It's beyond awesome to have you guys all back this year.
Um... first off, I gotta say I am super excited to welcome all my pals back to the annual Blackwood
winter getaway. Yaaah!"

"God, Josh..." Sam mumbles as she watches him throw his hands up in mock excitement followed
by a goofy chuckle. "You're such a dork."

"So, uhm, let me just let you know, uh... let's take a moment... to... address the elephant in the
room... for a second..."

She should have noticed. She should have known something was up. He didn't look right, and she
should've known. How could she have called herself his best friend when she didn't even pick up
on something so obvious? Sure, she did feel like something was slightly off about the way his
voice changed, about the faraway look in his eyes and the way his speech pattern seemed to
deteriorate, but she just shrugged it off, convincing herself it was just a normal reaction to the
sadness they all still felt.

What an idiot she was.

"I know... you're all probably worried about me, and..."

"No shit, Washington!" Sam hisses through her teeth, attracting the attention of the older
gentleman sitting across from her. His eyes slide over the edge of the newspaper for a brief
moment, watching her with mild concern before they return to whatever article he was previously
reading.

No shit we were worried, you asshole! she thinks angrily, wanting nothing more than to dive
through the screen and shake him violently. Of course, we were fucking worried! You went
completely MIA for two months and then all of a sudden you're inviting us back to that place like
nothing ever happened? Like everything was totally fine! I should have known something was
wrong back then. I should've kicked your freaking door down and demanded an explanation. Why
would you want to go back there after what happened to Hannah and Beth? After everything you
went through, why would you do that to yourself, Josh? Why?

God, why didn't I see it back then!

She's angry. So angry. She wants to break her phone into a million pieces and scream until her
lungs give out, but what good would that do? She'd only lose her phone - her one connection to the
outside world - and probably end up in a loony bin on top of everything else. Wait, did they
even have a funny farm up here anymore? Not like they could shove her in ye olde Sanatorium or
something, right?

... Wait. Shit, they probably could.

"... and I know it's gonna be tough on all of us going back after... what happened last year, but..."

His eyes. She should have seen it. She should have known he wasn't in his right mind just from
looking into his eyes at that moment. The way they just stared into the camera, through it, into her
very soul... but they didn't look right. They didn't look right at all. There was a darkness in them,
something deep and dark and cold. Looking into them now, she can easily recognize them as the
eyes of someone on the brink of insanity.

Josh was breaking. He was breaking right in front of her and she was powerless to do anything
about it.

But not for long.

"I just want you all to know... um... it means... it means so much to me that we're doing this, and
that... I know it would mean so much to Hannah and Beth that we-we're all still here together,
and... thinking of them. I really wanna spend some quality time with e-e-each and every one of you,
and, um... just share some moments that... we'll never forget. For... for the sake of my sisters.
And... y'know... okay."

The signs were all there. Hadn't she seen it? Didn't she know the signs? Yes. Yes, she did. She'd
been there during some of his breakdowns, she knew the signs. The stuttering, the halting speech
pattern, the strange, almost jerky movements of his head, that look in his eyes...

Was I just ignoring it? Denying it? Did I just fool myself into believing he was okay because I
wanted him to be? Was I really that blind?

"So!"

His voice startles her, and she almost drops her phone. The cord to her earbuds saves it, thankfully,
though one of the buds is painfully ripped from her right ear. She picks it back up, halfway
registering that her antics have once again drawn the attention of the older man with the
newspaper. She meets his eyes this time, hazel against cobalt, and neither one of them says
anything for what feels like a small lifetime. The man eventually shrugs and returns to his reading
as Sam pulls her feet up in front of her, partially shielding her from his curious stare.

"Let's... party like we're fucking porn stars, okay? Make this one trip we will never forget,
alright? Yes!"

The video ends with him once again throwing his hands into the air, all traces of instability gone.
The way he just switched like that, how could she not have noticed before? Or maybe
she did notice but chose to ignore it because she was stupid and naive and wanted him to be okay
so desperately it made her willfully blind to all the warning signs.

Whatever the reason, someone should travel back in time and slap her with a hammer.

The older man puts his newspaper away and starts collecting his things, obviously getting ready to
leave the train at the next station. Thank God, Sam thinks, feeling almost ridiculously relieved. The
way he kept staring at her was starting to get on her nerves, and she didn't generally appreciate
having strange people all up in her business.
"Should be careful," the man mutters as he grabs his suitcase and stands up from his seat. The train
is slowing down, and Sam recognizes the train stop. It's the last one before Blackwood, and her
stomach tightens uncomfortably.

Jesus Christ, what am I doing?! This is crazy!

She doesn't even register the words being directed at her before the older man leans in, staring at
her with startling intensity. His eyes are almost impossibly blue, and the color stands out against
his weathered, tanned skin like a neon sign on a dark night. It looks almost unnatural, and she
shudders as her entire body is covered in goosebumps.

"Should be careful, girl," the man repeats, his breath smelling of old pipe tobacco. "That mountain
is cursed. Bad things happen there. Better turn back while you can."

"Wha..."

He straightens, and a flicker of concern ignites in those oddly bright eyes.

"Shouldn't go back there. Bad place. Cursed place. Careful, girl, or it'll eat you right up." He smiles
briefly, showing off a grand total of six remaining teeth, and she can't help but compare him to the
odd flamethrower guy from before. They share a lot of the same features, and for a moment she
almost wants to ask him whether or not he knows anything about the old Cree legends. He sure
sounds like he does, but then again, he could also just be your ordinary run-of-the-mill lunatic.

An eccentric, lonely old man amusing himself by scaring local teens and outsiders alike.

Yeah, that's gotta be it. He's just jerking my chain. Trying to scare me. He could probably tell I'm
on edge as it is and wants something to laugh at later. That's all it is. That's all.

The man lifts his arms and pulls something from around his neck; a simple metal disk hanging
from an old leather cord. She hears it clink softly as it hits the table in front of her, face up. There's
something etched into it, some kind of crude carving she can't quite make out. She looks up at him,
brows furrowed in confusion, but the words are stuck in her throat.

"Arrows, girl. Protect you from the Evil." He nods solemnly at her before heading towards the
exit, throwing her one last long look as he walks out onto the platform. She can still feel his eyes -
those startling, unsettling eyes - on her as the train leaves the station behind, and she wraps her coat
tighter around her shivering frame. The odd pendant is still lying on the table, and after staring at it
skeptically for a few minutes she finally picks it up, turning it tentatively around in her hands. The
metal still feels warm, its surface smooth, and polished.

"Crazy old coot," she mumbles to herself, trying to shake the feeling of dread his words have
awoken in her. Sure, he seemed mad as a loon, but still. There was something in his voice,
something in his eyes. He seemed genuinely concerned for her, and maybe... just maybe...

Maybe he wasn't so crazy after all.

"Arrows, huh..." She looks closer at the symbols decorating the small, round disk. Yeah, yep.
Those are arrows, alright. They look about as masterful and polished as the stickmen she drew in
kindergarten, though the shapes are undoubtedly arrows, two of them to be exact. Strange, and kind
of cool, but what did he want her to do with it, exactly? Throw it at the big bad Wendigos?
Brandish it in their faces like a priest warding off the demons with his little cross whilst shouting
obscure Latin phrases at them?

Yeah, right.
Sam almost bursts out laughing at the mere absurdity of that scenario. Did he seriously expect her
to fight off those living nightmares with nothing but this tiny, flimsy little object? She could try
swinging it at them, but that'd probably just piss them off. Or maybe they were like sharks. Give
them a good whack on the nose with the thing and they'd run for the hills.

Well. That'd be pretty useful, not to mention hilarious.

Hey, Sam, how'd you survive up there all alone with the Wendigos? Sam thinks to herself,
mimicking Mike's voice in her head.

Oh, y'know. Just booped them on the snoot with this little trinket I got from some crazy old train
guy. As one does. Maybe I'll try it and see what happens. Chances are I'll be eaten anyway, tiny
talisman or no. I honestly don't see how it'd make much of a difference, but I guess it can't
hurt. She shrugs and lifts the cord over her head, feeling the weight of the metal disk against her
chest.

Maybe it's just pure delusion, but she does feel a little bit safer. Calmer.

"Don't underestimate the power of placebo, Sammy-girl," she mumbles to herself as she sits back in
her seat and rests her head against the window. The coolness of the glass feels good against her
skin, and the familiar landscape still awakens pleasant memories in her, despite everything. How
many times had she done this? Watched the lakes, mountains and waterfalls drift by, just marveled
over the natural beauty of it all?

"Did you see this view? I mean, holy cow. Sometimes I forget to just... stop and take it all in."

Her own words echo in her mind, sounding almost foreign to her now. How long has it been since
she did that? How long has it been since she was able to see the beauty in anything? She used to do
that all the time, before. Nature, wildlife, oceans, and rivers. Mountains. Valleys. Sunsets and
sunrises, the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the morning. Sitting on her windowsill with her
favorite oversized sweater keeping her warm and cozy as she just sat there and allowed her mind to
drift with the sound of birds chirping happily outside...

It all used to be so beautiful and amazing, but ever since she lost Josh, nothing really seems to
make an impression on her anymore. She doesn't notice things the way she used to, and the thought
fills her with a hollow emptiness so potent it feels like a punch in the gut.

It's as if Josh took all the colors and beauty with him when he died.

No. Not died. Disappeared. He's not gone. I refuse to believe that now. I won't fail him again,
I won't.

Sam is going to save him. She's going to find him and bring him home, once and for all, and neither
one of them would ever even think of putting as much as one freaking toe anywhere near this
cursed place again. Ever.

"Typical Bob Washington," she says to nobody in particular. Really, she just feels like bitching
about the guy and she doesn't give one single flat fuck who hears her.

"Of course, he'd build one of his fancy getaway spots on the one mountain he's told to stay away
from. Pride certainly does lead to downfall, and now all of his children are paying the price while
he sits there all cozied up in his big, fancy mansion..."

They should've been together now, riding a different train to a different lodge on top of a different
mountain, laughing and goofing around.

Hannah should've been curled up against the window buried in a book, stealing shy glances at
Mike whenever she thought he wouldn't catch her, and Beth should be riding her skateboard up and
down the train cart without a care in the world, driving the other passengers mental. Chris and
Ashley should be hiding away in a corner somewhere, playing one of their weird little nerd games
and making googly eyes at each other, and Emily... well. Who knew what Emily did, she never
traveled with them. Trains were beneath her, she always said.

Nobody fought too hard to change her mind, though.

Matt should be somewhere around the food cart, tossing a ball around with one hand and
consuming the biggest burger imaginable with the other, and Jessica would either be shaking it up
with the latest hit or trying to talk Beth into letting her do a make-over on her.

"You could be so pretty!" she'd say, wielding her mascara like a weapon at the younger brunette.
Beth, on the other hand, had no interest whatsoever in make-up and fashion. All she wanted to do
was ride her board and wear her precious beanie like it was physically attached to her head. For all
Sam knew, it actually was. She'd never seen her without it, despite having spent countless nights
over at their house.

"Nooo, thank you, Princess Peach! I'm staying the way my mama made me!" Beth would shoot
back before mounting her board and making her escape, Jessica hot on her heels. And Josh?

And Josh... Josh should've been there sitting right next to Sam, way too close but still not close
enough, making those stupid jokes she secretly found hilarious and giving her tiny heart attacks
every time his arm brushed against hers. He should've been there, alive and safe, looking at her
with those enormous green eyes and smiling that slow, enigmatic Joshua Washington smile, and
everything would be right with the world.

Except that it isn't.

That's not her life anymore. Hannah and Beth are gone, that's a fact. Emily found Beth's decaying
head down in the mines, and Sam found Hannah's diary when she was with Mike. They both
learned the gruesome truth down there, together.

The horrible, tragic fate of the Washington twins.

Hannah... God, Hannah... You must've been so scared... Sam closes her eyes, remembering all too
vividly the sound of her best friend's voice mixed in with the horrible screech of the Wendigo.
Those awful, heart-wrenching cries...

Was there anything left of her at all? Surely there must have been. She didn't kill Josh, not like the
others, and even though everything happened so quickly during those last horrifying moments in
the cabin...

Sam could've sworn Hannah saved her life.

"God..." She finds herself clutching the tiny metal disk in her hand as if it can somehow reverse
everything that happened to them. What good was this stupid little trinket anyway, if it couldn't
bring her best friends back? What was the point of having a freaky encounter with some partially
toothless stranger if it didn't lead her anywhere? What was the purpose of her carrying this old
piece of junk around if it didn't have some kind of mystical ability?

"What good are you, you useless little object?" Sam yanks the cord from her neck and looks at it,
 crushing it in her fist. The edge of the disk presses hard into her palm, slightly mimicking the
familiar sting of her fingernails, and the overwhelming rage slowly seeps back out of her, leaving
her feeling hollow and exhausted.

Maybe it isn't magical at all.

Maybe he was just trying to keep her safe in his own strange way. Maybe it wasn't anything more
than a present, a token of kindness from a complete stranger. She's still wary of him even now, but
he didn't harm her. She has no real reason to distrust him, just like he had no reason to hurt her.

He didn't even really scare her, thinking back on it.

She already knew the mountain was cursed. Maybe he picked up on it, somehow, and wanted to
help her. Maybe that's all it was. Just a gesture. Old people were kooky like that, weren't they?

Or maybe he knew more. Maybe he knew exactly why she was there. Maybe he knew exactly who
she was and what she was going to do. Maybe he wanted to offer her comfort or protection and
didn't know how, besides giving her some weird little trinket. He did look like he could've been
Native American, though, just like the flamethrower guy. It's not completely impossible that they
might even be related, and God knows he certainly felt like he was perfectly aware of the legends
surrounding this place.

The train is slowing to a stop, and a chilling sense of foreboding creeps into her very core as the
shadow of Blackwood Mountain stretches across the platform, blocking out even the tiniest bit of
sunshine. Sam shivers, almost subconsciously placing the pendant back around her neck. It feels a
tiny bit better as she clutches the disk in her hand, and she decides to trust it. Even if it's only her
imagination, it still makes her feel just a little bit less terrified.

But only just.

Chapter End Notes

this is wrong
I should be gone
yet here we lay

'cause I can't stay away

roses bloom
in your dirty room
I'm here to play

'cause I can't stay away

it's wrong, they say

but I can't stay away
night and day

I just can't stay away

I wish I could
leave and never return
baby

I know I should

but for you I'd burn

we get up
we go down
then we go one more round

it's wrong, they say

but I can't stay away

I can't stay away

 O'Death

o'Death

whoa, Death

o'Death

won't you spare me over 'til another year

well what is this that I can't see

with ice-cold hands taking hold of me

when God is gone and the Devil takes hold

who'll have mercy on my soul

o'Death

whoa, Death

won't you spare me over 'til another year

well I am Death, and none can tell

if I'll open the door to Heaven or Hell

no wealth, no land, no silver or gold

nothing satisfies me but your soul

o'Death, someone would pray

could you wait to call me another day

the children prayed, the preachers preach

time and mercy is all out of your reach

I'll fix your feet so you can't walk

 I'll lock your jaw so you can't talk

I'll close your eyes so you can't see

this very hour come and go with me

o'Death, I come to take the soul

leave the body and leave it cold

to drop the flesh off of its frame

the earth and worms both have a claim

o'Death

whoa, Death

o'Death

won't you spare me over 'til another year

my mother came to my bed

placed a cold towel upon my head

my head is warm, my feet are cold

death is a-moving upon my soul

o'Death, how you're treating me

you closed my eyes so I can't see

you hurt my body, you turn it cold

you run my life right out of my soul

O'Death

whoa, Death

O'Death
won't you spare me over 'til another year

O'Death

my name is Death and your end

is

here
 Dear God
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Whoa. That's far. That's... yeah, yep. Uh-huh. That's really far.

The cold window glass presses hard against her forehead, cooling her down as she stares into the
abyss below her. The trees look tiny from up here, growing smaller still as the cable car takes her
further up the mountain.

There's no going back now.

Sam lets out a shaky breath, and the world outside is devoured by mist as it fogs the glass before
slowly retreating back towards her, allowing her to see everything clearly once again. Hannah used
to do this, sit here and breathe on the glass, drawing intricate patterns and writing quotes from her
favorite authors. She loved how the words stayed, even when you couldn't see them.

All you had to do was breathe.

It was like a secret messaging system, and they used it quite a lot during the years leading up to the
accident. At least, they did, before Josh caught on and decided to mess with them. He'd write
macabre quotes from his favorite horror movies, cryptic riddles, and crude jokes. Sometimes, when
his mind was acting up, he'd just ramble.

Strange, nonsensical messages nobody really understood but him.

Hannah was furious when she found out, but Sam never really minded. She loved reading his little
notes, especially those rare insights into the inner workings of his enigmatic mind, and, yes, okay -
maybe she kinda hoped he would write something special just for her. Maybe he even had, but she
didn't understand it.

Joshua Benjamin Washington was always such a giant mystery to her, and that was part of the
reason why she'd always been so incredibly drawn to him, even back when she was too young to
understand why.

Why she kept seeking him out.

Why her eyes always seemed to follow him wherever he went.

Why his smile had the power to turn her head to mush and her legs to jelly. But despite all of that,
it wasn't love at first sight.

Oh, no. When they met, Sam was still very much in her "all teenage boys are gross"-phase and Josh
was a prime example of the stereotypical dude bro-type she despised most of them all. What, with
his frat boy jokes, his goofy attitude, and his many, many short relationships, there really wasn't
much substance to the oldest Washington-sibling at all, which made it even more confusing when
Sam kept finding herself being drawn to him even back when he was just the world's biggest
cliche.

In all honesty, she couldn't stand the guy.

He was too available, too easy to get, and easier yet to lose. His girlfriends were pretty much the
human equivalent of underwear with every day of the week on them - Mandy, Tracy, and Wendy
became Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday - and this became a very popular inside joke between
Sam and Beth. Hannah would partake on occasion, but she was generally far too sweet and nice
about it.

Slowly but surely, though, the layers of shallow playboy started peeling away, and he became
something else.

Something more.

As she grew older, though, Sam started to realize just how beautifully complex his mind truly was.
She could listen to his theories and philosophies for hours, watching the world expand, evolve, and
change into something different, something strange and wonderful, and the nights they spent lying
outside on the front lawn, talking quietly and gazing at the stars after Hannah and Beth fell asleep
during their usual movie night... those were some of her most precious memories.

After a while, the Washington twins weren't the only reason she spent so many nights sleeping
over anymore.

Sam feels a smile creeping over her lips as she remembers how Josh started sending her nightly text
messages, asking whether or not she was awake, and her answer was always yes. Then he'd tell her
to come outside, and she always did. Sure, it severely affected her beauty sleep and might've
contributed to some massively impressive eye bags, but she didn't care. At the breakfast table she'd
sit across from him, exchanging knowing glances and secret smiles, his sisters none the wiser as
they fought over the last pancake.

He was so... different - so incredibly different from what she initially thought - and she knew she
was in trouble. The way he would look at her with those eyes, those impossibly large eyes, and feel
so far away yet so intimately close. That slow, unreadable smile that could mean anything, and
nothing, and everything in between...

"God, Josh," she whispers, pushing away from the glass. "Maybe if you weren't such a damn
paradox we'd actually be able to reach you before everything went to hell."

No. Enough with this "we"-bullshit, Samantha. Stop hiding behind everyone else and just be honest
with yourself for once, will you?

"Me," she corrects herself. "Maybe I'd be able to reach you before everything went so terribly
wrong."

The cable car jerks upwards in a sharp, staggering motion, pulling her momentarily out of her
reverie. She looks out the window, drawing a sharp breath when she sees how far she's gotten. It
won't be much longer, now. She can already see the platform stretching out across the
mountainside, ominously pulling her closer to the end of the line.

How appropriate, she thinks morbidly. End of the line. Last stop. Final destination. What kind of
certifiable nutcase thought this was a good idea again?

Oh, right.

It was me.

God. This really is a horrible, terrible, completely insane thing to do, isn't it? Yep. Yeah. Yes, it
definitely is. She doesn't even need another voice in her head to confirm the fact that she is one
hundred and fifty thousand percent nutso.
But that hardly matters anymore, does it? Maybe going a little insane is the only way to survive this
place, after all.

"Madness is nothing but a sane reaction to an insane reality, Sammy," Josh had told her once. She
didn't understand what he meant back then, but now she does. At least, she thinks she does. At least
to some degree, and that in itself is a frightening prospect.

"Great," she sighs, resting her head against the wall as the cable car starts slowing down. "Seems
like the only way for me to really get you, Josh, is to go completely batshit myself. Isn't that just
wonderful."

Honestly, though? He'd appreciate the ever-living crap out of that irony. Probably make some
stupid joke about the two of them running away together, living crazily ever after in their own little
bubble of insanity, and send her pulse skyrocketing with one of his cursed Joshua Washington-
smiles.

The cable car station is right up ahead now, and darkness swallows the car as it slides into the
platform before finally stopping. She reaches for the door opener, but before she even gets close
the doors open all by themselves, leaving her with intense feelings of dread and anticipation in the
pit of her stomach.

Well, that wasn't creepy at all, nope.

Not at all.

Except that it definitely one hundred percent was.

"What the hell..." She steps out of the cable car, eyebrows knitting together as she takes in the
complete and utter destruction that greets her like a twisted WELCOME BACK-sign.

Broken glass. Everywhere. It's like a tornado ripped through the cable car station, destroying
everything in its path. The forest around it looks completely untouched, but the station itself looks
like a war zone. The door has been torn off its hinges and flung to the side, and there are weird,
deep scratches etched into the door frames on each side, almost like...

"Claw marks," she whispers, shaky fingers tracing the splintered edges as her breath hitches in her
throat. Well, if there ever was a reason for her to turn tail and get as far away from this hellish
mountain as she possibly could, this would be it.

But she won't.

Tentatively she steps inside the building, her eyes actively searching for any potential threat before
moving forward. There are remnants of red paint on the walls, undoubtedly the threatening
messages left by Josh - or rather The Psycho - for Matt and Emily to freak out over. The
handwriting is definitely his, she recognizes it from all those years of reading his secret little
window messages.

Her foot connects with something on the floor, and she looks down, startled.

It's a bucket of paint, its contents splattered all across the floorboards. Whatever remained inside
the bucket has long since dried, and it's got a crusty paintbrush stuck to the side of it.

"What the..." She looks up at the wall, partially covered in relatively fresh white paint. There's a
step ladder pushed against it, flipped on its side. Someone clearly started painting over the words
here, but who? When? And what happened to them?
Come on, Sam. You saw the claw marks. What do you think happened, exactly? A Wendigo just
randomly decided to drop by for a quick coffee break and a nice chat before the next session
of murder and chill?

Even in her own head, the words sound almost too sarcastic to process.

She takes another look around, but nothing seems to really stand out to her besides the obvious
signs of a Wendigo attack. There's no blood, but that doesn't necessarily mean that whoever was
here before her is still around. After all, didn't Chris tell her that Wendigos usually kept their
victims alive before snacking on them?

Hannah was the exception.

It's been almost two years, but the loss of her best friend still hurts her beyond anything words can
express. The guilt is still crippling, and despite all the time and effort Mike spent trying to convince
her otherwise, she still feels directly responsible for everything that happened.

The prank might have been the catalyst, but Sam still could have prevented Hannah from walking
into that room. She could've walked in there herself and ruined their setup, she could've intercepted
Hannah at the door... but she didn't. Instead, she went looking for her, like a complete moron. The
cabin was huge, why did she ever think trying to hunt down her best friend was the better course of
action?

"Stop it, Sam," she berates herself before she can retreat back into her little shell of remorse and
self-pity. That's the last thing she needs right now, and if Josh really is alive, then it's the last
thing he needs, as well. Not to mention the fact that she's still a far way off from the guest cabin
where she's planning to stay, what with the lodge being burnt to a crisp and all that, and the longer
she stays out here - alone and unprotected - the more on edge she's going to be.

She exits the station and backtracks to get her stuff from the cable car, but the snapping of a branch
somewhere to her far-right makes her freeze like a deer in headlights. Her heart is pounding in her
ears, her nails have automatically sought refuge in the palm of her hands, and two single words are
screaming desperately in her mind:

Don't. Move.

Sam stands frozen, motionless, as the forest once again grows silent. It's still light out, but the
Wendigo is nothing like a vampire. They may prefer the cold, dank darkness of the caves and the
abandoned mines, but there's nothing stopping them from hunting during the day. They're weaker,
sure, but judging by their inhuman strength and impossible speed, she definitely wouldn't be
winning any wrestling matches with one of them any time soon.

Daylight or no, they're still much stronger and faster than any human, and lulling herself into a
false sense of security based on a few measly rays of sunshine would just be plain suicidal.

Five minutes pass. Then five more. Her joints are aching, her lungs are screaming with the need
for oxygen due to her chest barely moving to inhale, only surviving on the very bare minimum of
air, and her head is starting to grow fuzzy. She waits another minute before slowly taking a deep
breath, eyes never leaving the spot where she's certain the noise originated from. When nothing
jumps out at her to rip her apart, she finally relaxes her tense muscles and takes one single step
towards the cable car, ready to freeze at the slightest rustle of leaves.

Nothing happens. The forest is so quiet it's almost eerie, and only then does she realize how
completely unnatural that is. There are no birds chirping between the tree branches, no squirrels
 scurrying up the trunks. The silence is deafening, and it only serves to add more uneasiness.

As if she needed it.

Sam grabs her backpack from the cable car and resists the overwhelming urge to jump back inside
and slam the doors closed, to retreat back to the safety of civilization and just forget this insanity.
But she already knows there's no way she could ever possibly do that, not when Josh could be out
there somewhere, lost and alone. If he is, what must he think of her now? And if he's not...

No. No, she doesn't even want to consider the possibility that Mike could be right. Josh is still out
there. He's out there, and she's going to find him. She's going to find that twisted, broken, beautiful
boy and bring him home.

Anything else is unacceptable.

Hang on, Josh, she thinks resolutely as she begins the long trek to the guest cabin. She's grateful
that Mike pushed her to stay active and keep climbing even when all she wanted was to roll into a
ball and disappear under her blankets forever, otherwise she'd be so ridiculously out of shape and
completely unfit for this mad quest.

If you're still out there somewhere, I'll find you. And this time, I'm not leaving you. Never again.

With every step, her determination grows. Her jaw is set in a tight line, and there's a flicker of
something igniting in her chest. Something warm, something strong and fierce, something foreign
and yet so familiar.

Something she hasn't felt in a long, long time.

Hope.

Chapter End Notes

I won't believe in heaven or hell

no saints, no sinners

no devil as well

no pearly gates

no thorny crown

you're always letting us humans down

the wars you bring

the babes you drown

those lost at sea and never found

and it's the same the whole world 'round

the hurt I see helps to compound

the father, son and holy ghost

is just somebody's unholy hoax

and if you're up there you'll perceive

that my heart is here upon my sleeve

if there's one thing I don't believe in

it's you

dear god
 Lovely
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

It's easy to be brave when it's light outside.

It's easy to be hopeful when the sun is shining down at you through the leaves, and it's easy to feel
strong when you're at the very doorstep of your adventure, eager to get started.

Well...

It's not easy to be brave when the darkness surrounds you.

It's not easy to be hopeful when your path is swallowed up by the blackness, and it's not easy to feel
strong when you're dragging your feet through the snow, sweat pouring down your neck, and
turning into solid ice as the night air hits.

It's cold.

It's dark.

And Sam is utterly and completely lost.

She massively underestimated this hellish mountain, and she severely overestimated her own
capabilities. Her backpack feels like it weighs a ton, and the straps are digging into her shoulder
blades. Her shoes and socks are completely soaked, her ears are aching from the freezing night
air and she feels a gigantic migraine brewing directly behind her eyeballs, clawing and digging its
way through her skull.

Great.

"Where is that damn guest cabin!?" she hisses through clenched teeth as she climbs another slope,
her ragged breath clearly visible in front of her. She knows she must've taken a wrong turn
somewhere, but she also knows that's impossible. For one, the path to the cabin has always been
very well marked all the way from the lodge, and there's just no way in Hell she could ever miss
the trail. After all the long weekends, all the ski trips, and vacations she spent up here with the rest
of the gang, she could navigate this entire area in her sleep.

Somehow, this mountain is messing with her.

Okay, yeah. I get it. You're the boss, Blackwood. No one is arguing that, so step off your high hill
and give me a fucking break, will you? I'd really freakin' appreciate it. I'll leave you alone as soon
as I find Josh, trust me. I have no intention of ever setting as much as one toe on this land ever
again after this, okay? Just, please, for the love of all that is holy... please stop yanking my chain
and do me a solid, just this once. Considering the fact that you pretty much tried to kill me multiple
times already, I'd say you owe me at least that much. Sam pulls out the pendant with the arrows
carved into it and looks at the smooth metal disk for a few moments, considering the old man's
words.

He told her it was protection against evil, didn't he? Of course, calling a mountain 'evil' sounds
ridiculous even in her own head. Or, at least it would have if the mountain in question was literally
any other mountain.
But this isn't any other mountain.

This is Blackwood, and Blackwood does whatever the hell Blackwood damn well pleases, thank
you ever so much.

"Okay... time for some good old-fashioned guidance, methinks." Sam closes her eyes and holds the
pendant out in front of her, letting the arrows spin freely.

One... two... three... four... five... six...

There's the sound of rustling leaves a few feet away from her, but she forces herself to stay
completely motionless as the pendant settles down. If there's a Wendigo out there watching her, it
won't be able to spot her as long as she doesn't move. But can it hear her? Smell her? Will the
sound of her erratic heartbeats lead the monster right to her like an organic dinner bell?

At least that'll give me a chance to test out my "boop the snoot"-theory, she thinks drily and
finishes counting to ten before opening her eyes. The arrows are pointing north, like a compass,
and she shrugs. What on Earth could she have to lose at this point? She looks in the direction of the
sound she heard earlier, but it's quiet again. Carefully, so carefully, she crouches down and packs a
fistful of snow into a ball before taking aim slowly, all the while keeping a close watch for
anything larger than a rabbit.

Then she throws it into the forest.

It hits the trunk of a large tree and explodes into a shower of white powder, definitely loud enough
to attract the attention of whatever is lurking in the shadows.

If there's anything out there at all.

Please let it be a false alarm. Please please please just be a bird or a squirrel or a teensy tiny little
baby wolverine... Hell, I'll even take a freakin' wolf at this point, just, please... I'm cold and
exhausted and lost and I'm just so totally not in a good place to fight monsters right now!

But, of course, this is Blackwood.

And only the Devil is listening.

There's a blood-curdling shriek - so distinct and so unmistakable - and every ounce of liquid in her
body freezes solid. Every hair stands on end, and every instinct is screaming at her to run.

She's on the move before she can think of anything else. Before she can even think at all.
Everything around her blends together as she races against the unseen horror and the only thing she
can do is give herself simple orders to stay on course and hopefully keep her from completely
losing her shit.

Jump, Sam. Duck, Sam. Go left. Jump. Log. Tree.

Breathe. Go right.

Don't trip.

The Wendigo isn't hunting her, not yet, but she knows it's only a matter of time. Judging by the
sound, it's still a ways off from where she was standing just a few precious seconds ago, but those
things are fast. They are so damn fast and she's cold, hungry, and exhausted. The only thing
keeping her on her feet is her primal need to survive, but she knows that won't be enough to keep
her alive if the emaciated horror catches up to her.

Sam is running on pure instinct now, trying desperately to keep the arrows in mind as she zigzags
this way and that. Her heart feels like it's about to give in, and for one terrifying second, she's
convinced it's going to betray her. She needs to get somewhere else, somewhere safe, but there's
nowhere to go.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh, God.

I'm dead. I'm so dead.

Her feet pound against the ground, the heavy backpack slamming into her with every desperate
step. It knocks her off balance and sends her flying forward, arms flailing, and she can't keep
herself from letting out one single, startled cry when her boot is caught against the edge of a rock.
The world is a blur, and then there's just the darkness and a cold, wet sensation against her skin.

The world is quiet.

It's too quiet. Not a comforting silence, but a suffocating one. It's like the entire forest is holding its
breath, the calm before the storm, and she knows she has to move but her body won't listen. It just
lies there, motionless in the freezing snow, cold and wet as water begins to absorb into the fabric of
her clothing, and no matter how desperately she wills it to move, to get up, to do something - it just
won't listen.

She's paralyzed.

And soon she'll be dead.

Get up, Sam. Get up!

She's so tired, so impossibly tired, but she can't stop now. She didn't come all this way just to die
here, lost and alone in this unforgiving forest. Josh is still out there somewhere, and he's alone too.

She has to keep going.

For him.

For Josh.

Her fingers curl into the snow-covered ground as she forces herself to her feet, barely able to stay
upright while her legs wobble and shake beneath her, threatening to give in. Another shriek, closer
now. It's like a nightmarish wake-up call, and she's on the move again. Her limbs react before her
brain does, carrying her further into the forest with no real sense of direction.

Something moves in her peripheral vision, but it's gone before she can see it properly - just a blurry,
pale figure, too fast for her eyes to catch - but every now and then she gets a tiny glimpse of it, and
it feels like someone has replaced all the blood in her veins with liquid ice.

Those jerky, unnatural movements. The way it effortlessly scales the trees, leaping almost
soundlessly from branch to branch...

Fuck.

Without thinking she grabs a rock and hurls it into the darkness, not even bothering to look as her
pursuer lets out a bone-chilling scream and chases after the sound, giving Sam a brief but much-
needed advantage. The soft forest floor muffles her movements slightly, but it won't be long before
it catches her trail again.

She's not even close to safe, and she knows it.

God. Everything hurts. Her muscles are screaming, her joints are on fire and every time her feet
connect with the ground it feels like every bone in her body is being broken repeatedly, but that's
nothing compared to the grisly end that undoubtedly awaits her at the hands of her merciless
hunter.

Gotta move. Gotta move. Come on. Come on.

She bursts through the trees into a bright clearing, and she's so confused by the sudden change in
scenery that it doesn't even register how familiar it is until she quite literally runs face-first into
something painfully solid, knocking her flat on her ass. She stares up at the sky for a moment,
disoriented, as something warm and sticky runs down the left side of her face.

It's the cabin. It's the cabin! The sheer, ridiculous luck of it all seems so ludicrous and absurd in
the grand scheme of things, so impossibly preposterous she doesn't quite know how to react. It's
not until she hears it again - that loud, horrifying screech - that she regains her feet and shakily
makes her way over to the cabin door, pressing one hand against the bleeding wound on her
forehead and desperately searching for the key with the other.

It's not there.

It's not there!

"Oh, God... oh my God... shit... shit shit shit fuck shit..." She feels the handle, hoping that it'll be
unlocked by some foolish miracle, but of course, it isn't. Mike told her the windows were broken,
but obviously, someone came up here and fixed them. It could even be the same person - or people
- who started painting over the walls inside the cable car station.

Sam bites down on her cheek so hard her skin breaks open, but it helps to keep her grounded as she
looks for the key again with both hands this time, searching each of her pockets simultaneously.
The Wendigo is gaining on her, like a shark smelling blood in the water, and it feels like her heart
is going to explode out of her chest. It's so close now, she can practically feel the cold, rancid
breath on her neck. Her entire body is coiled like a spring, steeling itself against the imminent
threat of the impending hurricane of knives and razors about to descend upon her.

Come on, come on, come on... where the fuck are you?!

The Wendigo has caught her scent now. She knows it. She can tell from the high-pitched scream of
triumph echoing through the trees, and the sound of something large crashing towards her.
Something large, and fast, and hungry.

"Oh my God... I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die..."

There! Her fingers finally close around the small metal object, halfway hidden inside the lining of
her jacket. Of course, there's a damn hole in her pocket, and of course, the damn thing decided to
play hide and seek with her at such a crucial moment because of damn course it did! She wants to
cry and scream and laugh and faint from all the different emotions exploding through her body at
that moment, but her date with death is rapidly approaching and this is literally no time for such
insanity.
Sam yanks her hand back up and shoves the key into the keyhole, twisting it around and pulling the
door open violently as soon as she hears the telltale click of the sturdy metal bolt sliding back. She
throws herself inside the cabin, locking the door behind her and falling to the floor, her legs no
longer able to support her. She crawls into a corner, pressing her knees up against her chest as she
tries to remember how to breathe properly.

You made it. You made it. You're okay. You're safe. Just breathe.

It's okay.

You're okay.

But she knows that's not true. The Wendigo could still be tracking her, following her footprints in
the snow, or even picking up her blood trail. They're not blind, she knows that much, even if their
eyes are motion-sensitive. If that were the case, then they would most likely be spending ninety-
five percent of the time crashing into walls and falling from ceilings. Of course, as much as she'd
prefer watching them stumble around like blind drunkards, she's not that lucky.

It's outside the cabin now.

She can hear the creaking of the floorboards out on the patio, the old wood screaming in protest
under invisible feet. As stealthy and emaciated as they are, they're not weightless. It paces around
outside for a little, walking back and forth, circling the area where she ran into the wall like an
idiot and bled all over the place. Can it smell her through the walls? Does it know she's still around
or does it assume something else got to her before it did? Snatching its dinner from right under its
nose?

Maybe it would even attempt to hunt down the competition.

As if she'd be that lucky.

Sam covers her mouth with her hands, attempting to muffle her breathing as much as
possible whilst staring wide-eyed at the front door window. There's a huge shadow looming in
front of it, something so impossibly tall and skinny it shouldn't be physically possible, and she has
to bite down hard on her cheek to keep from whimpering as it lifts one long, emaciated finger and
drags the tip of its claw over the glass, the noise cutting through her like nails on a chalkboard.

It's toying with her.

It knows I'm here. It has to. What's with all these damn games?! Her blood is pounding in her ears,
drowning out every other sound and leaving her vulnerable on the floor, unable to focus on
anything other than her own heartbeat. It's so loud - so impossibly loud - and she wonders if this
will be the last thing she ever gets to hear in this life before the Wendigo crashes through the
window and swallows her whole.

Maybe this is the last thing anyone gets to hear before they die. Not the sound of anything
happening around them, but their own terrified heartbeats.

Then it stops.

Oh my God. I'm dead.

But she's not dead. She's still here, still pressed up against the wall, staring at the shadow with
unblinking eyes. It burns, but her eyelids won't move. Won't obey. All she can do is focus on the
immediate and very real danger outside, very much aware of the fact that the only thing separating
 her from that impossibly strong, supernatural killing machine is a simple wooden door and some
fragile glass fibers.

Not much of a shield at all, if she's perfectly honest.

She doesn't understand what it's doing. If it truly knows she's here, why doesn't it break the
window and claim her? Why play this bizarre, torturous game of chicken? It's beyond nerve-
racking!

The shadow moves away from the window, and a whole new level of anxiety takes up residence in
the pit of her stomach. What's it doing now? Where did it disappear to? Having it outside the front
door was horrible, but not knowing where it went is even worse. She has no idea what to expect,
and part of her wants to just get it over with. She's too tired - too exhausted - to keep playing these
twisted little games right now. Sure, she finally found the cabin, but what good did that do her?
With that thing outside, it's just as dangerous to be stuck in here.

Cut off. Isolated. Trapped.

Well played, Blackwood, she thinks, giving a small laugh in spite of the situation. You win. I'm
done. There's nothing more you can throw at me now. All cards are on the table, as they say. I'm
sorry I ever challenged you. She lets her fingers run over the leather cord around her neck, the
metal disk warm against her skin. It's comforting, even now, and it gives her a much-needed
distraction from the fact that the Wendigo is tapping on the window directly above her hiding
place.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"I'm done," she whispers.

The tapping stops.

And then she hears it.

The one sound she never thought she would ever hear again for as long as she lived.

The voice that's haunted her every second of every night, every day since she left him all alone in
this horrible, godforsaken, cursed place.

"Sammy?"

It's Josh.

Chapter End Notes

thought I found a way

thought I found a way out

but you never go away

so I guess I gotta stay now

walking out of town

looking for a better place

something's on my mind

always in my head space

oh I hope some day

I'll make it out of here

even if it takes all night

or a hundred years

need a place to hide

but I can't find one near

wanna feel alive

outside I can fight my fear

isn't it lovely

all alone

heart made of glass

my mind of stone

tear me to pieces

skin to bone

hello

welcome home
 Find You
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

It feels like she's been hit by lightning.

Every cell in her body hums with electricity, every hair stands on end, and Sam is ninety-nine
percent certain her heart has stopped beating. She's trapped in an odd sort of vacuum - torn between
logic and emotion - and it's almost too much for her to process at once. Her mind is in shambles,
trying desperately to make sense of the situation.

That was his voice. That much, she is absolutely one hundred percent positive about. But how?
How could Josh possibly be out there? He shouldn't be. There is no way he'd be able to somehow
avoid the Wendigo completely and make his way to the cabin the very same moment she arrived,
let alone the fact that even if he did manage to sneak past it, he'd be dead for sure the moment her
name left his lips.

It couldn't be him. Nothing could be that simple.

Not here.

Not on this mountain.

This is some sort of trap. It has to be. As much as she desperately wants - needs - it to be Josh, she
can't risk everything on a stupid, reckless whim. She has to be smart about how she does things,
and being smart does certainly not include running outside headfirst like some sort of love-crazed
loon.

Wendigos can imitate voices.

That has to be it. Whatever is out there, it's definitely not Josh. Not even he could fake a Wendigo
attack, brilliant son of a famous movie producer or not. Besides, she clearly remembers the bone-
chilling shrieks from before, the flash of something large and inhuman leaping from one tree to
another in that strange, jerky sort of way that no person on the planet could ever successfully
replicate.

"It's not him," she whispers, cradling her head in her hands. She presses her palms against her ears,
desperately trying to block out the sounds coming from the window above her. "It's not him. It
can't be him. It's not him. It's not him."

The tapping has stopped. There's no sound at all, except for a slight cooing noise she can't quite
place. It sounds odd, almost pleading, but it's definitely not something a person would be able to
produce. If she has to compare it to anything, it'd be the dying whimpers of a wounded animal.
Maybe that's what it is, too. Maybe the Wendigo found something else to feed on. A fox, or maybe
even a wolf.

She's not eager to take its place anytime soon.

The one thing she can't quite understand, though, is how the Wendigo knew her name. Not just her
name, but it called her Sammy.

Josh was the only one who ever did that.

"It's probably the mountain," Sam mumbles under her breath. The mountain didn't want her here,
that much was painfully obvious. It wanted Josh all to itself, the last of the Washington siblings.
And why? To punish him for something his father did? It already took Hannah and Beth, and Sam
has a sneaking suspicion that if Beth actually survived the fall, she would've been turned into
another one of those monsters because simply killing them would be too easy.

Too merciful.

And Josh makes three.

Maybe she's being ridiculous, thinking of the mountain as some sort of sentient being, but that's
what it feels like to her. Like it's alive, watching her every move, waiting for new ways to fuck
everything up for her. Besides, she's dealing with flesh-eating monsters from Native American
legends. Logic doesn't really seem to have that much of a foothold around here, so who's to say her
suspicions are false?

I'm onto you, Blackwood. You had me going there for a while, but you're gonna have to do better
than that if you want to kill me. I'm here to find Josh and I am not. leaving. without him.

Steeling her resolve, she slowly gets to her feet.

It's not him, she tells herself. It's not him. It's not him. It's not him. It can't be. He's not there.

The only thing staring back at her from the window is her own reflection, eyes narrowed into thin
hazel slits and jaw clenched. There's nothing out there but trees and snow, and the disappointment
is so complete, so utterly devastating it almost knocks the breath from her lungs. It feels like she's
been kicked in the stomach, and the sheer force of it confuses her.

It shouldn't hurt this much. It's shouldn't be this painful, because it's exactly what she expected.

Nothing.

She knew it. She knew he wouldn't be there, and yet... it hurts. She wanted him to be there so, so
badly, despite knowing all too well that he wouldn't be. What she wouldn't give for that to actually
be true, though. To see him standing there, those impossibly huge eyes looking back at her, and
that slow, enigmatic smile creeping across his face, to know that he was okay. That everything
would be okay.

She wanted things to be easy for once.

Just once.

What could she possibly have done to warrant this cruel and unusual punishment? She wasn't the
one who invaded the mountain and disturbed the spirits by turning it into some kind of rich boy
playground. She never had anything to do with Bob Washington and his little pissing contest with
the locals. Whatever issue Blackwood has with him, she wants no part of it.

All she did was fall in love with the broken, beautiful boy who happened to be unfortunate enough
to be his son.

Not bothering with even considering staying in the bedroom - the very vulnerable bedroom with a
very breakable window facing towards the very place of sacred slumber - she yanks the mattress
quite unceremoniously from the frame and drops it in the bathroom instead. It covers the entire
floor, and she'll probably have to create some sort of nest with every blanket in the entire cabin to
stay warm, but she doesn't care.
It's not like she's a stranger to the concept, after all.

Besides, this isn't a freakin' B&B. It's the home base for her rescue mission, and comfort isn't really
a priority at this time. Right now, all she needs is somewhere to sleep without worrying about
getting eaten by monsters. Maybe, when she's got her boy all safe and sound, maybe then she'll
start prioritizing tiny pillow chocolates and fluffy, embroidered bathrobes.

Maybe being the operative word, here.

"I should find some way to reinforce the windows too," she says, thinking out loud while she
gathers a bunch of spare blankets from every room in the building. "There's too much glass.
Bamboo shutters aren't exactly top tier when it comes to security. What's wrong with some good,
old-fashioned metal bars, anyway?"

Must discuss with asshole movie producer swiftly upon return.

For now, though, she'll probably have to improvise with whatever tools Mr. Washington deemed
appropriate for his fancy little guest cabin. Of course, that also means she has to go outside to
reach the tool shed in the back.

Out there. In the open. Alone. Sans flamethrower.

Awesome. Where are all the crazy, toothless natives when you need them? Sam thinks, huffing
from the effort of carrying something that feels like fifteen tons of blankets and duvets to the
bathroom. Sure wouldn't mind one of those weapon-wielding gun psychos on my team right about
now. You got any of those, Blackwood?

I'll take five.

Actually, that's probably a very bad idea. Careful what you wish for, and all that. Besides, knowing
this mountain and its tricks, any potential weapon wielder she might encounter would probably
break down the door, dismember every single one of her limbs with a giant machete, and DIY her
skull into some macabre Ed Gein-esque cereal bowl.

"Yeah... no, thank you. I'm pretty attached to my body parts."

This makes her snicker. Bad puns aren't really her area of expertise, but Josh would approve. And
frankly, that's all she cares about right now. Well, that, and actually finding the guy so she can
assault him with bad puns until his ears fall off. It'll be the only entertainment he gets, anyway,
because she fully intends to handcuff him to her bed or something for the rest of his remaining
days.

Wow, okay, calm down there, bondage queen. It's only a precaution. Precaution. Maybe you can
extend it to some kind of tracking device implanted in his neck. That's much better, right?

Yep. Not creepy at all. No, sir. Nu-uh.

Sam drops her backpack on her makeshift nest and rolls her shoulders, grimacing. It feels like she's
been carrying the entire mountain on her back, and every muscle in her entire body is screaming at
her to just flop down on the bed and remain motionless for a couple of years, at least. But that's not
an option right now. Her mind is still buzzing with the memory of Josh's voice from that thing
outside, debating whether or not she actually did hear what she thought she did.

It wouldn't be the first time she hallucinated him, after all.

"Only one way to find out," she mumbles, arming herself with the handgun she "borrowed" from
her father's nightstand. Not that it would do much good against a damn Wendigo - even a heavy-
duty shotgun wasn't enough to kill those things - but at least it gave her some sense of comfort.
Any weapon is better than no weapon, and she'd rather not go out there armed with nothing but her
questionable good sense and a metal disk attached to a flimsy leather cord.

The necklace feels warm against her chest, the pendant seeming to pulse in perfect harmony with
her heartbeats. It's probably just her imagination, but there's no denying the fact that it really
does calm her down.

Maybe that crazy, toothless guy wasn't so crazy after all.

"Hooo-kay... Breathe, Sam. Stay cool. It's only a few yards to the tool shed. A few teensy, tiny
yards. You were on the track team, for Pete's sake! You can cover that ground in less than a
minute. You just gotta stay calm and not panic. Just pretend you're not about to do something
incredibly, unbelievably stupid, and just do it!

She presses her ear against the door. It's completely quiet, but she's not that easily fooled. It could
still be out there, biding its time. It could be tracking her somehow, or waiting to ambush her as
soon as she steps one single toe outside. Ideally, she'd rather wait until the sun is up before she does
something like this, but there's no time. Every second is just more time between her and Josh,
another opportunity for the mountain to rip him away from her again.

Anything can happen in less than a minute.

Slowly, so slowly, she turns the lock, wincing slightly as the metal bolt slides back with a
tiny click. Then, even slower, she twists the door handle and pushes the door open, inch by inch.

God. Her heart is pounding so freaking loud! It's practically a fully functional dinner bell at this
point. But then again, didn't Hannah stand right next to her the year before, back at the lodge?
Right before she blew it up? Yes, yes she did. She was right there, her rancid breath sending cold
bursts of air down Sam's neck, and yet... she didn't attack her, despite the fact that her
traitorous heart was beating so hard she thought it was going to shatter her rib cage.

As for their sense of smell? Maybe it's too sensitive. Maybe, instead of not picking up her scent in
particular, it's picking up every scent.

Confusing. Disorienting. And very, very useful to her.

Sam closes the door soundlessly behind her, but she doesn't lock it. Risky, yes. But she might need
to get back in pretty damn quick, and locking herself out of the cabin would be an incredibly stupid
thing to do. Besides, if the Wendigo really is out there somewhere watching her, it would lose
interest in the cabin preeetty freaking fast.

The prey has left the building.

She moves down the walkway, mentally cursing every time one of the wooden floorboards creak
underneath her feet. It's barely noticeable, so hopefully, it won't be enough to alarm any potential
predators. She's pretty light on her feet, and her small frame is definitely putting her at an
advantage. For all the times she absolutely hates being the short girl, this is not one of them.

Well, that, and the fact that hide and seek was always a freaking cakewalk for her compared to the
freakishly tall Washingtons. The look on Beth's face when she opened the cupboard in the kitchen
and found her tiny, blonde friend grinning down at her, hazel eyes beaming with triumph...
Okay. Focus. No dwelling on the past now, Sam. Plenty of time for that later. Y'know, when your
life is not in immediate danger? Sounds like a plan?

She peeks her head around the corner, eyes zooming in on the living room window.

That's where I heard it. I know that's where I heard it. So... where are the footprints? There should
be footprints. Right?

Of course, the Wendigo seemed to be pretty fond of scattering around like giant, monstrous
spiders, but even climbing the wall should've left some sort of trace. Claw marks, for example. A
disturbance in the snowdrifts clinging to the roof at the very least.

But there's nothing.

I didn't imagine it. I didn't imagine it. It was real. It was real. It was real.

It was real.

"I'm not going crazy," she whispers, breaking the silence despite herself. The lack of
evidence rattles her, sending her exhausted brain into overdrive. Did it really happen? Did
she really get chased by a Wendigo earlier? Surely, she couldn't have imagined it.

No. There's no way.

Sam makes her way over to the window, frantically scanning the walls around it, the ground below
it, and the roof above. "There has to be something, anything... please... there has to be something
here..." She crouches down, touching her fingers gingerly to the fresh layer of powdery snow. Pure,
white, and entirely undisturbed. "How..."

She rises to her feet, chewing her bottom lip thoughtfully. Okay, Sam. Think. It must've come from
somewhere. You heard it on the walkway, and then... then... Looking up, she freezes.

There, on the very edge of the gutter, she can almost make out the shape of something that might
resemble fingers if they weren't so impossibly long and thin. Her heart picks up the pace as she
studies the imprints, squinting to get a better picture. Sure, it was a long shot, but the
Wendigo could've been using the ledge to support itself and then bent over the edge, hanging
upside-down as it taunted her.

Maybe... maybe... She lifts one hand in the air, carefully tracing an invisible exit route.

Roof. Branch. Tree trunk. Then... back into the forest? It would be quite a leap, but
nowhere near impossible for a Wendigo. Those things could put any professional basketball player
and Olympic gymnast to shame, after all.

Well, it definitely beats the "I'm going batshit insane"-theory, so I'll take it.

Of course, that also means she's in very real and very immediate danger, and standing here
gawking like an idiot is very much not ideal to her whole survival strategy so maybe it's a good
idea to, y'know, move her ass and actually do what she came out here to do before something else
happens. According to her experience, this mountain is hellbent on getting her out of the way as
quickly as possible, and the last thing she wants to do is provide the opportunity for that to actually
happen.

Wasting no more time, she hurries over to the tool shed. Caution and stealth be damned, she picks
up a large rock and smashes it against the padlock until it springs open, immediately throwing it
aside and yanking the door open as quickly as she can. There's not a lot of materials to work with,
but she grabs whatever she can carry, determined to sort through everything when she's safely back
inside.

Tools... metal sheets... fuck, these things are heavy!

Yeah. Nope. Metal sheets are a no-go. Maybe it'll work better if she goes with the square pieces of
chain link fence instead. They should provide a decent level of protection, at least until she figures
out a way to make something a little more permanent.

"This is one of the downsides of being a freakin' homunculus," she hisses through her teeth as the
metal sheets slide back into place. "No way I'm moving those all the way around the cabin on my
own. Gotta make Josh work for his meals when I get him back, can't have that lazy asshole
freeloading while I do all the work around here..."

Gathering the pieces of fence under one arm, she grabs the toolbox and staggers out of the shed,
stopping only long enough to close the door with her shoulder and shoving a large rock in front of it
with her foot. Seeing as how she busted the lock open, that's not gonna do much to keep anything
out anymore.

Oh well. Oops, and all that.

She surveys the area closely before moving towards the front door with her newfound bounty, all
too aware of how vulnerable she is with her hands occupied and her attention constantly distracted
by the very real possibility of tripping over her own feet. Really, that would just be the icing on top
of an extremely shitty birthday cake from Hell, wouldn't it?

SNAP!

Sam freezes to the spot, head whipping towards the noise. Honestly, there is no sound more
terrifying, more ominous than the snapping of a branch when you're miles away from other people,
surrounded by trees cloaked in complete darkness because it could be literally anything.

Get inside, her mind is screaming at her. Get inside! MOVE!

But she can't.

A tall, hunched figure slowly makes its way through the woods, one arm extended backward at an
odd angle. Sam narrows her eyes, trying to make sense of it, but it's obscured by the darkness and
the trees. It doesn't seem to have noticed her, its back crouched and turned towards her. There's a
strange sound of something being dragged through the snow, something heavy, and a muffled
grunt as it occasionally thumps against the uneven terrain.

What... is that? Is that... is that a person?

No. It can't be, right? It has to be an animal. A deer? There are plenty of deer around, and she
already knows they're not opposed to feeding on the local wildlife if the opportunity presents itself.

Just go back inside, you idiot! What are you doing?!

Honestly. This is not a time to wrestle with her goddamn savior complex. Even if that is a person,
what exactly does she expect to accomplish by rushing after them? That thing will tear her to pieces
in two seconds flat, and her pathetic little handgun won't even make a dent in it.

Then she sees it.

 As it's walking through a clearing in the trees, the moonlight hits something large. Something
undeniably human.

Something undeniably human covered in tattered, stained overalls.

Chapter End Notes

I will search for you

'till there's no more breath left in my lungs

I will keep you safe

from the monsters hiding in the dark

I can't lose you

I won't live without you

with all we've been through

I'll do what I have to

I'll keep searching on

'till I find you

I'll find you

in the eye of the storm

I'll save you

I swear that I'll find you

I'll find you

 Hold On

the night is blind

so hard to find

the way back home

losing grip

but it's worth the risk

to brave the cold

the fear in me

is pulling deep

like an undertow

but I will escape

the hand of fate

before it knows

no matter where you go

I'll find you

no matter where you go

I'll find you

I'll find you

hold on for your life

it can't be time

I won't say goodbye

hold on for your life

it can't be time
 I won't say goodbye

hold on

hold on

for your life

no matter where you go

I'll find you

no matter where you go

I'll find you

I'll find you

 Out From Under
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"Shit!" Sam hisses through her teeth as her knee bangs into a rough piece of rock for the fifth time.

The air around her feels colder by the second, and she can barely feel her fingers anymore. Every
single inch of her body is aching, and she's not even close to reaching the bottom of the mines. It
feels like she's been at this for hours, but in reality, it's probably closer to one and a half.

Maybe two, at the most.

She loses her grip on the edge and curses again, regaining purchase against the slippery, uneven
surface before she continues, counting every step in her head almost obsessively.

Six hundred and fifty-one... six hundred and fifty-two... It's too dark to see properly, and her
headlight went out somewhere around the third leg injury, which absolutely does not help even one
tiny bit. The darkness unsettles her, and she seems to jump and freeze even from the tiniest of
sounds. Every second is pure torture, and the fear of suddenly being ripped apart by a flurry of
claws and teeth is no longer just irrational paranoia, but a very real possibility.

There are spare bulbs in her backpack, but she doesn't want to risk breaking her rhythm. The wall is
too steep, and the rocks are too slippery. If she loses focus, she'll most likely never have to worry
about broken headlights or bruised knees or anything else ever again.

"Easy, girl," she mutters to herself. "Easy... slow and steady does it..." A particularly sharp edge
cuts into her fingers, forcing her to seek another gripping point. She knows she has to find
somewhere to rest, and soon. There's no way she's going to be able to look for Josh in her current
condition, not to mention how incredibly screwed she's going to be if she has to actually,
y'know, run for her freaking life sometime in the immediate future.

There's a pretty wide ledge to her right, but in order to get to it she's going to have to leap from a
ridiculously flimsy foothold and find steady purchase in one single, fluid motion, and just the
thought of playing Tarzan with every muscle in her body practically screaming for mercy makes
her want to just curl up and die.

Seriously, Sam. Get it together. You didn't come all this way just to play jellied pancake at the
bottom of a godforsaken mine shaft. Suck it up, for Pete's sake! You left Josh down here all by
himself once before. You're not doing it again. If this was a normal rock climbing wall you'd be
able to scale it in your sleep, so stop being such a flippin' baby about it!

She grits her teeth and steels herself for what she's going to do, allowing herself only two seconds
to breathe deeply before setting her jaw and kicking off against the rock.

For one tiny, horrifying second she's free-falling before her feet finally connect with the rough
surface of the ledge. Her legs fold like wet paper under her, sending her falling face-first into the
ground. Not the most graceful landing, but at least she's not lying in a bloody pool at the bottom of
the mines, which is definitely a plus.

Hooray for small victories.

"Yuck." Sam turns her head to the side and spits out a mouthful of blood before feeling her teeth
rapidly with her tongue, making sure none of her beloved pearly whites decided to escape upon
impact.

Thank God. I do not think I'd be able to rock the hillbilly look. Not to mention the fact that Josh
would've literally laughed himself to death at least twice, and that's not really the kind of reunion
I'm hoping for if I'm going to be completely honest.

She grimaces and spits more blood. The metallic taste refuses to leave her mouth, and she briefly
considers washing it out with some water. She goes to pull out her water bottle but thinks better of
it. After all, she has no idea how long she's going to be down here for, and she can't afford to waste
one single precious drop. There's no guarantee she'll be able to find a usable water source anytime
soon, and dehydration can kill just like any Wendigo.

She's simply just gonna have to hash it out until the wound in her cheek heals back up again.

Sam knows she's not going to be able to stay on the ledge for long. Remaining in one place for too
long is extremely dangerous, and while she's probably safer up here than she would've been down
there, she also knows that she's completely trapped if something - or someone - should happen to
drop by for an afternoon snack.

Evening snack? Midnight snack? A light breakfast?

Honestly, there's no proper way to tell. She didn't have time to prepare for this, after all, what with
everything happening so impossibly fast and the fact that a certain mythological creature just
happened to appear out of nowhere with the one thing - the one person - she needed so desperately
to find.

Coincidence? Yeah. I think not.

Still, here I am. Well played, Blackwood. Well played.

"Ten minutes," she decides. "Ten minutes. That's all I get. Then I have to keep moving."

First things first, however: the light bulb.

It takes her a couple of minutes to work some heat back into her fingers, but when she does, she
almost wishes she hadn't.

With the blood rushing properly through her hands again she can feel every ache, every sting, and
every cut acquired during her unforgiving descent into the mines. She's completely covered in
bruises to the point where she probably looks more like a freaking smurf than an actual human
being right now, and if that crazy, beautiful asshole even considers nicknaming her Smurfette she
will personally make sure he gets an intimate make-out session with her fist.

"I swear to God, Washington..." Sam hisses through her teeth as she begins the process of replacing
the tiny, broken bulb in her headlight. "You better be alive down here, or so help me, I will bring
you back to life just so I can murder you all over again..."

Okay, there we go. Now I can see.

Great.

She pulls herself closer to the edge, sliding on her stomach until she can see over it, but even with a
working light bulb, there's no way to tell how much further she has to climb before reaching the
bottom.
"Testing, testing... one-two..." she whispers before dropping one of the useless batteries into the
darkness. Then she starts counting.

One... two... three... four...

Thirty-three seconds pass before it hits something, and the noise makes her flinch a bit. It's a tiny
battery, but the sound carries far too well through the cave chambers.

Sam holds her breath for a few moments, listening for any sign of potential trouble, and when a
horrifying shriek pierces the silence she damn near falls over the edge, barely managing to scatter
herself back to the wall before something large and pale flashes past her, razor-sharp claws digging
easily into the walls of the shaft as it ascends towards the tiny speck of light streaming down from
her entrance point on the surface.

Only when it disappears completely does she dare to let out a shaky, terrified breath.

Ho-ly cow. That was too damn close. Too. damn. close.

I've gotta move.

She opens her small backpack and wraps a few strips of bandages around her hands before securing
them with medical tape. It's not the best solution - she'd much rather have a pair of nice, thick
gloves - but she needs to feel every nook and cranny in order to make it down in one piece. Free
climbing is no joke, especially not in these conditions, and gloves would only hinder rather than
help her.

But man, how sweet it would be.

Okay, Sam. Get your shit together. You can't stay here one second longer. You'll be trapped for
sure when that thing comes back, and you've come too damn far to die here. Give yourself ten
more seconds, then you're off. Not one fraction of a second longer.

Ten seconds.

Nine.

Steeling her resolve, Sam gathers up another mouthful of blood and spits it out before pushing her
legs over the edge. She feels around for a steady foothold, cursing soundlessly until she finds it and
lowers herself down. Her arms are shaking with the effort, and the lack of proper sleep and
nutrition is really starting to affect her.

Suck it up, you big baby, she mentally chastises herself. It's not like people haven't survived worse
conditions than these before.

You're nothing special.

Her movements are jerky and robotic, but at least she's moving, and that's all that matters. So what
if her legs are cramping up and every single piece of her skin feels like it's been torn to ribbons? So
what if she's faint from hunger, that her mind is blurry from lack of sleep and that her head is
pounding like a rabid monkey drummer on a five-week bender?

She's here. She's alive.

And she's getting closer to Josh every single second.

Josh. Josh. Josh. His name repeats in her mind like a prayer with every step, every grip of her
fingers, every shuttering breath exiting her lungs.

She's so close now, so close to where she left Josh and Mike that horrible, awful, terrible night. She
has no idea how she actually knows this, but she does. She can feel it with every fiber of her being
as if the mountain wants her to know.

This is where you failed him, it tells her.

This is where you lost him.

"Shut up, you asshole," she mutters under her breath, quietly seething with anxiety-induced anger.

I'm gonna fix everything. I'm gonna get him back and there's not one single damn thing you can do
about it. You can throw every freaking Wendigo in the entire world at me and I'll fight each and
every one of them if I have to.

Not that she has even the slightest idea how she would actually go about doing it, though, if the
mountain decides to rise to her challenge.

Finally, finally, her foot hits the ground, and she feels around gingerly with the toe of her boot for a
while before stepping onto it, carefully releasing her hold on the rough surface of the wall. She
extends her fingers shakily, wincing at the now all too familiar sensation of blood rushing back
into her frozen digits, bringing the pain along with it.

Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

She clutches her hands to her chest, feeling exceptionally sorry for herself. The bandages did their
job well enough, but she removes them anyway. No point in keeping them now, especially not
when they're soaked through with blood and water from the wet rocks.

Hell, with her luck they'd probably just end up giving her a nasty infection at this rate.

That would just be freaking perfect, wouldn't it.

With that in mind, she should probably find somewhere relatively safe to patch herself up a little
before doing anything else. She's in horrible condition, and she'll feel even worse when the
adrenaline rush wears off.

There's an alcove not too far from where she entered the cave system and she carefully heads
towards it, scanning the surrounding areas suspiciously. Everything seems quiet enough, but she
won't be fooled. This mountain has been catching her off guard an awful lot lately, and she's
determined to never let that happen again if she has anything to say about it. Of course, even
just thinking that way is too much of a rebellion against the almighty Blackwood, and Sam only has
time to reach halfway across the floor before she hears the telltale scampering and clattering of
claws scurrying back down the mine shaft, pebbles and rubble raining down from the opening.

Shit shit shit shit.

Sam throws herself against the opening, pumping her arms like the undefeated track star she is.

Thank you, mother dearest, for forcing your vertically challenged offspring to join the track team
with her tiny, tiny legs. The absurd thought almost makes her laugh, but this is no laughing matter
and her life is very much on the actual line, so instead of throwing her head back and cackling
maniacally she decides to claw her way into the alcove instead.
 Much more sensible. I'm proud of me. Insert proverbial patting of back here.

It's a tight fit, but that's a good thing.

She squeezes herself through the gap, wincing as her sore muscles contort painfully. As short and
petite as she is, the opening is extremely narrow, and the extra layers of clothing, as well as her
backpack, aren't exactly helping in any way. Still, if even she has trouble squishing through it,
there's no way in hell anything else will be able to follow her in here.

She manages to push through to the other side with a stifled huff, catching herself against the
opposite wall as she crashes forward and straightens, taking in her new surroundings. Now that
she's inside, she notes that it's not so much an alcove as an actual cave, albeit not a very large one.

It's about half the size of her bedroom at home, but the floor is covered with old newspapers, and
there's an old lantern hanging from a protruding rock in one of the corners.

Did someone... live here? Sam drops her backpack on the ground, examining the lantern curiously.

It definitely looks like someone spent some time down here, with the newspapers arranged like an
improvised nest on the ground.

Sending a grateful thought to whoever lived here before her, she dumps herself quite
unceremoniously onto the thick pile of paper and closes her eyes, sighing heavily. It's really not the
most comfortable bed by anyone's standards, but it's dry, and in her exhausted state that's all she
cares about. Besides, it's not like she can just rent a room at the nearest Hilton or anything, and
she'd rather sleep in a cave than pass out somewhere out in the open where every Wendigo and
their grandmonster can stumble over her.

Warmer in here than out there, too, her mind briefly registers in her sleepy haze.

Almost... comfortable...

Despite all her efforts to remain conscious, she slowly feels herself drifting further and further into
a place between dream and reality. It takes everything she has to reach up and remove her
headlight, flicking the tiny switch to preserve the battery and placing it carefully next to the
lantern. As much as she wants to get back up and take inventory of her injuries, her body refuses to
cooperate. It's been a very, very long couple of days, and the cave feels more comfortable than it
ever had any right to, all things considered.

Sam cracks open one eye, grunting in protest as she musters all the strength left in her body and
zips open her backpack, yanking the thin thermal blanket out from the outer pocket. Her body feels
so, so heavy, but her clothes are soaked and even the isolating layer of newspapers isn't enough to
keep her body heat from dropping dramatically in her sleep, so she grits her teeth and places the
backpack under her head as a makeshift pillow before covering herself with the blanket.

I'll only... close my eyes... for a second... just... a... second...

All goes black, and somewhere in the distance echoes a long, frustrated shriek through the cave
system.

Chapter End Notes

knocked off my feet

the earth moved beneath

the edge of a dream and a nightmare

I opened the door

fell through the floor

I slipped through the cracks into nowhere

so tell me where were you

when everything fell down like thunder

I begged you to pull me through

I couldn't get out from under

 Strange Birds
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"O-kay!" Beth exclaims, clapping her hands together with a cheerful grin.

"Th e tables are set, the candles are in place, every teensy tiny bit of sparkly crap has been
arranged exactly how Fräulein Hitler - I mean my sweet, lovely sister - wanted them... the drinks
are in posit..." she pauses, frowning, and her dark eyes roam searchingly across the decorated
table.

" Hey... wasn't there, like, three full bottles of eggnog here two seconds ago?" she says, scratching
her head in confusion. Her signature beanie is still present, despite Hannah's valiant attempts at
removing it because it's not 'Christmassy' enough. She still makes the occasional grab for it when
she thinks Beth isn't looking, though, and she seems to be doing exactly that when her little sister's
remark causes her to freeze up, an identical pair of brown eyes zooming in on the empty spaces
where the bottles once stood.

Sam purses her lips, nodding thoughtfully. "Yeees..? At least, I mean, I think there was? I'm... not
really sure, to be completely honest. I'm on mistletoe duty and I'm happy to report that those are
all accounted for, thank freakin' God. I even pricked my finger on those tiny, amorous bastards!
Twice! I mean, I get that love is supposed to be painful and whatnot but..."

"Sam!" Hannah interrupts her impassioned tirade, earning a look of indignation from the blonde.
" Okay, okay," Sam mutters, sucking on her wounded finger. "I get it. Focus, right? I'm just
saying! Those bitches hurt like a mother-"

"SAMANTHA! This is no time for injuries! The eggnog is missing!" Her best friend grabs her
narrow shoulders, snowflake-painted fingernails digging into them like tiny Christmas daggers as
she shakes her ferociously, damn near giving her whiplash with a side of brain damage.

"This is an emergency! An emergency, I say! We can't have a Christmas party without

eggnog, Sam! Nobody does that! Nobody, do you hear me, woman?!"

"Whoa, Han, chill," Beth comments, gently prying Sam out of her sister's death grip.

"We hear you, okay? Everyone hears you. I hear you, Sam hears you, the entire population of
fucking Siberia hear you, girl. Just calm down. We'll split up into groups and hunt down the
wayward bottles, yeah? It'll be like a scavenger hunt! You like those, right?"

"Yeah..." Hannah replies, her brown eyes slowly regaining a sliver of sanity. "I do like those..."

Well, thank holy Jesus loving Christ for that.

"Okay! Great. You're with me, ya loon. I'm not letting you roam free in this condition, the 'rentals
would literally murder me and have my corpse re-purposed into some weird holiday decoration.
We're gonna search the kitchen and the dining room, and Sam... you got the lounge and the wine
cellar, 'kay?" Beth looks at her pleadingly, begging her not to argue.

"Yeah. Gotcha," Sam replies, nodding in agreement.

Breathing a sigh of relief, the youngest Washington gives her a thumbs up and links her arm with
Hannah's, dragging her along. "Come here, you beautiful Yuletide psycho. We're gonna find those
bottles and lock the damn things in a fucking safe until the party, alright? Then we'll all throw our
heads back like crazed hyenas and laugh at this entire stupid goddamn..." The rest of Beth's words
are cut off when they disappear out of sight, leaving Sam to fend for herself.

"And then there was one..." she mumbles, sighing.

Well. Time to get to work, I suppose. If I were three bottles of disgusting Christmas liquor,
where would I be...

In a liquor cabinet. Duh.

"Hardi-harr," Sam says drily, dragging her feet along the polished wooden floors towards the
lounge. "I'm freakin' hilarious."

Especially when nobody's listening.

"Shut up. Nobody asked you."

Oh, this is just wonderful. I haven't even searched for five minutes yet and I'm already sassing
the hell out of myself. I would not do very well in solitary confinement at all. I'd be one of those
crazy freaks who talks to cockroaches and keeps pet mice for company, naming them ridiculous
things like Sir Chuckles Cheeseford and Lord Mousington Junior the Third... Ducking down, she
ransacks the cupboard.

Nope. No dice.

"Come on, you stupid bottles of alcoholic crap," she whispers to herself, straightening back up.

"It's not like you grew legs and freakin' walk-oooh wait a minute..." Sam closes her eyes, face-
palming hard enough to permanently imprint the shape of her hand onto her skin.

Of-freakin'-course. Joshua Benjamin Washington, you goddamn lush, I'm going to absolutely,
positively annihilate you. Groaning, she turns on her heels and backtracks hurriedly, spinning on
the slippery floors as she rounds the corner towards the stairs. She grabs the railing, barely
managing to keep her footing.

"Flipping rich people and their obsession with their own reflections! Floors are for walking and
on some occasions running, not for checking your gosh-darned make-up before heading out the
door!" she hisses, climbing the stairs with renewed vigor whilst spewing curses at the Washingtons
- or rather, the esteemed missus - for her constant need to have the floors waxed three times a day.

Barreling into Josh's room like a pint-sized tornado of justice, she immediately halts when the
smell hits her.

"Jesus, Josh! It's like a freakin' brewery in here!" Sam tears across the floor, yanking the half-
empty bottle of eggnog from the heavily inebriated boy currently slouched down against the foot of
his bed. He looks up at her, large green eyes glazed over with that unmistakable drunken haze one
generally gets from consuming large amounts of alcohol.

"Sammy! Sam-Sam-Sammy-bird! Come join me, won't you? I'm... fucking celebri... celebre...
celebrating! It's Christmas!"
"Yes, I know that thank you," she hisses. "And Hannah is going absolutely ballistic looking for this
crap!" She waves the bottle in front of him, wincing when some of its remaining contents slosh onto
her arm. It doesn't smell unpleasant by any means, but Sam grew a distinct lack of respect for any
and all alcoholic beverages after her uncle drank himself to death four years ago.

Josh looks down at his hands, and Sam immediately regrets her silly little outburst. Something is
obviously not right, and here she is, throwing a damn tantrum like a spoiled infant. Doesn't she
know him well enough by now to recognize the signs when he's not doing well? He's never been
one to turn down a drink if someone offers, but he rarely goes off on his own like this. He's not
okay, and she's an asshole.

Honestly. Someone should smack her.

"Okay. Okay... hey, Josh?" She crouches down, touching his arm gently. "Josh. What's wrong?"

"Wrong?" He looks back up, eyebrows knitting together in false confusion. "Nothing's wrong.
Didn't you hear me? It's Christmas! Fucking Christmas, and it's... everyone's celebrating!
I'm fucking celebrating, Sammy-bird, so c'mon! I'm just having... having fun, y'know? Getting
drunk... by myself... in my room... fuck, I mean, isn't that what it's all about? 'Tis the season to be
jolly', Sammy! So be jolly, right? Yes, Joshua, dear! Be jolly and happy and normal and..."

"JOSH!"

He blinks up at her, his eyes slowly focusing on her face.

"Sam? What're you... what are you doing up here? Everyone else is... having fun. You should have
fun, Sammy."

"Not without you." She sits down beside him, gently removing the remaining bottles from his lap.
He protests weakly but doesn't make any sort of move to stop her when she pushes them out of his
reach and takes his face in her hands, smiling softly at him.

"Not without you, Josh. Do you understand?"

His huge, green eyes - those damn eyes - look at her, and she can't breathe. It's like all the air has
been sucked from the room, and he is so close it makes her heart thump like a sledgehammer in her
chest.

It's not right.

It's not right.

This is Josh. This is her best friend's brother. He's a playboy, and a shameless flirt, and a
freakin' serial dater, and... and...

... Shit.

Sam wants to throw herself in front of a bus for thinking this way about him. She promised herself
when she left for the trip that she wouldn't give in to him. Everything she feels around him - the
butterflies, the reddening of her cheeks, the intoxication at his mere presence - it's absolutely
nothing she can't handle. It's just a stupid crush, right? People have them all the time. They come,
they go, then you laugh about it and it's all fine and good and dandy.

It'll pass, and everything will return to normal.

It's okay. It's fine. He's cute, and you're a victim of your biology. That's all. There's absolutely
no reason to panic.

He reaches out and twirls a lock of her blonde hair around his fingers, those intense eyes never
leaving hers. Her mouth goes dry, and she struggles to speak. She knows what she wants to say, but
being this close to him - her unrequited crush for the past two years - is doing strange things to her
stomach, and remembering how to breathe takes priority over everything else.

No reason to panic at all... Eventually, she finds her voice again and clears her throat, smiling
nonchalantly.

"Josh... let's go back downstairs, okay?"

"... Yeah. yeah, sure, Sammy," he slurs, making a half-hearted attempt at getting up, but all he
manages to do is partially crawl himself up into a semi-standing position before crashing into her,
knocking the breath from her lungs in the process.

Sweet baby Jesus he's heavy! Sam thinks, desperately trying to lift both of them off the floor and
failing spectacularly.

Why, oh why does she have to be such a tiny, useless little pocket person!? This would be so much
easier if Mike were here, or Matt, or even Chris! But nooo, every single one of them had to bail on
everyone because they all had to attend some sort of family-related Christmas shindig, leaving her
to fend for her very undersized self.

Blah.

"Okay. We can do this. On 'three,' okay? You ready?"

Josh nods, though Sam isn't even sure he actually knows what they're about to do.

"One..." She braces herself, tightening her grip on him. "Two..." His arm snakes around her waist,
and her breath hitches in her throat for a short moment before she manages to compose herself
enough to get back on track."... Three!" She pulls, and he pushes. Together they manage to
clumsily get up on their feet, though Josh has to lean heavily on her to keep his balance.

Jesus Christ, how much eggnog did this boy consume to achieve such an impressive state of
absolute uselessness?!

"Josh?"

He looks down at her, and her mind goes blank.

How does anyone even talk to their crush like a normal human being!? How is it done? What is
the formula? HOW DOES ONE ENGLISH.

Honestly.

How can she possibly be expected to function normally with those deep, unreadable eyes - those
goddamn eyes - staring into hers like she's the only thing keeping him earthbound?

No. Nope. I'm not crushing on him.

No way.
"Hey there, Sammy," he whispers. "Sammy... Sam-Sam-Sammy-bird... small and plucky."

Sam shakes her head, but despite herself, she feels a reluctant smile tug at the corners of her
mouth. He's annoyingly adorable, even when she has literally no idea what he's babbling about...
which is just about ninety-five percent of the time.

"What are you even talking about, you weirdo?"

Josh doesn't reply. He's staring intently at something above her head, a tiny smirk etching its way
onto his slightly chapped lips. She tilts her head past his shoulder to see what he's looking at, but
he grabs her face to stop her before she can satisfy her growing curiosity.

"Josh, what..."

Those mesmerizing, unreadable eyes capture her own, holding her gaze with a focused intensity
she did not expect from such an intoxicated individual. He leans down, his fingertips sliding softly
over her skin as he brushes a few wayward strands of her hair behind her ear, his eyes never
leaving hers. Her heart feels like it's about to beat out of her chest, and she's entirely forgotten how
to speak.

And then...

"NO! Bad Joshua! BAD! Release the hostage at once, you hormone-driven ape!" Beth yells, her
feet pounding against the staircase as she storms towards them, forcefully yanking Sam away from
her older brother.

He sways, his balance immediately worsening as his only support is literally ripped
unceremoniously away from him, and he curses loudly before going down like a sack of drunken
potatoes.

"Fucking... ow," he mutters, grabbing for the railing to pull himself back up.

"What are..." Beth leans closer, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she takes in the sight of him.
"You're drunk, you asshole! So that's what happened to the eggnog, huh? Did you decide to start
the party early? Why, gee, Josh, it didn't occur to your useless ass even for one millisecond that
maybe, juuust maybe we were saving it for tonight? You greedy little piece of sh-"

"Beth... come on," Sam interrupts, keeping her composure while she tries to figure out a way to
keep things from escalating.

"We can make more, it's no problem. It'll take fifteen minutes! Twenty tops. Besides, there's still
one and a half bottles left, and the party doesn't even start for another two hours. There's plenty of
time to get everything set up, so let's just... not start anything, okay? Please?"

The youngest Washington-twin looks at her for a long time, and Sam can practically see the
conflicting emotions playing out behind those dark eyes.

On one hand, she doesn't want to make a scene because despite being quite the scrapper, she's no
drama queen. On the other, she's annoyed with her brother for his blatant disregard of anything
even remotely party-related, and she's itching to tell him exactly where he can stick that half-empty
bottle of eggnog.

Finally, her shoulders drop. It's like the fight is slowly draining out of her, and Sam breathes a sigh
of relief.
 "Fine," Beth agrees grumpily, taking the rest of the liquor before turning on her heel and stomping
back downstairs where Hannah is still waiting for her, wringing her hands and muttering quietly to
herself about "deadlines" and "time tables," sounding more than just a little insane. She brightens
considerably when her sister raises the bottles in the air for her to see, but she immediately zooms
in on the dramatically increased contents.

"What... what..."

"Don't worry about it," Beth says, patting her head in a comforting manner. "We'll go straight to
the kitchen and make some more. It... it spilled. Tipped over in the fridge. It'll be fine, alright?
We'll make a new batch, an even better one, so come on."

Seriously, Sam thinks as she follows the twins with her eyes. Sometimes I wonder which one of
them is the oldest. She shakes her head and turns back to Josh, still clinging to the railing for dear
life.

"Here, hold onto me, ya big lug. I'll get you downstairs," she coaxes him, smiling encouragingly.
Her heart skips a beat when his fingers interlace with her own, but she ignores it and helps him
back up, laughing good-naturedly when he staggers around for a bit before regaining his footing.
He looks at her, a teasing smirk playing on his lips as he suddenly bends down and kisses her.

It happens so fast - so unexpectedly - all she can do is stare at him with wide eyes.

"Mistletoe," he says, grinning smugly at her stunned expression. She blinks up at him, temporarily
unable to understand the English language until it finally dawns on her.

... Mistletoe. Of course.

As they're walking down the stairs - his arms wrapped firmly around her shoulders and hers
around his waist to keep him from falling - she both curses and blesses those tiny, green assholes
simultaneously.

Well played, you prickly bastards.

Well played.

Chapter End Notes

you've always loved the strange birds

now I want to fly into your world

I want to be heard

my wounded wing's still beating

you've always loved the stranger inside

me

ugly pretty
oh little ghost

you see the pain

so take my hand and perfectly

we fill the gaps

you and me make three

I was meant for you

and you for me

 Buried Alive
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Ow... ow... ow...

Sam opens her eyes, blinking rapidly for a few moments. It's cold, and her entire body feels like it's
been shoved through a meat grinder after being chewed up and spit out by fifteen ravenous
cannibals, and then thrown into a pit to be trampled by wild animals until not even one single tiny
fingernail remained intact. Long story short:

She's freakin' miserable.

"God..." she mumbles, rubbing the back of her head as she manipulates some warmth back into her
frozen, aching joints. "I haven't been this sore since I climbed my first real mountain in the seventh
grade..."

That was an experience.

"Okay, Sam. Another day in the glorious hell that is Blackwood. Joy of joys." The lack of
enthusiasm in her voice makes her chuckle, but even that sounds hollow and dead in the confined
space of her tiny, rocky refuge. The mattress of old newspapers helped a little against the cold, but
it wasn't exactly soft, so hopefully, she won't have to spend another night down here.

Still, she's not ungrateful. Spending the night out there would've been absolute suicide, and the last
time she checked; being dead considerably lessened her chances of finding the oldest Washington
sibling.

"Am I crazy for thinking you're still alive, Josh?" she whispers into the darkness, expecting no
answer.

She's not disappointed.

Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I'm absolutely insane for believing I can still save him, but I don't care
anymore. Even if I'm too late... even if Josh really is dead... nothing can be worse than not
knowing. If he's dead, then the world can't hurt him anymore.

Nothing can hurt him anymore.

The elastic band holds her headlight snugly in place as she quickly and expertly re-folds her
blanket and puts it in her backpack, grabbing a handful of bandages in the process.

Gotta patch myself up a bit, otherwise, I'll smell like a damn five-course meal to these freaks. Of
course, this entire mountain smells like a freakin' slaughterhouse, but on the off-chance that I
happen to run across a bunch of them... if I'm unlucky enough to meet a whole pack then I'm
probably dead anyway, but if it's just one or two... well... She tightens the bandages around her
torso, zipping her jacket back up and doing the same thing to her leg before fastening her backpack
securely with every safety strap she can find.

Anything can happen down here, but if she loses her only supplies then she won't stand even a
tiny sliver of a chance against anything this mountain can throw at her. She'll be open - exposed -
and even if she manages to get away somehow, there's no way she'll be able to make it back up the
mineshaft without her climbing gear.

That backpack is quite literally the only thing standing between her and certain death.

"Well, isn't that lovely," she mutters, checking herself over one last time before exiting through the
tiny gap, pausing only to listen for potential danger outside of her little refuge.

Okay, what are the chances Josh is standing right outside this crack, safe and sound, just waiting
to throw himself into my arms? The very thought is bizarre enough to make her laugh, and she has
to remind herself to shut the hell up before she gives away her own position.

Still, it's a funny scenario.

Josh would never stand around like some damsel in distress waiting to be rescued, and
he definitely wouldn't throw himself at anyone out of pure desperation - well, not in the literal
sense, anyway - no matter how dire the circumstances were.

Well. It doesn't sound like anybody out there wants to skin me alive and grind my bones to make
their bread... Slinking out of her hidey-hole, Sam does a quick sweep with her headlight to make
sure no cannibalistic creepers are hiding in the shadows, waiting to jump out at her as soon as she
turns her back on them. From previous experience she knows that their eyes reflect light sources,
similar to other predators, so all she needs is one telltale flash of white somewhere between the
rocks and she's outta there.

Nothing.

It's safe. For now. But she also knows from previous experience that it can change at the drop of a
pin, so it's best not to linger for too long in one place.

Right. Let's be strategic about this. Walking around willy-nilly isn't going to work, and I can't waste
any time. Who knows what this glorified lump of cursed rock is plotting next, and I really need to
find Josh. He's been alone down here for far too long already, and I'm getting so close.

I can feel it.

Honestly. Why else would Blackwood sic its mutated attack-dogs at her so early on? Not even
twenty-four hours after her initial arrival at the mountain?

Am I seriously trying to rationalize the actions of an ancient mountain hellbent on destroying me?
Sam thinks, shaking her head in utter resignation. The day I can actually understand the inner
workings of a pissed off Native American spirit will be the very same day I check myself into a
freakin' mental hospital because surely that would mean I finally lost every single one of my
marbles... Sam snickers, though the situation isn't really humorous.

"If I'm lucky, I'll be as crazy as you, Josh."

She keeps walking, pausing every now and then so she can listen to her surroundings. There's
nothing noteworthy happening, except for a steady drip, drip, drip from all the various cracks in
the ceiling and walls. Hopefully, that means there are a few clean water sources around here,
though that's gonna have to be a second priority.

"... osh..."

Sam freezes immediately, her feet glued to the spot with nothing but tension as her ears strain to
listen. Did she really hear that, or was it just her asshole mind playing tricks on her again? It hasn't
done that in a while, but she has a sneaking suspicion that Blackwood had something to do with
both her hallucinations and her nightmares - puppeteering her from a distance to keep her from ever
coming back here - keeping her scared and fragile, too weak and too scared to pose any real threat.

Too damaged - too broken - to go after Josh.

And it succeeded. For a whole year, it succeeded. It made her jump at shadows and scream at
nothing. It made her paranoid and sleep-deprived, meek, and subdued. Harmless. Inconsequential.
Just a small, frightened child, covering under her sheets.

But not anymore.

I'm not scared of you, she thinks, setting her jaw as she pushes forward. The whispering grows
louder, and now the words are unmistakable:

"I'll be as crazy..." "... if I'm lucky..." "... crazy as you..." "... Josh..."

"... Josh..." "... crazy..." "... Josh..."

Stop it, she wants to scream. Stop it now! Pressing her hands against her ears she keeps walking,
her teeth grinding together so hard it gives her a headache. The whispering grows into a cacophony
of screams, echoing around her and above her and below her all at once.

Not real. It's not real. It's not real. It's just another dirty trick.

It's not real. YOU'RE NOT REAL. GO AWAY. GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY!

Then it stops.

She lowers her hands reluctantly, wide eyes staring into the darkness. The silence is almost
deafening now, and after being exposed to such an explosion of sound, the lack of it is even worse.

Okay. Yeah, okay. Your point, Blackwood. That was... marginally unsettling.

But you also showed your cards.

Picking up her pace, she carries on. The voices left her on edge, and there's definitely more
supernatural crap coming her way, but that doesn't matter. She's more sure than ever that she's on
the right track, and even though she's only been down here once - nightmares notwithstanding - she
recognizes part of the mines. Not a lot, not yet, but enough.

Then she sees the door.

That's where I found Mike, she realizes, the memory of her friend fighting off a bloodthirsty
Wendigo playing like a movie in her head.

The door to the sanatorium. God, it feels like a lifetime ago, and in a way - it sort of is. They were
different people back then, and remembering how much she used to absolutely hate everything
about him; from the easy, confident smirk and obnoxious 'I can have anything and anyone I want'-
attitude to the way he wore his freakin' hair makes her smile.

Who would've thought Michael Munroe - Class President and self-declared Casanova - would turn
out to be one of the kindest, bravest people I've ever met. Shows how much going through literal
hell can change a person, I guess.
 They should teach that shit in reform school.

"Hello..." she whispers, narrowing her eyes. "What do we have here..."

The double-barreled shotgun Mike used to block the door is still there, a bit rusty-looking but no
worse for wear. Yanking it free, she checks it over. Would it be too much to hope for that it's still
loaded?

Cracking the barrel, she checks the ammunition.

Score. Thank you very much, Michael. You're an absolute idiot for leaving this here, but I'm so
glad you did, she thinks, smiling as she throws it over her shoulder and grimaces for a bit when it
settles over a particularly nasty bruise. It's uncomfortable as all hell and not the most practical thing
to have on your back when you might have to, y'know, run for your damn life, but whatever.

It's still a weapon.

Continuing on the same path they followed the year before, her heart beats loudly in her chest.
Josh feels so close now, but whether or not it's just wishful thinking is unclear. Sure, this is how
they found him back then, but what were the chances of him being in the same place, rambling
about decaying faces and talking to absolutely nobody?

That'd be way too easy. But then again...

I could use something easy right about now.

Chapter End Notes

I'm buried alone

I'm buried alive

I should have known

I should have tried

here lies the one

who couldn't survive

buried alone

buried alive

so goodnight

goodnight
 Alive
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckshitshitshitshit...

The echoes of a dozen shrieking, hungry monsters explode through the caves, turning her blood to
ice. There's nowhere for her to hide, no side entrances, or even a tiny nook for her to squeeze
through, and she has no idea where she's going. It's not like requesting a time-out has ever been an
option with these crazed, mythological assholes before, and she's preeetty sure they're not gonna
stop for a potty break anytime soon, either.

This is so not the kind of situation they prepared us for back in school! she thinks, gritting her
teeth. Though it would've been a hell of a lot more useful than trigonometry in literally every
universe ever.

Of course, I had to find the one damn cave with every Wendigo within a fifty thousand mile radius
because why on Earth should this be easy for once?! That's what I get for taunting an entire
freakin' mountain cursed by pissed-off Native Americans! When will I ever learn? Never, that's
apparently when! Sam fumes, pumping her arms like the tiny cannonball she is.

Just pretend it's one of coach Cramer's sadistic practices. Juuust another hellish track and field
session. Yep. Completely normal and mundane and not at all life-threatening at all, nope.

Ha. Well, there's no law against fooling yourself, at least not yet.

The Wendigos are gaining on her, and fast. The only reason they haven't caught up to her yet is
that she was smart enough - or maybe stupid enough - to yank her bloody bandages off as she ran,
throwing them into the fray every time she could afford it. The smell of fresh human blood
combined with the movement of whichever poor idiot was unlucky enough to get smacked in the
face with the wet cloth fueled their frenzy enough to make them attack each other, giving her a
small window to gain some distance.

But not enough.

There's debris from a collapsed mine here, and having to jump over every obstacle is severely
draining whatever energy reserves she's got left, but there's nothing else she can do. Her mind goes
completely blank, abandoning every other thought as she limits herself to simple instructions and
orders, trusting her blind instincts to guide her.

Jump. Duck. Jump. Jump. Climb. Jum- She's forced to stop when she reaches the end of the
tunnel, the entrance blocked off completely by large pillars and rocks the size of a small car.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit... Her eyes dart frantically across the blockage, desperately searching for
even the tiniest crack to hide in. Not finding any, her fight-or-flight response immediately kicks in
and she starts pulling at the smaller rocks, not even registering the fact that she's creating an
avalanche of gravel and dirt in the process. All she knows is that they're gaining on her, and she's
beyond dead if they catch up to her now.

Come on... come on... please... please...

Her fingers are bleeding at this point; her nails cracked and broken from colliding against the rough
surface, and every single muscle in her entire body feels like it's on fire, but she keeps going.

For Josh.

Finally, finally, there's an opening small enough for her to push into, and she doesn't waste a single
second. Throwing herself against the crack, her backpack catches against a sharp edge, forcing her
to stop. She curses and launches her body forwards to yank it free, cursing even louder when she
hears the awful sound of one of the straps tearing.

For fuck's sake! Sam wants to kick and scream and shout every foul, inappropriate word her entire
extensive vocabulary contains at this damn mountain and its hungry inhabitants, but there's literally
no time for a tantrum.

She can survey the damage after she gets the hell out of here.

Okay... okay. Easy. Slow and steady does it. They can't get me now. Shit, it's dark in here... She
jumps when she hears the loud, frustrated shrieks piercing the air - first one, then two, and then a
whole cacophony of them, wailing in anger and disappointment. It fills her with a sadistic sense of
victory, and she wants to poke her head out and laugh at them.

She doesn't, though, but just as she considers at least giving them the finger, a bony hand shoots
through the opening and grabs for her, flailing around mere inches away from her face. She can
almost feel those sharp, murderous claws digging their way into her skin, those deceptively skinny
limbs more than capable of literally ripping a human head from its body with little to no effort at
all.

Yeah, no. Not today, Satan.

Better luck next time, assho-whoa! Her inner gloating is cut off when the narrow passage ends
abruptly, spitting her out onto the wet cave floor like a child refusing to eat its broccoli.

"Great..." Sam mumbles, suddenly grateful that nobody is around to witness her laying there,
gracelessly flopping around on the cold, slippery ground as her feet struggle to find purchase. It's
too dark to see properly, but judging from the fact that she's wet from head to toe with disgusting,
mushy algae slowly seeping in through her boots, it's pretty safe to say that she managed to fall -
quite literally - into one of the many underground pools.

Thankfully it's a shallow one.

Ew. Ew. Ew. Yuck. Gross. I freakin' hate mush! She grimaces at the sensation of slippery goo
between her toes as she finally manages to feel her way to the edge of the water. Pulling herself up
and out, she gives herself a quick once-over and sighs. Her clothes don't smell particularly bad -
kinda like wet dirt during a rainstorm - but they're still soaked and her teeth are clattering violently.

I swear I'm going to catch pneumonia and die before I find you, asshole. And when I do, I'm going
to haunt the crap out of you for all eternity!

The air is stale, and there's a strange, almost musty smell lingering in it, but at least it's not as cold
as it should've been. Odd, really, but whatever the reason may be, Sam is grateful. Her outfit is
more holes than fabric at this point, and in addition to her brand new ventilation system she's also
dripping wet, tired, and hungry, none of which are particularly helpful against the chill settling in
her bones.
Her headlight starts flickering dangerously, and she feels her heart skip at least three beats. She
taps it gently, cursing softly under her breath. If it's the bulb then she'll just have to change it again,
but if there's internal damage then she'll be left in complete and utter darkness.

"Please..." she whispers, experimentally turning it off and then back on. It flickers a few more
times, then stabilizes.

Well, thank God for that, at least, she thinks, placing it back on her head. I do not feel like
maneuvering my sorry ass through these mines with nothing but my good sense - although 'good' is
very much relative at this point - and I'll take any kind of advantage I can possibly get down here.
Ideally, she would've taken the lantern from the small hidey-hole earlier, but it was too clunky and
cumbersome to fit in her backpack, and she needs her hands free.

Then again, maybe I could've used it as a weapon, Sam thinks, letting out a dry chuckle as she
pictures herself surrounded by drooling, screaming Wendigos, yelling obscenities at them as she
wields the lantern like a baseball bat, whacking them in the face whenever they got too close.

Yeah. Because that wouldn't get her killed at all.

Not even a little.

She kneels down by the edge of the water, quickly surveying her surroundings before focusing on
the backpack. The left strap is completely torn off, dangling limply from the side like a broken
arm, taunting her. Thankfully, the right one seems to have survived, the only visible damage is a
couple of broken stitches. As long as she's careful, it should be okay. Of course, having only one
functioning strap leaves her at a major disadvantage - not to mention the fact that balancing the
weight is going to be completely impossible.

Fan-flippin'-tastic. Because I wasn't screwed enough already. Let's deal with this now, shall we?

Okay. Okay. Nothing to worry about. No problem. I'm just casually hanging out miles and miles
underground, all by myself. It's okay. It's not like I'm hunted by a million supernatural killing
machines, ass-deep inside a sentient mountain that literally wants to murder me to death. Nope. I'm
totally not losing six of my toes to hypothermia and I'm definitely not going to pass out from pure
exhaustion and get eaten alive by some razor-toothed asshole. No-hooo, sir!

Standing back up, she winces a bit as she shrugs her backpack onto her bruised shoulder. It feels
like her entire body is falling apart, and at this point, she wouldn't be surprised if one of her legs
just suddenly decided to nope the hell up outta there and just give up on life altogether.

Frankly, she wouldn't blame it if that did happen, though she'd really rather it didn't.

To make matters worse, the smell has become increasingly bothersome, causing her stomach to
churn violently. It's a sickening, almost familiar sort of scent, like a bowl of fruit left standing out
for too long on a hot summer's day, only amplified by a million and accompanied by a hundred-
year-old meatloaf baking mercilessly in the sun.

Dear God, what is that?! she thinks, trying to identify it between short, disgusted sniffs.

Rot. That's... yeah, yep. Uh-huh. That's rot alright.

... I'm going to follow it, aren't I. Yep. Because I'm a dumb-ass and apparently watching every
horror movie in the world with Josh taught me exactly nothing about basic survival and common
freakin' sense. 'Sure, let's follow the ominous smell of death because that never killed anyone
before!'

Jesus flippin' Christ.

There's a sickening crunch underneath her boot, and Sam pinches her eyes shut. Whatever she just
stepped in, it definitely used to be alive. Meaning she is literally standing on something - or
someone - and the urge to reunite with her meager breakfast has never been stronger.

"Oh... my God..." she whispers, lifting her foot ever so slowly. The smell of decay hits her like an
oncoming train, and for a second she feels like she's going to pass out. A jagged bone fragment
sticks to the sole of her shoe, causing her to cringe violently.

"Oh... sweet Lord... that is just..." She looks down at her feet, gagging at the sight before her.

That does it.

Her knees buckle beneath her, and it's all she can do not to fall head over ass straight into the
puddle of writhing maggots wriggling their disgusting, white bodies around on the ground. She
crawls to the edge of the pool, shoving her head down into the freezing cold water, and screams
until her lungs run out of air. The image remains etched onto the back of her eyelids in all its
horrific, repulsive glory.

That was a person. That was a fucking person.

Oh my God, that was a human being.

She curls in on herself, pushing her head between her knees as she tries to remember how to
breathe.

That was a person. That was no animal. That was a person... Sam digs her fingernails into her
skull, fighting desperately against the oncoming panic attack. She can't break down, not here. Not
now. Not with that... thing... rotting only a few steps away from her. Not when she's so vulnerable
and exposed. Not with everything that's happening around her, not with a horde of murderous
Wendigos clawing their way through the blockage right above her head, not with a fucking
mountain trying to kill her every two point five seconds.

Gotta keep it together. I need to find Josh. Just focus on finding Josh.

Josh...

Oh, my God. The body... no. No, it can't be. There's no way. No... no... Please... She twists her
body around, crawling on hands and feet across the floor, her entire body shaking so badly she
feels like passing out. Her skin is cold and clammy, and she feels feverish. The smell is
overwhelming, the sound of the repulsive little creatures feasting on the remains making her gag
repeatedly.

But she has to know.

She needs to know.

The body is unrecognizable; mauled and decayed, every inch of it crawling with those tiny, white
abominations, but she can just barely make out faded, white letters on dark cloth:

BLACKWOOD SEARCH AND RESCUE TEAM

Her first thought?

It's not Josh. Thank God it's not Josh!

Her second thought?

I did this. I sent them here. I'm the reason they're dead. I told them to come down here, I told
them... I said... She bites down on her hand, hard. The physical pain is nothing compared to the
heart-wrenching guilt she feels for being directly responsible for the death of this stranger, this
poor human being who was just trying to help her save the boy she loves.

"You need to listen to me. I don't care if you believe me or not. Doesn't matter, because you will,"
Sam says, the frayed edges of her mind slowly ripping apart at the seams. The interviewer doesn't
understand, but she needs him to understand, he has to! Why won't he understand? She has to
make him understand, has to make him see.

"You need to go down to the mines."

"What's in the mines, Sam?"

God. Why won't he listen? Why will no one listen! Monsters are real! They're real and they have to
see, they have to see and the only way for them to do that is to go down there themselves and
witness the horrors. The carnage. They have to understand that monsters are inhabiting the
mountain and they're real and oh my God why won't they understand!

"... I've seen what's down there. And I'd give anything to unsee it."

Opening her eyes, she lets out a shaky breath.

"I'm sorry," she whispers to the person whose life has been long since taken away from them
because of a broken, traumatized girl. "I'm so, so sorry... I'm sorry... I didn't mean for this to
happen. I just needed someone to believe me..." Sick with the guilt she turns away from the
remains, needing to put as much distance between them and herself as she possibly can.

Almost in a daze, she gets back up, rubbing the sleeve of her jacket over her eyes. The rough fabric
feels like sandpaper against her skin, but she doesn't care. Every single inch of her is broken in
some way, and she has no idea where to go from here. She knew where she was going before, but
now she's completely lost, all thanks to those overgrown rodents.

I hate you, she thinks, gritting her teeth. I hate you, do you hear me? I hate you, and I hate this
entire goddamn mountain! Angrily she kicks at a rock and hisses furiously when it refuses to
budge, sending a sharp jolt of pain through her entire leg.

"GOD!" She gives in to her frustration and screams into the darkness, momentarily giving zero
shits about anything and everything. She's hungry, cold, exhausted, and angry, and she wants to go
home. She wants to forget about Blackwood and its ridiculous vendetta against some egotistical
movie producer. She has nothing to do with that. She shouldn't be caught up in their squabble.

Neither should Josh.

Or Hannah. Or Beth.

This was never about them. This is and has always been about the esteemed Bobby Washington
and the rightful residents of this mountain. Meanwhile, that smug asshole is tucked away all safe
 and sound in his million-dollar prison and his only remaining kid is paying the price.

Fucking asshole. I swear I'm gonna punch you in the throat when I get back, you just wait. I'm
gonna hit you so hard you'll be thrown head over ass straight into the next century... She's too
consumed with anger, too busy thinking of proper ways to get Josh's dad back for everything
they've been through to register the faint clicking noise at first, but when it gets closer she freezes
up, all thoughts of revenge and violence wiped from her mind in an instant. Her shoulders tense,
and instinctively she knows she's not alone.

Don't move. Don't move. Don't move. Don't move.

The clicking noise gets louder, closer until it stops directly above her. The pounding of her heart in
her ears is deafening, and her mouth goes dry. She knows this feeling all too well, and she knows
that even the slightest movement - just the tiniest flick of a finger - could lead to a short and brutal
death at the hands of the stalking predator.

Keeping her head perfectly still she tries to look up, but there's no way to tell how close it is
without directing the beam of light upwards.

Go away, Go away. Please please please go away...

She closes her eyes, praying desperately for it to just give up and leave, but she knows she needs
nothing short of a miracle for that to actually happen. She's caught in a deadlock with a
supernatural killing machine, each one silently anticipating the other's next move.

There's a sharp intake of air only a few inches above her head, and again she wonders whether or
not they can actually smell her. Maybe the smell of that rotting, decayed carcass would be enough
to mask her scent, or maybe she'd only smell like cave pools and wet earth instead of warm, living
flesh. God, she hopes that's the case... until it lets out a loud, horrifying screech directly in front of
her face, startling her.

Sam takes a step backward, and that's all it takes.

The Wendigo descends upon her.

Chapter End Notes

animals trapped behind bars at the zoo

need to run rampant and free

predators live on the prey they pursue;

this time the predator is me

lust like a raging desire

fills my whole soul with its curse

burning with primitive fire

berserk and perverse

like the moon, an enigma

lost and alone in the night

damned by some heavenly stigma

but blazing with light

wait! what's this

sweet miss

I thought I had lost you

it's fate, what bliss

sweet miss!

your folly will cost you dear

my dear

you'll see

you'll never escape me!

I'm here

I fear

and you will pay dear

my dear
 Fingers Crossed
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Oh my God. I'm going to die.

The thought is so familiar; borderline nostalgic at this point, really, but it has never seemed more
real - more palpable - than it does right this very moment. Time seems to move in slow motion, and
the only thing in the entire world Sam can think of at this very moment is the face of a broken,
beautiful boy with eyes that could drown her, and how she failed him.

Again.

"D'you believe in the afterlife, Sammy?"

"What?" Sam frowns at him, completely taken aback by the sudden question.

Josh doesn't say anything. He just stands there, staring at her motionlessly with those bottomless,
green eyes, and she feels like she has to dig her nails deep into the skin of her palm just to keep
herself from physically falling into them.

"Uh... I don't know, really," she replies, knitting her brows together. She's never been particularly
religious, and her parents never even brought her to Sunday school as a kid, so she really has no
idea how to answer him. Besides, Josh never struck her as particularly pious himself. In fact, she
distinctly remembers Hannah so lovingly referring to him as "The Heathen" on multiple
occasions, so where is this coming from?

He's still looking at her, waiting.

"I mean... everyone wants to believe there's someplace better, right? After this, I mean. But... I-I
really don't know, Josh. Why do you..."

The older boy gestures silently at the identical pair of tombstones before them - sparkling,
expensive marble engraved with names that shouldn't be there - but despite their flawless beauty
she doesn't want to look at them for even a fraction of a second.

But she does it anyway.

Because Josh is asking her to.

"Hannah believed in it," he says, almost too quiet to hear. "God, she... she believed in so much. So.
much, Sammy, and I... d'you know? Know what I-I did? I just... just fucking laughed at her, and I...
I could tell it made her sad but, I just..." he pauses, letting out a shaky breath. " I could be...
such... a fucking dick to her sometimes..." Josh mutters, and Sam doesn't know whether or not he's
even aware of her presence anymore.

"I should've been... s-should've been nicer to her. Should've at least talked to her about it, y'know?
But I thought 'hey, no sweat, there'll be plenty of chances for her to talk my damn ear off later!'
and... and I always thought there would be," he finishes, looking up at her through those
impossibly long eyelashes. His eyes are shiny with unshed tears, and she can practically feel the
pain radiating from him.
Her throat is tight; too tight. She doesn't know what to say, so she just reaches out and pulls him
into her instead. He feels so thin and frail in her arms, like a broken bird.

"It's okay," she whispers, but of course it isn't. She just doesn't know what else to say to him. She
doesn't know how to help him, but she knows she's damn well going to try.

She's going to be there for him, no matter what.

Always.

"I'm sorry, Josh," Sam whispers. "I'm so sorry..."

The Wendigo knocks her to the ground, its emaciated body pinning her to the wet cave floor as it
lets out a loud, triumphant shriek, and somewhere in the more irrational part of her mind a tiny
voice exclaims:

Well, someone could certainly use a breath mint.

Ha. Trust her messed-up brain to resort to comedy in the face of certain death because that's
probably helpful given the circumstances. What, does she somehow expect this smelly murder
machine to appreciate bad jokes enough to let her off the hook or something equally ridiculous?

"Hey, so, I know you're like, super-duper busy being all Big Bad Wendiwolf and all but... just hear
me out, 'kay? I have this uh-mazing knock-knock joke I'm just dying to share with you! Ha. Get it?
Dying? Because... you're about to eat my face off..? Eh? Eh? No?..."

... Yeeeah. I'm thinking no.

Long, cold fingers wrap around her throat and lift her off the ground, pulling her close enough for
the beam of light from her tiny headlamp to reflect in the huge, milky eyes of her soon to be killer.
As it does, she can't help but compare them to Josh's - how they'd almost seem to bulge out of his
skull during a particularly gory scene in one of his favorite horror movies, and the way they'd
sparkle with mischief after a well-executed prank, but most of all how she could look into them and
lose herself completely.

How on Earth could she ever have thought in a million years that his eyes were creepy?

The Wendigo snarls at her, shaking her. It wants her scared, it needs her scared. Wants her to
scream. To fight back.

But she doesn't.

The images of the real Josh and the nightmare version of him - the one that's been haunting her for
nearly an entire year - somehow blend together in front of her, twisting the starving monster's
distorted features into something familiar and yet so disturbingly foreign she can't help but lean
closer, even reaching out a hand to brush her fingers softly against the pale, torn flesh at the left
corner of its jagged mouth.

It lets out another sharp screech, slamming her back into the ground as it hovers over her, those
glowing white eyes staring directly into hers. Behind the dull, milky layer they look almost eerily
familiar, but the last time she checked she didn't socialize with cannibalistic monsters from Native
American legends much.

There's definitely something about this one though, something she can't quite put her finger on.
Those eyes... I swear I've seen those eyes before... Her vision is blurry from what she assumes to be
head trauma, the images swimming in front of her like some sort of messed up daydream.

Oh, god. Oh shit. I'm going blind.

The world around her goes dark for a second before flashing back into focus, then it goes dark
again. Is she really going blind? She wants to panic, but she's too disoriented to do anything but
blink rapidly, frantically trying to fix whatever it is that's wrong with her eyes. Wouldn't it be just
her luck, losing her goddamn eyesight in a dark, dank underground hell hole just before having her
throat ripped out by this awful, hungry- ... no. Wait a second.

It's not her eyes.

It's her headlight. It must've been damaged sometime during her violent date with the cave floor
because the tiny light is flickering dangerously, desperately clinging to life, making everything
around her seem like it's moving in a weird, choppy kind of slow motion.

The Wendigo lowers its head, and for one terrifying second she thinks: This is it. This is how I die.

It pushes its cold, blood-stained face against the hollow of her throat, razor teeth scraping along her
jugular as it inhales deeply in short, quiet huffs. Everything about this creature is freezing, even its
breath, and Sam shivers. She wants it to be over, she wants it to be done, and the way the Wendigo
keeps dragging it out is beyond torturous.

'What are you doing?!' she wants to scream at it. 'Just fucking kill me and get it over with already!
What the hell are you waiting for?!'

The Wendigo pulls back, and she only has time to register something eerily similar to a frown
marring its features before it dives back in to bury its face in her hair, and this time there's no
doubt:

It's smelling me! What. the actual. fuck.

The rush of air pulling back into her lungs is so violent it almost makes her throw up as it lets go of
her. Her throat is on fire, and every time she coughs it feels like her entire body is breaking into a
thousand aching pieces. Cautiously eyeballing the monster in front of her, she lifts a hand slowly to
her neck and rubs at the sore skin gently, flinching at the unmistakable sensation of warm blood
against her frozen fingertips.

The Wendigo snarls at her, rushing forward and jerking back, too fast for her to react properly. It
scampers up the wall like some sort of nightmarish spider, shrieking disapprovingly down at her in
an almost accusatory tone. What, like it's her freakin' fault she smells like a damn sewer system?
It's not like these mines came with a readily installed shower or anything!

... Wait. Why am I actually offended?

Sam wants to rub the haze from her eyes, but every inch of her sleeves are caked in either dirt,
blood, or both. Her headlight keeps blinking, disorienting her. She has to fix it, she needs to fix it,
but she doesn't dare to look away from the strange monster staring motionlessly at her from the
ceiling like a bizarre gargoyle.

Between the flashes of light, she notices that unlike the other Wendigos in the cave, this one is
actually wearing clothes. Or, well, something that used to be clothes, anyway. They're too tattered
and covered in stains to make out any sort of shape in the darkness - just a loose, oversized rag
 attached to a skinny, long-limbed body - but it gives her pause.

Hold on...

There's something whispering in the back of her mind - some kind of mechanism rotating and
grinding loudly inside of her brain - but she's so exhausted and beaten up it's hard to focus,
especially when her skull feels like it's about to explode into fifteen billion pieces any second.

The Wendigo cocks its head at her - a sharp, jerky motion that startles her - and for a second its
eyes seem to grow even larger, bulging out at her in a far too familiar manner. The dirty rags of
fabric stir something in her, something nostalgic in the way they seem to swallow the body inside
of them, and with some imagination, she can almost picture them on someone else.

It moves slowly towards her, the sharp click-clackety-click of razor-sharp claws against the stone
echoing through the cave, and the sight of those long, blood-stained teeth peeking through the
horribly jagged tear in its left cheek freezes her in place like a deer in headlights.

Why does it look so familiar, though? And why in the ever-living hell does it have hair?

Her headlight blinks mercilessly.

Once, twice.

Time is running out, but the cogs inside her mind are churning desperately. She is putting the
pieces together as fast humanly possible in her broken state, ignoring the rapidly increasing
intensity of her migraine. It hurts so much she can barely think, but she has to. It's right in front of
her, she knows what it is if only she can put the damn pieces together!

Come on, Sam. You got this. You know this. You're not this stupid, Sammy. C'mon.

Sammy.

Sammy.

And then it clicks.

"Oh my God... Josh!?"

Chapter End Notes

baby, I'm still alive

but my heart is beating slow
baby, tell me
I gotta know

are you okay?

you seem too far gone
infected
standing there all alone

everybody makes it 'till they don't

and everybody wants to think they won't
'cause everybody makes it 'till they don't
and everybody seems to think they won't

they won't
they won't
they won't
 Things We Lost

Oh, the things we lost

We must live with the cost

Through the dark, through the fire

Oh, this will pass away

Everything must fade

Everything must change

Going up in flames, turn to ash and clay

Till it numbs the pain

And we start again

Oh, the lies we sell

Burn us like the skies

they left

Through the drop

Through the storms

Ever raging on

We must suffer long

Till we see the sun

 Going up in smoke

All our words will choke

And then only then

will we breathe again

Oh, this will pass away

Everything must fade

Everything must change

Going up in flames

Turn to ash and clay

till it numbs the pain

And we start again

We've all lost something

We've all lost something

And we must learn to live without

The only question

The only question is

What will you do now?

 Kiss My Eyes
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"God has a plan with all of our lives. It may not seem like it; it may seem like every tragedy and
every loss is completely meaningless..."

Sam closes her ears to the droning of the priest.

Of course, there's no meaning behind this, how could there be? There's no plan. No divine
purpose. What kind of idiotic master plan could possibly involve the loss of two of her best friends?
Her family?

No.

She refuses to believe that's the case. Not that she's ever been particularly religious, but she likes to
think she's at least open to the possibility that there could be something else - something more -
out there. But this?

How could any cosmic plan possibly justify the pain and sorrow crashing over her like waves from
the ocean, the despair radiating from the broken boy beside her so palpable it feels like she's
choking on it?

God, it's freezing, she thinks, pulling her jacket tighter around her small frame. The temperature
feels like it's dropping every second, and there's a horrible chill that's been settling in her bones
since the moment they stepped foot onto the burial grounds that she can't seem to shake.

The eldest Washington stares silently at the identical tombstones being raised in memory of his
sisters, engraved with names that are so painfully familiar to them both it hurts too much to even
look at them for more than a second. Sam tries to, but she doesn't want to see them - doesn't want to
admit to herself that this is real, that two of her best friends are gone forever - and tries desperately
to pretend that the stones before her are nothing but props in some kind of fucked up movie
scenario.

"Beth would've hated this," Josh mumbles, and the sound of his voice penetrates her soul like an
arrow piercing a heart. Sam looks up at him, watches him drag his hand aggressively through his
hair as he stares down at the graves, an expression of perpetual torment etched into his features.
He needs a haircut, but personal grooming doesn't really seem to be a priority to him these days.

Not that anyone can blame him.

"She hated all this ceremonious shit," he continues, mostly to himself. "Hated funerals. Cemeteries.
She'd sashay the fuck up outta here and refuse to come back until booze was served." He smiles a
little at this, but there's no joy in it - his smile doesn't reach his eyes - and the low chuckle
originating from the back of his throat sounds more like a choked back sob than a suppressed
laugh. There's a fragile edge to his entire being; like an old carpet tearing at the seams.

Like it's only gonna take one single tug of a thread to make him dissolve completely.

"I know," Sam whispers, her eyes following the tense line of his shoulders and the telltale flexing of
his long, tanned fingers. She reaches out and takes his hand, easily recognizing the signs of an
incoming panic attack by now.
God knows she's seen enough of them these past few days.

Josh meets her gaze as her thumb rubs soothing, small circles on his skin, and even though he
doesn't say anything she can feel the tension leaving him just the tiniest bit. He tries to smile at
her, but it's just a small, heartbroken grimace, and it hurts her more than it would have if he openly
started crying right there and then.

"Don't do that," she says quietly. His brow furrows, green eyes narrowing questioningly. Sam bites
her lip and shakes her head, her fingers gently smoothing out the quivering tilt at the corner of his
mouth.

"Don't pretend, Josh. Not with me. Please."

Josh looks down at her, and the intensity of his gaze sets her entire body ablaze with a million
different emotions she doesn't have the courage to express in either words or action just yet- but at
that moment, she swears he can feel it, too.

I love you.

Sam feels the weight of his body as he crashes into her; his jagged mouth ripping open as the
Wendigo snaps at her. She can smell the stench of death on his breath, the chill of the cave in
every inch of his emaciated body, and the jaggedness of his protruding bones feels like hundred
dull knives being shoved into her simultaneously.

"Josh!" she repeats, still unable to completely match the image of the boy she loves with this
horrible, nightmarish creature looming above her with its fingernails digging into her shoulders
hard enough to draw blood. If he's in there, she has to reach him somehow. She needs to find some
way to get through to him before he literally rips her throat out, but how does one even reason with
a razor-toothed asshole from Hell?!

"Josh, please listen to me!"

The Wendigo lurches at her, and she barely manages to dodge his incoming attack before his jaw
snaps dangerously close to her jugular.

Okay. New plan.

Sorry, J.

She raises her knee and jams it unceremoniously between his legs, praying to every higher being
out there that even razor-toothed assholes from Hell aren't immune to a good, ol' kick in the nads
when the situation calls for it.

Turns out, they're not.

He lets out a strangled sound between a shriek, a howl, and a distinctly human cry as he recoils and
collapses in on himself in a way that would be borderline comical if she wasn't trapped miles
underground with rapidly diminishing energy levels, a defective headlight and a furious killing
machine she just violently sterilized.

"That's what you get for trying to eat me, you asshole!" she shouts at him, fear and exhaustion
mixing with her anger. "I tried to play nice, okay? But clearly, that's not gonna do it for you, and
it's kinda hard to save you when I'm dead so yeah. That's what you freakin' get. A kick in the balls.
You wanna go for round two? Because next time it's gonna be the shotgun!"

Josh crouches on all fours like an animal, every single one of his horrifyingly sharp teeth on
display as he pulls his lips back in a furious sneer.

"Do you want to get shot in the dick!?" Sam yells, raising the shotgun high enough for his milky
eyes to focus on it. Does he even recognize what it is anymore? Is there enough humanity left in
him to feel any kind of primal fear if he does?

Dear God, please don't make me shoot him in the dick.

Something flashes in his eyes - something else besides rage and blind, primitive hunger - and his
pupils seem to dilate. He lets out a low, throaty growl, but this time it sounds more begrudging than
outright deadly.

"Look at me, you crazy asshole! I know I look like shit, and yeah okay, I desperately need
a fucking shower but come on! You know me! If Hannah could gather up enough damn brain
activity to recognize people then so can you, okay?" Sam leans down, ignoring every single voice
of reason telling her to get the fuckety fucking fuck out of there and stop taunting the big, crazy
Wendigo.

"Look at me," she repeats, softer this time.

And - by some bizarre miracle that literally can't be anything but some much-needed Heavenly
intervention at this point- he actually does.

Sam doesn't dare to even breathe as he slowly gets to his feet. He's always been freakishly tall -
effectively dwarfing her every time she stood next to him in the past - but with those unnaturally
long limbs, he is towering over her. His body seems to go on forever, her neck straining painfully
to look him in the eyes as he approaches her with those jerky, twisty motions that put her freakin'
teeth on edge.

God. He smells like actual death. This is so gross.

Josh tilts his head at her, the motion almost too quick to register, and his eyes remain unblinking
while he studies her. Well, study might be too generous of a word - considering how she's not
moving a single finger, she doesn't even know if he can see her at all - but when he grabs her chin
with those freezing, clawed fingers and turns her face this way and that without much concern for
the fact that his stupid talons are literally digging into the skin of her right cheek, she knows he
can.

Fear and anticipation give into annoyance, and she frowns at him.

"I'm sorry, but are you aware that you have actual knives attached to your fingers right now?
Freakin' ow, Josh!" She pulls out of his grip, pressing her hand against the newly acquired puncture
wounds.

Great. This shit is probably gonna get infected and I'm gonna get blood poisoning and die five
seconds after finding this asshole.

Wonderful.

He stares at her, and he has the nerve to look offended when she takes a step back from him to
avoid another session of impalement.
 "I'm a delicate fucking flower, okay?!" Sam hisses at him, pointing accusatorily at him with her
free hand. "And right now, you're Edward flippin' Scissorhands. Paws off, buddy. At least until we
trim those things, because I repeat, freakin' - and I cannot stress this enough - ow!"

Josh blinks.

Once. Twice.

And then he does something so unexpected, so completely un-Wendigoish but so one million
percent Josh - that Sam can't do anything but stare at him.

He laughs.

Chapter End Notes

this is what I brought you

this you can keep
this is what I brought
you may forget me

I promise to depart
just promise one thing
kiss my eyes
and lay me to sleep

this is what I brought you

this you can keep
this is what I brought
you may forget me

I promise you my heart

just promise to sing
kiss my eyes
and lay me to sleep

this is what I thought

I thought you'd need me
this is what I thought
so think me naive

I'd promise you a heart

you'd promise to keep
kiss my eyes
and lay me to sleep
 Light
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Laughing.

Josh is laughing.

No - he's guffawing - the sound reverberating through the cave, so eerily human but still so far
from it. The thrills and coos mixed with that warm, human voice from her past sound so wrong,
like listening to her favorite song for the first time in forever through a broken record player.

Distorted, twisted. Unfamiliar.

But beautiful all the same.

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, asshole," Sam mutters, removing her headlight to take a look at the
damage. "I swear to God, Josh. If you broke this thing, I'm going to personally make sure they
neuter you as soon as we get back home. Do you have any idea how many dishes I had to wash,
how many freakin' lawns I had to mow, and how many damn cat pictures I had to look at to afford
this shit?! A lot. Okay? A lot." She shudders, the memory of having to listen to her ancient
neighbor coo and gush and fawn over Mittens, Mindy, Manny, and Muffins for hours and hours
without pause flashing through her brain like a slideshow from Hell.

Now, Sam loves cats as much as the next gal, but honestly.

One can only listen to the same boring, repetitive stories about the furry M&M's so many times
before the urge to stab a fork through the nearest electrical outlet becomes somewhat impossible to
fight.

Fortunately, though, it seems like her violent reunion with her long-lost love and current Wendibro
- Friendigo? - didn't affect it as badly as she initially suspected. There's some external damage, but
not enough to be critical, and the flickering of the light was only caused by the battery cover being
knocked loose and one of the batteries slipping out of its socket.

Thank God. Oh, thank God. I do not feel like fumbling around in the pitch-black darkness with a
mentally unstable monster boy, thank you ever so much!

Speaking of which...

Josh stands directly in front of her when she looks back up, his gigantic eyeballs staring at her
headlight with what seems like confused fascination. He lifts one of his clawed hands up to touch
it, and the corner of Sam's eye twitches when the tips of his newly acquired organic razor blades
drag across the glass. It gives off a screechy, loud nails-against-chalkboard type of sound and the
echo of it gets thrown from the walls around them, resembling the scream of a Wendigo with
startling accuracy.

Sam freezes.

The echo keeps bouncing around, mercilessly rising in volume as it reaches the higher levels of the
mine. She doesn't even allow one single breath to ghost across her lips as she stares into the
darkness.
For a moment, everything is silent.

Then something calls back.

Something large. And alive.

Fuck.

Sam grabs her backpack off the ground, wincing at the single functional strap digging into a
wound on her shoulder as it settles against her raw skin. Josh, startled by the sudden motion,
immediately falls into a crouching position before he jumps back, snarling at her as he scurries
back up the wall. He twists his head in an unnatural position to look down at her from the ceiling,
resembling a very oversized spider.

It would be funny if she wasn't so goddamned terrified. And also, y'know, in mortal peril.

Uh-gain.

Must be Thursday.

"Shit... shit shit shit! Josh, we have to go! Do you understand me? We have to go!" Sam calls out to
him, her feet carrying her further into the cave of their own volition. Her body is already screaming
in protest, but there's no time to stand around like an idiot feeling sorry for herself, not when they're
about to have company.

And lots of it.

"Come on!" She puts the headlight back on, relieved to once again have a stable light source to
help her navigate the perilous obstacle course in front of her. She doesn't dare turn around to check
if Josh is following her, just hoping and praying that the rapid click-clack-click above her head is
him and not some other cannibalistic asshole coming to crash their little reunion party.

Jump. Duck. Jump. Jump. Right. Left. Duck. Duck!

The old, familiar sound of her own voice shouting directions at her as she legs it through the old
mining system is the only thing her mind can register at that moment. Her pulse is pounding in her
ears, drowning out everything else, and Sam is thankful for it.

She doesn't want to hear. She doesn't want to know how many of those monsters are chasing her
right now. She doesn't want to see their huge, starving eyes tracking her every move. She doesn't
want to see their overly large, sneering mouths with those sharp, jagged teeth snapping at her heels
or hear the sound of their triumphant thrills as they gain on her. She doesn't want to know how
close she is - once again - to certain death.

And then she trips.

The edge of her shoe catches against something, and she goes flying. Her head crashes into the side
of a support beam, the rest of her body following so quickly she doesn't even have time to register
the white-hot pain that shoots through her leg as her ankle snaps.

Everything hurts.

Sam pushes her hands against the wet, slippery ground, desperately trying to get back up. Her body
is working on autopilot, her consciousness too foggy from the impact to function properly. She can
feel hot, sticky liquid pouring down her face, hissing as her fingers instinctively inspect the gash
along her hairline.

Get up, she tells herself, blinking furiously to clear her vision of the black dots flashing around in
front of her.

Get UP!

It's no use. Her leg crumbles painfully beneath her as soon as she tries to put any weight on it, and
the sound of her agonized cries reverberates through the cave system like a searchlight. The
victorious shrieks in the darkness are closing in with alarming speed, but there's nothing she can do.
She can't run, she can't walk. She can't even crawl. Her entire body has given up on her; the long
trip down the mine, the exertion and exhaustion finally catching up to her.

Come on, Sam, get up! Please! SAM! The voice inside her head changes. Deepens. It transforms
into one she knows so well, one that she desperately wants to hear but probably never, ever will.

Never again.

Mike.

It's Mike. Her best friend, her support system, her closest ally. He's screaming at her, begging her
to get up, crying. Pleading.

Please, Sam! PLEASE!

Sam groans, her fingers digging into the rotten wood as she attempts, once again, to get herself
back up. She leverages her unbroken leg against a rock and pushes away from it, managing to lift
her bloody, beaten body halfway into an upright position before the wood gives in. She crashes
down again, the impact knocking the very breath from her lungs, and this time she doesn't try to
stand up.

"I'm sorry, Michael... I can't," she whispers, her own voice sounding small and defeated against his
desperate cries.

You have to, Sam! You have to. Sam, please, come on!

Her face stings as the tears find every scratch, wound, and abrasion in her skin pouring down her
cheeks, but it's nothing compared to the world of hurt her entire body is in. She doesn't even know
how badly injured she is anymore, every single limb feeling like it's been ripped to shreds and
shoved back on, only to have it being torn off all over again.

A large, pale shape emerges from the darkness in front of her, walking upright on two legs.

Unhurried, meticulous.

Like it knows that it has all the time in the world to savor this moment and that Sam can't do
anything to stop its advances.

SAM GET UP GET UP GET UP GET UP PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

Michael is screaming inside her brain, his voice sounding so real it almost makes her question
whether or not he is actually there with her, but of course, he isn't. And thank God for that. This
mountain has claimed enough lives, and now it's about to have hers as well.

"You can't have him," Sam rasps, spitting out a mouthful of blood in front of the creature.
"You won't."

The Wendigo stands before her, so close she can see every horrific detail in its marred face despite
her foggy vision. It's the tallest one she's seen so far, and its skin is so white it seems to have
developed a strange sort of bioluminescence. There's a large, purplish-red scar running down one
of its eyes, forcing it permanently shut, and its left ear is completely missing. Two of its front teeth
are abnormally elongated - even more so than any other Wendigo she's ever seen - and the effect
makes her think of some kind of Wendigo-Vampire hybrid.

Heh. Vampigo.

Funny.

And then, just as it crouches down, something flashes past her so fast her eyes don't even have time
to register what it is before it collides with the Wendigo in front of her, knocking it aside. It falls to
the ground with a frustrated, infuriated shriek, jaws snapping in the direction of whatever it is that
interrupted its snack time.

But it's no longer there.

The Wendigo is chewing empty air, blinking confusedly for a second before it screams with such
feral, uncensored rage it turns Sam's blood to ice. It rises back to its feet, swatting its claws
uselessly around itself as five deep, red gashes appear across its face.

The viscous liquid that pours from them looks like blood, but darker.

Blacker.

Sam pushes as far up against the wall as she possibly can, terrified of what she can't see. Something
is ripping the Wendigo apart right in front of her - tearing into it mercilessly and then vanishing
again with such incredible speed she has less than zero percent chance of catching whatever it is -
and the large predator's movements are becoming more erratic with every new wound that opens
on its spindly, naked body until it finally gives out one last scream of indignation and scutters into
the darkness.

Then, and only then, the flurry of movement pauses long enough for her to realize what it is.

Or rather, who.

"Josh," Sam breathes, relief and exhaustion fighting for dominance as the tension leaves her body.
"Holy shit. You... yeah. You're fast. And stuff. Like, really fast. Have you been juicin' down here
or someth-ow. Okay. Yeah. Speaking? Not a great idea right now," she chuckles, silently cursing
herself when another wave of burning pain sears through her chest. "I, uh. I think I need a little bit
of help down here, buddy. If you can even understand me."

Josh approaches her. He crouches down until he reaches her level, a look of genuine concern
flashing across his face.

"Help," he croaks, his voice sounding hoarse and unused. Then it changes, morphing into a
different voice. A lighter, more feminine voice.

Her voice.

"You're crying out for help, Josh! Come on, you wanted to get caught, didn't you?"
It feels like a punch to the stomach.

Her voice, her words.

That same pleading, desperate edge, and the tiny crack at the end of the sentence - it's all so
perfectly mimicked, and even though she knows perfectly well that the Wendigo can imitate
voices, the fact that he's repeating one of the last things she ever said to him makes her old wounds
open right back up again, and she feels like she can't breathe. Her chest feels too tight; and this time
it's not because of the fact that she probably has like, five broken ribs at this point.

"Josh, I'm... I'm so sorry," Sam whispers, her voice breaking. "God, I'm..."

"Sorry," Josh echoes. The unexpected gentleness of his voice surprises her, and she looks up at
him. Despite the gruesome tears in his left cheek, she can swear he's trying to smile.

"Yeah."

He reaches out to her, carefully tucking his clawed hands underneath her body to carry her, and she
tries to help him as much as she can considering her circumstances. She tucks her arms around his
neck, gritting her teeth to avoid cursing loudly when every single fiber of her being screams out in
agonized protest. She knows they can't stay there, and it's not like she's going to be able to sashay
her happy little ass out of there on her own right now, what with her leg deciding to snap harder
than Josh's sanity and all.

Josh rises to his feet, tucking her against his chest and using his free arm to hook her backpack onto
his shoulder.

"We need... to get out of here," Sam mutters into the dirty, bloodstained overalls. "We need to... get
to the cabin. Do you understand? Ca-bin. Cabin. Yeah?"

Oh, great. Now she's talking to him like he's a mentally challenged toddler.

"Mike. Why don't you check out the guest cabin? The one I told you about," Josh quotes, using his
own voice this time. She doesn't recognize the words though, but the fact that he mentions Mike
clearly reveals that this is - yet again - just a mimic.

"Yeah. That one."

"Yeah. Yeah, alright."

Mike's voice this time. Is this how it's going to be going forward? Is she ever gonna be able to have
an actual conversation with him, or is she going to have to listen to him recap their entire goddamn
trip up here? Because that is definitely going to screw up her mentality something fierce, and
thanks to the Blackwood-provided hallucinations she's been dealing with for the past year, she's
had her fill with painful, guilt-ridden nostalgia, thank you ever so much.

Okay. Okay. This is fine.

I'm smashed to all hells, Josh is an oversized, Wendigo-shaped parrot, and I'm fifty thousand miles
underground in a nest of bloodthirsty, cannibalistic monsters that should not, in any way, shape, or
form, exist in this reality. There's a very real chance that I have internal bleeding, and I may or
may not have accumulated an impressive collection of various skull fractures that could quite
possibly give me permanent brain damage.

Yeah. This is fine.

 I'm fine.

Chapter End Notes

Hold your breath, my love

just a little bit longer

I am on my way to you
keep your eyes above
don't you ever look under

I am gonna rescue you

you see a light's about to break
and every cell is gonna change

I know you feel that it's too late

that all these chains have you enslaved

I can see the scars

and the chains around your neck
all these shadows taunting you

I can feel your heart

and the urge to stop beating

I said this light's about to break

And all the darkness fade away
Just breathe on

Coming after you

And all the scars they will decay

and enter in a brand new slate

See I was falling into gray

tried to drink the pain away
the sea of glass was just a traitor

Left me hopeless and confused

those poison lips were only danger

Body ached, my body bruised

was crying out

I need a savior

And you came and healed my bones

you picked me up and walked me home

Said; you'll never be alone

just lift your eyes, I'll make you whole
So darling please keep hanging on
we're on our way to break the dawn

Let there be light

 Do I Wanna Know
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"Come on, Sami!"

"No."

"You promised!"

"Nope."

"You super-duper-triple-hand-on-my-heart-and-five-milkshakes-promised, Sam!"

"You wanna get milkshakes? Let's go."

"SAM!"

"Let's get milkshakes."

Hannah grabs onto her best friend's hand as she starts to rise from her spot on the bed and yanks
her back down with such force that Sam almost flips head over ass onto the mattress, bouncing up
and down a couple of times in bewildered confusion.

"Did you just freakin' judo flip me?!" she sputters, glaring at the older brunette. "Who even are
you? Jackie effing Chan?" She rights herself and brushes imaginary dust off of her way-too-short
black dress, transforming the motion into self-conscious pulling instead, and sighs. "This thing is
ridiculous. It's like Beth just reaaally made an effort to scrounge up the tiniest little fabric of
clothing she could possibly produce within a certain time limit."

"It's Jessica's," Hannah replies calmly, looking far too casual about the whole almost-breaking-
Sam's-neck thing when she leans forward and brushes another layer of mascara over her already
freakishly long, thick lashes.

She's opted to trade in her glasses for a pair of contacts tonight, and she looks absolutely stunning.

"Look. If I can wear face paint and endure itchy plastic covers on my eyeballs for one night, you
can manage to wear something other than workout tops and joggers, okay? Besides, you promised
you were gonna confess to Josh tonight, and don't you wanna make sure his jaw hits the floor when
he sees you?"

Goddamn it. Girl talks a lot of sense.

"Ugh. Fine. Scoot." Sam presses herself down onto the luxurious poof Hannah is currently sitting
on, knocking into her friend and causing the red lipstick she's currently applying to slide all the
way across her cheek.

"Sam! Honestly," Hannah sighs, grabbing a makeup wipe. "Were you raised in a cave, or what?"

"Hey. That's a good look for you."

"You're hilarious."
Sam puckers her lips as she stares into the mirror, intimidated to all hells by the plethora of beauty
products lying around. Her idea of 'making an effort' usually just includes wearing her hair in a
ponytail rather than a bun, and applying a sheer layer of lip balm. That totally counts as make-up,
right?

It's... lippy. And balmy.

It's naked lipstick. If anything, it's rather daring of her to wear an undressed beautification item!

"And no," her best friend says before Sam can even get a single word out to explain her newly
found discovery. "Lip balm does not count as dressing up."

Dammit.

Hannah knows her too well.

Sighing loudly in defeat, Sam picks up a small, black compact and clicks it open. It's some kind of
powder, or blush maybe, but the color is way too dark for her complexion and would one hundred
percent make her look like a slightly oversized Oompa-Loompa, and for some reason, she suspects
that slightly oversized Oompa-Loompas are not on Joshua Washington's list of "things" to "do."

"Han, I don't know if you've noticed, but... Uhm. We have a problem."

Hannah straightens her back and looks at her, frowning. "You're not talking yourself out of this,
Sam, so just-"

"No," Sam interrupts, cutting her off. "I'm not trying to be an ass here, okay? But this stuff is way
too dark for me. I'm pigmentally challenged." To demonstrate, Sam rubs her finger across the
compact and draws a line straight down her face, making Hannah giggle.

"Oh. Yeah. I... I didn't think about that. But I mean, you've already got great skin, you don't need
any of that stuff anyway. You just need some mascara, some lip color. Maybe a nice, cool-toned
eyeshadow... a very light blush..." She sucks her lips in while she ponders, and Sam is about to ask
her what she's thinking when she slaps her hands against the vanity table, making them both jump
at the loudness of it.

"I'll do your makeup!" Hannah grins, looking far too excited at this prospect. "I've literally been
dying to give you a makeover since forever and ever!"

For once, Sam does not put up a fight.

"Okay," she agrees, relieved that she won't have to spend the remaining hour trying to decipher
what on Earth all these products are and what the freakin' heck they're supposed to do, because
that would take literally a whole ass century.

Now, if you were to ask her about climbing gear, on the other hand...

"Okay. Just close your eyes, relax, and let Auntie Han-Han take care of you!" Hannah giggles
maniacally as she says this, rubbing her hands together like a cartoon villain.

"Starting to regret this already..." Sam mumbles and reluctantly lets her eyelids slide shut.

The last thing she sees is her best friend leaning towards her, a gigantic grin across her face and
an almost mad glint in her eyes, and her heartbeat increases nervously despite knowing that
Hannah would never do anything to harm her, or cause her any form of embarrassment.
Just calm down, Sam. You know how passionate she can get.

It's fine.

You're fine.

The thing is, it's not the makeup or the dress that causes Sam to wriggle restlessly on her seat. It's
not the feeling of Hannah's light touches as she brushes across her skin with a variation of items
she can't even try to name, and it's not being rendered helpless by her temporary lack of eyesight
that makes her want to squirm out of her skin and disappear through the floor forever, never to be
seen or heard from again.

It's Josh.

Their relationship is... weird. Complex. Uncertain. It's too close and then it's too distant, scolding
hot and then freezing cold. It's so undetermined that Sam still to this day has no idea whether or
not he actually even likes her, much less harbors any genuine romantic feelings for her anywhere
inside that enigmatic, beautiful, infuriating body of his. God knows she didn't like him when they
first met - in fact, she quite despised him - and here she was, getting all prettied up in a dress that
should legally be classified as a postage stamp rather than an actual article of clothing, preparing
to tell her best friend's older brother that she's in love with him.

Oh, what cruel fate.

"Hey," Hannah says, her voice gentle. The sensation of brushes against Sam's skin disappears, and
she cracks an eye open. Her best friend hovers right in front of her face, her brown eyes staring
searchingly at her with such naked concern it almost makes her choke up.

"It's going to be okay."

Goddamn it, Han. Can you actually read minds, or what?

Sam opens her mouth to say something snarky and light-hearted, but instead, her voice sounds
small and fragile, and she whispers:

"I'm fucking scared, Hannah."

The middle Washington sibling abandons her project and wraps her strong, slender arms around
her friend, squeezing her tightly. "I know," she replies softly. "I know. But it's gonna be okay. No
matter what happens, you'll be okay. I'll be right here, always. No matter how it goes... you've still
got me. And Beth. And she's totally gonna kick his ass into the next year if he rejects you because
that means he's clearly an idiot and totally an imposter because no brother of ours would even
consider turning you down, okay?"

Sam laughs. It's choked and sounds more like a strained sob, but she does feel better.

"Thanks, Han."

Hannah smiles - that wide, open, slightly gap-toothed smile that always feels like the sun breaking
through the clouds - and gives her one final squeeze before letting her go.

"You're done, by the way. Just gotta apply ooone... finishing... touch... aaand... there. All done!"
She puts the cap back onto the expensive-looking tube of rose-colored lipstick she just applied
before grabbing Sam's shoulders and turning her towards the mirror.
"Ta-da! Whatcha think? Am I good or am I good."

Sam stares. And stares. And stares.

That's not her. It can't be. The girl in the mirror looks glamorous, glowing, and gorgeous. Her
platinum blonde hair looks soft and silky as it falls over her shoulders and cascades down her back
in loose, angelic ringlets, complimenting the black dress perfectly. Rather than looking like she just
walked out of the Playboy Mansion, she looks ready for a Red Carpet event, and the neutral palette
Hannah chose matches her skin tone to a T.

Her sapphire blue eyes - framed by lush, stupidly long lashes - widen in disbelief.

"Oh yeah," Hannah concludes, stepping behind her and clutching her shoulders as she leans
forward and nods approvingly with a gigantic grin on her face. "I am good."

"You should be a stylist," Sam jokes, but she has to agree.

Hannah is damn good.

"Shoes! You absolutely one million and fifty-seven percent are not allowed to wear those dreadful
Doc Martens with that dress and that face. You're borrowing something of ours! Well, something
of mom's, since your feet belong to an actual elf. How do you even walk on those things? Like, how
do they work?! They're so small! How do you not topple over at the slightest breeze? It's a
scientific mystery. Curiouser and curiouser. I'll have to,- oh, what was I... oh, right. Shoes!"
Hannah snaps her fingers, ending the rapid line of scatterbrained rambling.

"No heels!" Sam calls after her as she shoots out of the room like a Duracell bunny on speed.

"Can't hear you!"

"Hannah! I said NO HEELS!" She's about to charge after the excited brunette when she suddenly
returns, only barely managing to avoid crashing into her in the doorway.

"All I heard was 'heels', so here. I got you these!" Hannah grins, showing off a pair of black
stilettos with flimsy, diamond-studded straps. They sparkle like tiny stars as she twirls them
around, and despite Sam's objections, they do look pretty.

And shiny.

Must have shiny object.

"Here, put them on! They're not even that high. You'll be fine. Just practice walking around the
room for a bit while I find you some appropriate accessories."

Sam isn't even listening anymore. She just nods absentmindedly with her eyes glued to the
sparkling items.

Shiny object. Mine now.

Strapping herself into the dangerous trip-traps, she has to admit they don't look or feel nearly as
scary as she initially thought. Hannah knows her well, and she wouldn't pick out something that
would actually kill her.

Hopefully.
The glimmery, thin straps make her ankles look dainty and elegant like she's not spending every
Saturday evening scaling artificial mountain tops and knocking into every single knockable and
un-knockable object in the history of ever. Hannah even forbid her from climbing for a whole ass
week before the party, refusing to allow her to show up with bruises and bandages on every
conceivable part of her body.

"Okay... if I can climb a freakin' mountain, I can handle a pair of heels. How hard can it be?
Celebrities walk around without dying in them all the time."

"That is true," Hannah replies, giving Sam a proper scare when she suddenly manifests beside her
like Dracula. "And they also look freakin' good not dying in them, so you know, there's hope for
you too. Okay... let me just..." She brushes the waterfall of pale blonde ringlets away from Sam's
neck and attaches a small, silver chain around it. "We're not gonna go all out on the accessories,
okay? You're not a Christmas tree, and less is more. Now you just need these bracelets right...
here..." A small, gentle jingle can be heard when she pushes three shiny silver bracelets onto Sam's
wrist, matching the necklace.

"Aaand we are done! Now I just need to finish up here myself, and... oh. Go apply some more
perfume. You know..." She smirks knowingly, giving Sam a look.

"The one Josh likes."

Sam blushes, perfectly recalling all the times he complimented her on her perfume.

"Har-di-har," she says drily, but still crouches down to search through her overnight bag. "I think
I'm literally going to throw up, Han. My stomach feels like that time I got drunk on those
disgusting, sweet grape-coolers Jess brought to that camping trip, do you remember? That sugary
stuff?" Sam shivers at the mere memory of it.

"It feels like that, only sixteen billion times worse."

"You're just lovesick," Beth jabs as she enters the room in time to hear Sam's confession,
immediately regretting it when she sees the look on her best friend's face. "Look, it's either this or
continuing to pine after him from afar for the next ten to fifteen years," she says, a bit more gently.
She takes a seat on the desk in front of Sam, supporting her elbows on her thighs to lean in closer.

"Besides, none of us enjoy watching the two of you tip-toe around each other all the time. I mean,
sure, it was funny. And kinda cute. A little tragic. A lotta hilarious. At first. But it's really not fun
anymore, Sam. You like him and he likes you, and this isn't making either one of you happy. I
mean, God! Just the very idea of my disgusting brother macking on my best friend makes me want
to gag, but... I mean, shit. Do you wanna spend a gross amount of time wondering 'what if', or do
you actually want to risk being slobbered over by that creature for the next century?" Beth
grimaces, her entire face revealing her disgust.

"Which, by the way, is completely batshit insane and I will forever maintain that you need an
actual lobotomy. Because ew, Sam. Ew." Beth grins. "But seriously, you guys need to just fucking
make out already. Because this whole will-they-won't-they-bullshit is just pathetic at this point."

Sam laughs. As much as she loves Hannah's sweetness, sometimes she needs Beth's blunt and
pragmatic nature to kick her ass into gear.

"Oh, and hey. You look fucking beautiful, by the way. Good job, Han."

Hannah beams.
"Doesn't she look absolutely breathtaking? Like an actual angel! If Josh doesn't lose his words-,"

"..-he's going to lose his head," Beth finishes, her face completely serious. "In a very literal and
very permanent sense."

Note to self: Never step on Beth's toes. Ever.

Also:

Reinforce head with titanium bolts at first possible opportunity.

"Hoo-kay. Dial it back a few notches there, Hannibal Lecter. We're not murdering our brother just
yet, okay? And, hey. You should really get changed, they'll literally be here any minute now and
you still look like you're heading for the skatepark. And for God's sake, take that stupid thing off!"

Beth clutches her beanie protectively.

"Never!"

Hannah reaches out to yank it off her head, but her sister jumps to her feet and bolts out of the
room before Sam can even blink.

"Give it up, Han. I'm pretty sure it has physically grown attached to her skull at this point."

The brunette harrumphs and stomps back over to the vanity, forcibly throwing her rump onto the
poof, and proceeds to furiously slam her face with a powder puff so vigorously Sam is genuinely
concerned for her overall physical well-being.

"I swear, one day..." Hannah mumbles, staring daggers into the mirror. "Someday that disgusting,
repulsive thing will have a very hot date with a certain fireplace, mark my words... someday...
someday... that will be a wonderful, glorious, celebratory day and will definitely be recognized as a
national holiday. Oh, yes it will. There will be fire. There will be flames..."

Sam raises her hands and calmly backs out of the room, closing the door gently on her insane,
raving best friend.

Hide your children, hide your beanies.

Hannah is on the warpath.

Moving further down the hall, she can already feel the pulsing oomph-oomph-oomph of the large
sound system in the living room downstairs, and the drunken chatter becomes more and more
audible the closer she gets to the staircase. For such a large mansion, the sound really doesn't
carry very well, and she suspects that the esteemed Mrs. Washington has something to do with
that. It's not that the acoustics are bad by any means, but soundproofing has definitely been done.

Thankfully, nobody's allowed upstairs except for herself, the twins, and Josh. That has always been
the golden rule whenever the Washingtons are having a party and nobody wants to risk being
banned from parties at the Washington residence.

Nobody.

"Sam! Hey-o!" Beth jogs down the hall to catch up with her, and Sam notices that while
she did change into something more party-appropriate, the beanie is still very much present.
Because of course, it is.

"Sounds like Joshie-Josh started the party early! The dick. I wanted you to do the whole... ya know,
slow-motion-entrance shit, like, he'd be working to get the sound system up and running, all alone
in the living room... you'd walk in, pretending to search for Hannah, he'd see you all dressed up
like... well, like that, and... ah, fuck. I was actually looking forward to seeing my idiot brother
being rendered speechless for once! It would be so fucking good! Aw, maaan... I'm like, genuinely
bummed now."

Sam smiles, but she can't deny the fact that she's disappointed as well.

Trying to wow Josh will be substantially harder with a bunch of his loud, jocky dude-bro's present,
not to mention how he always seems to be surrounded by these scantily-clad hotties with nothing
but dollar signs tattooed onto their fluttering eyeballs.

Shit.

"Okay. Okay, we can still do this. Just gotta... what if I-no, that's... no, nope, can't do that, mom
said no fire..."

Seriously, what is it with you guys and arson?! Is that some kind of weird family trait you all
share, or what? Hannah wants to torch your beanie, you want to do... whatever it is you're
plotting in that devious noggin' of yours, Josh is always playing around with that damn Zippo-
lighter...

"Right, okay. So, this is what we're gonna... HEY, SHITBIRD, THAT'S EXPENSIVE!" Beth
suddenly pushes past Sam to go murder some poor party-goer that must've stumbled across some
priceless artifact or other, and Sam is left fending for herself at the top of the staircase.

Fantastic.

"THAT SHIT IS WORTH TEN TIMES YOUR ENTIRE EXISTENCE, YOU BRAINLESS
APE!"

"Oh, Beth," Sam mumbles, smirking as she listens to her friend going completely postal in the curse
word department.

"Damn," someone drones behind her, joining in, and her entire body freezes in place. There's no
way that voice - that slow, sleepy, 'I just crawled my ass out of bed two seconds ago and I also
marathon-smoked twenty cigarettes' voice - could ever belong to someone other than Josh freakin'
Washington.

"Someone's gonna die. Too bad the maid is off for the weekend. 'M not cleaning that shit."

Sam feels his presence behind her, close enough that his voice is speaking directly into her right
ear, and the scent of his cologne sends her head spinning.

Holy shit. Holy fuck.

Holy shit fucking fuck.

Josh is here and I am here and we're alone and I am wearing an actual postage stamp and why
the Hell did I ever think this was gonna be a good idea I look completely effing ridiculous and
he's gonna laugh and oh my god I wanna go home...

Josh brushes his hand against her hip, setting her entire body on fire. It's just the lightest of
touches - barely there, really - but she feels it with every fiber of her being.

"Hey, Sammy," he breathes, his voice low and raspy in his throat.

"Hi, Josh," she replies, thankful and relieved that her words sound a lot more casual and relaxed
than she's feeling right now.

"Y'look..." Josh pauses, considering his next words. "... nice. Y'look nice, Sammy."

Nice.

Well, not exactly the overwhelming response she was hoping for, but what could she really expect
from this infuriating human?

"Thanks," she smiles, turning towards him and meeting his eyes for the first time. "You, too. Is that
a new tie? I haven't seen it before. Or... oh, wait! Yeah. That's the one Hannah got you for
Christmas last year, right?" Sam takes the silky fabric between her fingers and admires the way it
seems to be so completely, utterly black against his white shirt.

"Vantablack, yeah. 'S cool," Josh confirms. His eyes don't leave her face, though, and when she
looks back up, his gaze captures hers. There's a heaviness in the air as he studies her with that
enigmatic, annoyingly unreadable expression, and she wants to know more than anything in the
world what he's thinking right now.

Does he really like it? Do I look stupid? Do I look like a clown?

He leans in, and when his hand cradles her face she feels like she can't breathe. He gets closer,
and closer, until...

... he's pulling back.

Sam blinks up at him in confusion when he silently holds out a finger in front of her.

"Eyelash," he whispers.

Oh. Ooooh. Well, now she feels like a complete and utter idiot. Did she honestly think he was going
to, what? Kiss her? Pick her up and swing her around, Princess Bride-style, and then whisk her off,
off, off, and away to some magical kingdom where he actually gave her sane, transparent, open
communication?

Face it, Sammy. He's just not that into you.

"Blow."

She frowns.

"What."

"Blow. Make a wish. Don't tell me, though. Then it won't come true."

Are you for real?

Yes. Yes, he is.

Josh moves in again, using his free hand to caress her cheek gently with the tips of his fingers.
"And I want you..."

I'm dead now.

"... to have anything you wish for," he continues, like that stupid pause he decided to take hadn't
just caused her to nearly spontaneously combust. "So, blow."

Right. Blow. Just blow on the eyelash. That fell. Out of my body. While he watched.

Cool.

Sam closes her eyes.

Make a wish, he says. Make a wish! Like I haven't done that the millions of times we've watched
shooting stars together, or when the clock strikes twelve, or when I'm blowing out my freakin'
candles on my birthday... but yes, sure. A discarded hair from my body will surely be different.

Ugh. Okay. I wish... ah, to hell with it.

I wish I could finally have the damn guts to tell Josh how I feel.

She blows the eyelash off his finger and opens her eyes. He smiles down at her, looking like she
just fulfilled one of his greatest wishes herself.

"... I'm gonna get a drink."

He steps away from her, leaving her slightly unbalanced from the sudden loss of his physical
presence. Sam places a hand on the railing to disguise it, and also because he just sent her entire
everything into a mental tailspin as freakin' always and she's still nowhere near figuring out how
he feels about her.

No sooner have Josh disappeared out of sight, however, before the third and final Washington
finally makes her squealing appearance.

"Oh my god, what did he say?! Did he like it? Did he compliment you? Did he drool?! Tell me tell
me tell me!" Hannah bounces over to Sam and grabs her shoulders, jumping up and down with
every single question.

"He said I looked nice," Sam replies, and the bouncing immediately stops.

"Nice?! He said you looked NICE? How about... how about 'breathtakingly beautiful!' or... or
'angelic', or... I mean, come on, Joshua, we're related for Pete's sake! Ugggh that guy, I swear,
that guy... where did he even go? Where is he? I'll give him a... a... a stern talking to! Yep!"

"He is, and I repeat: 'getting a drink.' So my best advice is to follow the alcohol."

Hannah stands up straighter, a blazing fire of righteous fury igniting in her eyes. "Well, then!
Onwards and forwards. To the kitchen!" She grabs Sam's wrist and starts pulling her down the
stairs with almost inhuman strength, fueled by her lust for revenge. She had spent all that time and
energy making Sam all nice and pretty, and knowing her, Josh would absolutely positively rue the
day he ever decided to ignore all her efforts.

"Coming through! Excuse me! Pardo-hey! YOU SPILLED YOUR LIQUOR ON ME, you... you...
you horrible little monkey-child!" The middle Washington glares daggers into the crowd, her hand
now dripping wet from the aftermath of her collision with the half-naked buffoon currently tearing
up the dancefloor with his limbs flapping everywhere, obviously too preoccupied with attracting a
mate of his own species to acknowledge the tall brunette currently plotting his impending doom.

Ugh. Frat boys, Sam thinks, disgust written across her face like a neon sign. It is an absolute lie
that you get wiser with age. I swear to Zeus, they must be performing some sort of collective
lobotomy as an entrance requirement. Every single one of these troglodytes was probably at least
halfway normal before going off to college.

Well.

Maybe forty-sixty.

"I'm sorry, Sam, I just have to... I need to..." Hannah hesitates, chewing her thumbnail desperately,
and Sam understands her conflict.

Mess. Spillage. The potential for broken furniture and party ban from the 'rentals.

Must really suck being the responsible one, Sam thinks, placing her hand reassuringly on
Hannah's shoulder. "Go. Take care of it. I'll be fine on my own, I promise!" She smiles, nodding
encouragingly. "I'll go grab a drink and see if I can find Josh, okay? Then you can yell at him all
you want."

Her best friend hugs her quickly and runs off with a breathy "thank you!", once again leaving Sam
alone for the third time that night.

Well. Now I've officially been abandoned by every Washington sibling in the house unless
they've got a fourth one squirreled away in the basement or some shit, I guess.

... Wait.

Is that why I've never seen their basement?

Sam ponders this seriously for a moment, then shrugs. This is a mental debate for Drunk
Sam, not Sober Sam.

To the kitchen! Sam turns on her heels, resolutely stalking through the remaining part of the dark,
crowded living room. The strobe lights from the ceiling flash rapidly, making everyone move in
chaotic, sweaty slow motion, and paired with the ultraviolet bulbs installed in the walls it looks
like a mass of extraterrestrial beings glowing like the bioluminescent waves they saw that one time
Sam went with the Washingtons on holiday to Laguna Beach.

Not equally pretty, though, what with the strange mating rituals and overall tomfoolery taking
place between the dancing aliens.

If you consider rubbing mindlessly up against each other dancing, of course.

Which she does not.

Finally having arrived at her destination - also known as the kitchen and Ground Zero for
drunken-hooligan-troglodyte syndrome - she grabs another plastic cup and narrows her eyes at the
selection, which has rapidly and tragically dwindled in her absence.
Well. Guess my options are... beer, beer, or... oh, would'ya look at that! More beer.

Super.

As she stands there contemplating whether or not her taste buds are temporarily deceased enough
to tolerate the grossest of all fermented beverages currently known to man, someone bumps into
her from behind and nearly crushes her ribs upon impact when she slams into the kitchen island,
effectively knocking the everloving wind out of her.

"Jesus flippin' Christ!" she hisses, catching herself at the very last second. It doesn't stop her from
feeling like she's been shot by several bullets at once, however, and the would-be murderer behind
her gives out a low chuckle before apologizing, not sounding very sincere in the very least due to
the very poorly hidden tone of amusement.

"Sorry."

Sam turns around, accusing finger already prepared for her righteous tirade. "Now listen here,
you optically challenged piece of-" She doesn't even get to finish her sentence before the tall, dark
stranger in front of her grabs her hand, pointedly ignoring the awkwardness of shaking an
outstretched finger when he smiles and leans down to look her in the eyes, his handsome face
expressing nothing but smooth confidence.

"I'm Mike."

She blinks. Once, twice. Then a third time for good measure.

Five seconds pass, then ten. Fifteen.

He seems completely at ease with letting her stare at him for an almost ridiculous amount of time,
even going so far as to lean back against the kitchen cabinet in a position that clearly invites her
eyeballs to roam freely. He even has the gall to smirk at her, the dick!

"So, you got a name? Or should I just make one up for you?"

This asshole!

What an absolute sleazeball. He embodies every single party boy-jock-playboy stereotype in the
entire world and she is not here for it, not even a little bit. Sure, he's good-looking, but man oh man
does he know it. Everything about him is tailored to attract girls like Jessica or maybe even Emily -
she always did go for the pretty ones, brain activity optional - and hell, even Beth would give him
an appraising eyebrow-raise, though she'd be too socially intelligent to actually engage him in
conversation.

He's too... perfect. His dark hair is just a little too casually messy to be unintentional, his clothes
just a little too "I just threw this look together two seconds before leaving the house but damn if I
don't look like a snack" to be just that, and even the way he's standing, the very picture of chill but
still showing off his muscled physique... it's all just so stupidly transparent she's genuinely
concerned for the future of womenkind if anyone actually buys his whole charade.

"Okay. So. You look like a... Samantha. Am I right?"

Sam frowns at him. Clearly, this dickbag knows who she is, something she would question if she
had even one iota of interest in conversing with the walking poster boy for frat parties and
toothpaste commercials.
Which, again, she does not.

She grabs a bottle of lukewarm beer from the table, not even bothering to use a cup as she
navigates around the kitchen island, very deliberately allowing him to realize that she is, in fact,
avoiding him like the plague, all while maintaining eye contact with him to make sure he stays put
and doesn't decide to chase after her to continue his attempt to... whatever it is he is trying - and
failing miserably - to accomplish.

He gives another low, throaty chuckle and winks at her.

"See you around, Sam."

Yeah. No. I'd rather play tonsil wars with a cactus, thank you ever so much.

Wait.

Do cacti even have tonsils?

Sam pauses, her eyebrows knitting together seriously as she considers this for a moment, then
gives a short laugh and keeps on walking. She must be less sober from the pre-party cocktails she
had with Hannah and Beth earlier than she initially believed if the question of whether or not
actual plants possess any human characteristics actually fascinates her.

Note to self:

Must Google the anatomy of cacti upon returning to my humble abode.

She's so preoccupied pondering the existential limits of plants that she doesn't even notice Mike
trailing after her until he grabs her shoulder and turns her around, rudely interrupting her very
important and very valid scientific thought patterns.

Oh, good. You again.

"So I guess by 'see you around' you actually meant 'hey, I'm gonna let you leave so I can stalk you
directly after like an actual creep', huh?" She raises an eyebrow at him, taking a couple of steps
backward to create some space between them.

He smirks but has at least the semi-decency to look a tiny bit sheepish.

"Yeah, well..." He drags it out, rubbing his neck. "I guess I kinda just wanted a second chance to
make a good impression. Guess I kinda shot that one in the face, right? I'm usually smoother than,
well... this, I guess, but-"

"Sam. Sammyyy. There you are."

Josh throws an arm around her shoulder, causing her heart rate to spike enormously. She turns
her head to look at him, but he's busy observing the beer bottle she's still holding onto like a
lifeline. His eyes then trace over to Mike and narrow slightly as he takes in the tall, handsome
stranger who - in return - is analyzing him just as intensely in return. The silent staring contest is
so filled with testosterone it makes Sam feel directly uncomfortable.

"Okay... so... Jooosh, this is Mike. A guy I literally just met five seconds ago. Mike, this is Josh,
my... uhm. M-my friend. One of my best friends. He lives here."

Great. Super introduction, Samantha. Please don't ever go into politics.

"Don't remember inviting you, bro," Josh drones, the very picture of boredom if you didn't know
him well enough to notice the tension in his jaw, the sharpness in his gaze, and the telltale sign of
him flexing his fingers instinctively like he's aching for a fight.

"I'm here with Emily, bro," Mike responds, the flirty tone in his voice completely gone. Josh
smirks, and his eyes seem to bug out in that unique, fascinating way that is and always will be
purely, unequivally, and exclusively his own.

"You're here with Em, but you're slobbering all over my sister. Nice one, man."

Sam sputters, horrified. Sister. His SISTER?! Jesus Christ, please just freakin' shoot me between
the eyes and be done with it, why don't you. I know I often joke about being sister-zoned but
come ON already, this is just ridiculous now! Come to me, Sweet Death, I embrace thee.

"I didn't realize I was adopted," Sam quips, laughing to disguise the complete and utter
heartbreak. Josh opens his mouth to reply, but before he can even get a word out, a shrill voice
cuts through the air like a mandrake.

"Michael! The hell have you been?! I told you to get me a drink, and you disappear on me for
twenty goddamn minutes?! This is not why I brought you along, you big idiot! Can't you follow one
simple instruction? Like, I know you're pretty so you don't have to be smart, but I would
sure appreciate it when I ask you nicely to get me a freakin' drink and not leave me on the dance
floor all by myself! And where even is my drink? I sure hope to God you're not expecting me to
drink beer! It's not even light! Do you realize how many calories are in that? Do you want me to
get fat?!"

Oh good. Speak of the She-Devil and she shall appear.

Emily freakin' Davis.

"Em, give it a rest," Sam pleads with her. "Or take your lover's quarrel somewhere that isn't here. I
really don't have the energy to deal with you right now."

The dark-haired girl gives her a cold, snooty side-eye and grabs onto Mike's arm possessively.

"Don't cross me, bitch. And don't even try making eyes at my man," she spits at Sam, who's almost
expecting her hair to transform into snakes and turn her into actual stone.

"I'm nobody's man, babe," Mike adds, but she just smiles sweetly at him.

Dear God, this chick needs therapy.

"Yeah, okay. Whatever you say. Now, come on. You owe me a drink, and then we are going to have
a long talk about how you can make it up to me for leaving me all alone on the dance floor like
some common peasant while you went off lollygagging with the unwashed masses," Emily purrs,
but Mike visibly winces as her sharp, manicured nails dig violently into his arm.

The guy might be a massive tool, but she can't help but feeling sorry for the guy. Nobody deserves
to be stuck with Emily for a whole night, regardless of how douchy and invasive they are.

"So..." Sam says after Mike and Emily have disappeared back into the kitchen. "Siblings, huh? I'm
flattered, Joshua. Really. I didn't know you cared."
 Josh looks at her questioningly, then he realizes what she's referring to.

"Oh. Yeah. Close enough, anyway. I mean, 's not like you don't spend enough time here as it is.
Might as well make it official, right? Can't wait to tell the parents. Give them another kid to
neglect, give Hannah another sister to dote over, give Beth a trusty partner-in-crime..." Josh
pauses, locking eyes with her, and his expression makes her breath halt to a complete stop.

"And myself... well." He smiles - that slow, enigmatic Josh Washington-smile - and leans down to
whisper in her ear.

"Sweet Home Alabama, Sammy."

Chapter End Notes

Do I wanna know
if this feelin' flows both ways
sad to see you go
was sorta hopin' that you'd stay

Baby, we both know

that the nights were mainly made
for sayin' things that you can't say
tomorrow day

Crawlin' back to you

ever thought of callin' when
you've had a few

'Cause I always do

maybe I'm too busy bein' yours

to fall for somebody new
now, I've thought it through
crawlin' back to you

So have you got the guts

been wonderin' if your heart's still open
and if so, I wanna know what time it shuts

simmer down an' pucker up

I'm sorry to interrupt
it's just I'm constantly on the cusp
of tryin' to kiss you

I don't know if you feel the same as I do

but we could be together

if you wanted to
 Scars
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The first thought that pops into Sam's head upon regaining consciousness?

Ow.

The second thought that pops into Sam's head upon regaining consciousness?

Fucking OW.

Seriously. If she knew she'd be waking up to a world of aches, bruises, cuts, and broken freakin'
everything, she would've stayed under. The memories weren't even on the same level of pain as the
reality she now finds herself in, blinking against the unexpectedly bright, artificial light that greets
her as soon as she opens her eyes. It burns; like staring directly into the sun after a lifetime in
darkness, and what with her running around those cursed mines like an actual, ill-prepared idiot
with nothing but her itsy bitsy little headlight she might as well have done exactly that.

And the first thought that pops into Sam's head after regaining consciousness?

Am I... in a bathtub? Why. am I. in a bathtub.

She feels around, mostly blind from squinting like a bat against the merciless electrical assault on
her eyeballs, trying to orient herself enough to wrap her useless brain around this new situation. Her
hands slide carefully onto something else, something cold and metal, and without thinking she
grabs onto it and twists.

"HOLYMOTHEROFMARZIPAN THAT IS COLD!" Hurrying to close the tap again, Sam curses
herself internally as she wraps her arms around her body, shivering from the newfound state of very
wet and VERY much annoyed.

Okay. Yep. Yeah, that's a tub alright. And there's also a wall-mounted showerhead if you were
wondering. It also works, if you hadn't noticed. Fantastic job giving yourself pneumonia there,
Sammy old girl old pal ol' friend of mine. And, pray tell, in what brilliant way are you going to
endanger yourself next time? Maybe try snowboarding down the mountain in a frying pan one-
legged? Wouldn't that be just swell?

Cool. She's established the tub-ness of her uncomfortably wet, new nest. Fabulous. The next
question is:

How the hell did I get here?

Testing one hesitant peeper at a time, she's relieved to find that she can now utilize her vision
without having the light burn her retinas to ashes.

That's something, at least.

Though, taking in the sorry, disgusting state of her clothes, she almost wishes she couldn't.

Dirt. Blood.
Algae, rust, and one million other variations of general ickiness have turned her entire body into
something very closely resembling an actual swampland creature, and the smell radiating from
them makes her stomach turn. It hadn't been as noticeable down in the mines, due to literally every-
freakin'-thing down there smelling like death and/or rot in one way, shape or form, but here - in the
relatively small, enclosed space - it's absolutely suffocating.

Ew. Ew. Ew. Ugh, gross. So gross. Ew. So much ew. And yuck. And also ouch.

Sam winces as she tries and fails miserably to wiggle herself out of the foul-smelling jacket, her
fingers too frozen and her body too weak to be able to cooperate with her properly. She seriously
needs to get it off, though, if only to get away from the stench.

"Ow... ow... ow." Hissing through her teeth she gives another attempt, willing herself to ignore the
screaming pain her entire body is in. Even the slightest of movements hurts so much it makes her
want to physically punch someone in the face, every single inch of her being aching and throbbing
with a million different degrees of agony. She knows her leg is broken - still hearing the violent
snap! reverberating through the cave system with such nauseating clarity, it's almost like it's
happening all over again - but there are definitely smaller fractures as well as other injuries in
places she can't see due to the smelly, torn-up protective gear.

And she needs to take care of them.

Now.

Once again she yanks at the zipper, giving a low "Finally!" when it gives, then muffles a scream as
she manages to wrestle one of her arms free of the jacket sleeve. Wiping her eyes with the
relatively clean fabric underneath, she swallows hard and peels her jacket off, tossing it
haphazardly onto the floor with a disgusted grimace.

"God... how the hell am I supposed to get this shit off?" Sam mumbles to herself, staring down at
the sorry remains that once upon a time used to be clothing.

Is it too much to hope for that this ridiculously luxurious imitation of a log cabin came with its very
own staff members to wait on her hand and foot? Knowing Bob Washington, she would not even
be slightly surprised. Though, knowing the Wendigos, she would also not be surprised to find out
that even if there did use to be staff members up here, they were very much all eaten at this point.
Either that or roaming around those filthy mines with their fellow monster pals, constantly looking
for something - or someone - to snack on.

Well. Aren't you just a whole-ass buffet of positivity and sunshine, Samantha?

"Yeah, well. You try running barefoot through hell with nothing but a loincloth for protection and
see how chipper you feel, you stupid disembodied brain voice," she hisses, completely aware that
she is talking to nobody but herself and that this is one of the many, many sure-fire signs of
madness she undoubtedly is starting to develop.

Ah, well.

Not like there are a lot of other people to talk to around here unless she fancies going back down to
the mines for a skull or something.

Yeah, no.

There's gonna be one freezing cold day in hell before she decides to channel her inner Hamlet. That
guy was absolutely bonkers, for one, and if her Shakespeare is correct - which, to be fair, it
probably isn't considering the fact that Beth found it impossibly hilarious to re-enact the scenes in
completely unorthodox ways - she's almost seventy-five percent certain he also suffered from
a massive Oedipus complex, and that's not really something she's even slightly willing to explore.

I think I'll keep whatever little remains of my frayed sanity, thank you.

Gripping the edge of the bathtub, Sam silently counts to three before hoisting herself into a more
manageable position. She doesn't scream this time, the thought of potentially attracting those
clawed, razor-toothed assholes keeping her quiet, but she can't keep the tears from streaming down
her face from the pain and exhaustion as she battles her broken, battered body to get up from the
bathtub. There's no way she can even begin to undress inside of it, the edges too narrow and
constricting to allow the kind of movement she requires in order to maybe achieve any sort of
success.

Her arms are shaking from the strain, but eventually - using her unbroken leg to push against the
floor of the tub - she's sitting on the edge, her breath ragged. She can feel her heart beating like
crazy against her ribcage, but the sensation is welcome.

At least that means she's still alive.

For all Sam knows, she actually did die somewhere along her nightmarish quest to look for Josh,
and this is Blackwood's own personal purgatory.

Josh! Her head snaps up, finally remembering why she's even here in the first place. Josh is alive. I
found him. Josh is alive! He's alive. Thank God. Okay, so, he's also a Wendigo, so that kinda
complicates things. A lot. Like, a whole shit-ton. Combined with the fact that I have absolutely no
freakin' idea how to fix him, or un-curse him or whatever, and also taking into account that he
might very much try to murder me to death at any given point, my odds aren't looking all that great
right now.

But holy shit Josh is alive.

Nothing - not even his newly acquired state of the world's deadliest predator - can take away the
sheer joy she feels just knowing that he's not dead. That he isn't lying down in those mines
somewhere, half-eaten, unrecognizable.

"You're alive..." Sam whispers, smiling through the tears that are still pouring from her eyes with
no sign of stopping. "You're alive, Josh. You're alive. Holy shit... I actually found you. I found you!
Take that, you stupid, cursed, sadistic asshole mountain..."

Yes. Great idea, Sam. Let's taunt the big, bad wolf when you're too weak to even crawl yourself out
of a damn bathtub.

That'll end well for ya.

"Oh my God, just shut up forever," she replies, digging her fingers into the marble surface. She's
trying to figure out how to go about fixing herself up with her leg all jacked to hell, and while her
climbing gear did a pretty good job of protecting her against the cold and the wetness down in the
mines, it's also very tight and very constricting, neither one making it easier for her to remove it
without a knife or...

"... Fuck. I'm gonna have to cut it, aren't I."

Her eyes find the medicine cabinet above the sink, praying to every God in existence that it's not
empty. Any self-respecting medkit had to have a pair of those tiny, flimsy little scissors, right?
Maybe even a needle and sewing thread, though that was pushing her luck.

Alright, Sammy. Hey-ho, girlie. Up you go.

Swinging her good leg onto the floor makes her body shift enough for the pain to radiate back up
her spine, but she ignores it and grabs the sink for support as she hoists herself up. Standing upright
is an absolutely Herculean feat and the strain is making her sweat like an Eskimo in Sahara, but she
manages somehow.

With every curse word known to man muttered under her breath, Sam hips and hops and drags her
leg across the floor, her muscles still too stiff and unmanageable to twist it into a more comfortable
position as she rummages around the small, white cabinet, giving approving yep's and
disapproving ugh's during her quest for scissors and anything else that can help her prevent just
about fifteen different ways of dying.

Tetanus. Blood poisoning. Internal bleeding. Skull fractures. Pneumonia. Hypothermia. Frostbite.
Boredom.

Hey.

Who knew I had so many fun options?

"Well, this is as good as it gets..." Frowning, she gathers her tiny loot pile and places it in the soap
holder, unable to remain standing for one second more than she has to.

At least she found some scissors, so yay.

"Ugh. All those hours, all those torture sessions... furry M&M's... wasted. I'm totally gonna write
an angry e-mail to the production company," she mutters in a disgruntled tone to distract herself as
she gets to work, mercilessly slicing up the stained fabric with the laughably tiny, flimsy scissors
that look far too clean and pristine against the pure grossness of her clothing.

"That'll be a hoot! 'Hey, so, I totally want my money back 'cause your product is clearly not sturdy
enough for its intended purpose. You guys advertise this shit like it's the greatest thing since sliced
bread and that is clearly not true. Like, some of us have to engage in actual, life-threatening
fisticuffs against cannibalistic, mythical monsters and sentient asshole mountains in our spare time,
y'know? Maybe keep that in mind next time! Toodles.' Yep, that's not gonna make you sound like a
nutjob at all."

Not even a little bit.

Well. That's that taken care of, at least. Thank the creator of tiny scissors and cuttable fabric and
also the creator of showers because she desperately needs one.

Preferably a hot one this time.

Sam scrunches up her nose at the discarded pile of ew cluttering up the bathroom floor and sighs.
No chance of ever using that stuff again, unfortunately. Even if she did manage to get it off without
slicing and dicing, there's just no way those stains would ever properly come out. Besides, she
doesn't really feel like wearing something that used to be covered in actual body parts and life
fluids, even if most of it is her own.

"Right. Okay. Let's try this again, shall we?"

Granted, talking to herself for an extended amount of time is starting to make her feel slightly
 kooky, and she would really like to stop doing that now. Then again, it's not like the walls are
known for their sparkling conversational skills, and she has absolutely no bleeding idea where her
oversized, emaciated parrot scurried off to.

I swear to God, Josh, if you make me chase you down into those fucking mines again, I'm going to
make it my life's mission to strangle the literal Wendigo right out of you.

Sam dodges the first spray of water raining down from the showerhead, expecting another
unpleasant surprise, but sags in relief as the steam begins to fill the room.

"Thanks to whoever installed civilized plumbing," Sam says to absolutely nobody as she gets to
work, scrubbing the several million layers of dirt, mold, rust, and other unmentionable substances
out of her hair with an energy she should not humanly possess, given her poor physical condition.

"And I'm sorry that, uh. Yeah. Sorry that you're probably dead."

And I'm super double mega-sorry that I'm probably, maybe, almost certainly wearing your
remains.

And also... no offense, but ew. Like. Yeah.

So, so much ew.

Because let's face it:

The only reason anyone would even have to be up here after what happened last year definitely had
to be because of the twenty-four-hour search and rescue team, and she saw enough dismembered
body parts down in the mines to know that they would not be sashaying their disembodied little
asses in here to boggart the shower anytime soon.

To be honest, she'd probably fall dead on the floor from pure, unadulterated shock if they actually
did do that.

Ah, well.

Shower first, crippling anxiety later.

Chapter End Notes

Hush, love

no

I'm not what you think that I am made of

I'm a story

I'm a break-up

just a hero

on a bridge that's burning down

 Human

I want to skin you alive

I want to wear your flesh like a costume
I want to skin you alive
I want to be

I want to be human

take it from me
this place

it ain't too pretty

not what I had in mind

it's getting too loud

I want to lay down

paranoia

your disorder

mad bitch

no need to shout about it

don't call me crazy
there's something in the world

I think you lost the plot

I swore I wouldn't be a bother

I want to skin you alive

I want to wear your flesh like a costume

I want to skin you alive

I want to be

I want to be human

I want to be human

I thought it was cool to feel

now I'm the fool
what do you take me for
this wasn't the plan

I wanna lay down

 get away from me

I thought wearing your mask

would let me understand

now I'm just covered in

the dirty blood of man

Don't think I wanna know

is being human just a joke

a fake

a filthy liar

I want to skin you alive

I want to wear your flesh like a costume
I want to skin you alive
I want to be

I want to be human

I want to fit right in

I want to skin you alive

I want to fit right in

I want to be human

I wanna be like them

I wanna tear the smiles right off your skin
if feeling happy is being dumb
I wanna fit right in

I wanna be

I wanna be
I wanna be like them
so I'll take a knife

and I'll try again

I wanna fit right in

I want to be human

I want to be human

I want to skin you alive

I want to wear your flesh like a costume
I want to skin you alive
I want to be
I want to be human
 Devil
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Adaptability.

Something they definitely neglected to teach her in school, and something they desperately need to
implement into their curriculum like yesteryear.

Yesteryear. Is that a word? She's pretty sure it's a word. Then again, she's also about fifty-five
percent sure she's pretty well on her way to losing her marbles, so, y'know. Not the reigning
superiority on what's accurate and what isn't anymore. It could also be the raging fever that is
currently wreaking havoc in her system, because why on Earth did she ever think that being back in
the cabin would make life any easier for her?

Silly little Samantha. Didn't you know? This place doesn't like you very much if you haven't
noticed, what with all the attempted murder and the nightmares and the overall assholery of it all.
I think it's safe to say that it pretty much wants you dead. I mean, you have been kinda crampin' its
style just a tiny tad. Hell, you even stole its new favorite toy! I'd be kinda peeved, not gonna lie. I
mean, c'mon.

Did you really expect it to be easy from here on out? Really? I mean, really really REALLY?

Oh, and yeah.

Wendigo-Josh is back. Y'know, the imaginary asshole that constantly hounded her every
waking and sleeping hour for the last year? Yep. That one. This time, however, she's quite certain
it's just the fever messing with her brain and not the single most dickish cursed mountain in the
entire history of ever trying to actively keep her too sedated, weak, and traumatized to actually
come back here to look for the last remaining Washington-kid.

Well. Almost certain.

Did she mention that this is one exceptionally dickish. lump. of sentient, cursed rock?

Sam groans, feeling justifiably sorry for herself as she half-crawls, half drags herself pathetically
across the floor back towards the couch. There has been no sign of Josh - the actual Josh - since
she woke up in the bathtub yesterday, and despite everything hurting and her brain feeling like it's
on literal fire, she can't help but move constantly from window to window, trying to catch just one
single glimpse of that oversized, jumpsuit-clad idiot.

What, I'm not enough for you, gorgeous? The grotesque visage currently perching on the armrest
cocks his head at her, his claws tearing playfully into the soft fabric. You wound me, Sammy-bird.
And here I was starting to think you actually missed me.

"Ugh, God. Please, just... stop." Sam massages her temples, feeling a familiar headache coming on.
She completely forgot how incredibly taxing this thing could be, and while she's not
exactly ungrateful to have someone else to talk to besides Polly the Very Cannibalistic Parrot, she
desperately needs the real Josh to come back because every second of him being gone feels like a
million years. She's nowhere close to even knowing where to start looking for a cure, but she needs
to see him. She has to know that he's still alive, that she didn't just make up the whole thing
because that would genuinely fracture whatever tiny bit of sanity she's still desperately clinging to.

What if you did imagine it, huh? Just like you're imagining me. Though, not exactly a sparkling
conversationalist, was he? Bit of a downgrade, really. S'not like you could actually have a proper
chat with him anyway so what does it matter? Fake Josh leers down at her, those overly large eyes
glinting predatorily in the low lighting. I'm much better company, don't y'think? He leans in closer,
a beguiling smile tracing across his lips, and despite him being nothing but a figment of her
imagination, it still makes her heart race.

"I said stop, you non-existent asshole. I don't have the energy to deal with your shit right now,
okay?" she sighs wearily, her aching body finally collapsing on the couch from pure exhaustion.
Fake Josh gives an indignant screech as he topples from the armrest, the sight of him literally
falling head over ass onto the floor making Sam cackle like a mental patient.

"Serves you right."

Rude!

Well. At least she still has the pleasure of causing him grief, even though there's no possible way he
actually could feel the impact. Because, well. Y'know. He's not actually real. Meaning whatever
pain he expresses, complains about, or pretends to be affected by, does not actually exist. Thus, he
cannot be harmed. Unfortunate, but true. So, the look of absolute betrayal he's giving her right now
is completely unwarranted.

In conclusion: Fake Josh is an overly dramatic dickhead.

"Oh, walk it off, ya big baby," Sam chuckles, grimacing from the pain radiating through her torso.

Okay, Sam. Note to self: Laughing is bad. Laughing equals ouchies. Lotsa ouchies. And also,
please stop brain-talking to yourself like an actual two-year-old.

Fake Josh mutters something unintelligible as he click-clacks across the floor on all fours, only
standing back up when he reaches the window closest to the fireplace. He makes a show of pulling
the curtains away from the glass - which is ridiculous because again, imaginary being - and
ganders out onto the snowy landscape.

Well, Sammy-bird, looks like your date stood you up. He makes a disapproving tsk, tsk with the tip
of his tongue, sending her a taunting grin over his shoulder. How ungentlemanly. You really need to
re-evaluate your taste in boyfriends, my dear. Might I suggest someone a little
more... reliable? Someone who actually sticks around? Fake Josh winks at her, the action looking
so bizarre and out of place coming from someone who's part Wendigo, it actually catches her off
guard.

"What, like you? Need I remind you that you literally ate my mother?"

Now, there's a mental image she won't ever be able to scrub from her brain, no matter how much
she wants to.

Fake Josh grins, letting go of the curtains before he returns to her position on the couch. He leaps
effortlessly onto the back of the furniture without a sound, so quickly it seems like he's teleporting.
One second he's standing in front of her, the next he's leaning over her with every single one of
those deadly razor teeth on display like a nightmare version of the Cheshire cat from Alice in
Wonderland.
Aww, Sammy-bird, he purrs, getting even closer. There's no warmth coming from him, no physical
signs that he is actually there, but the depth in his large, green eyes and with half of his face still so
painfully human - so painfully Josh - she almost wants to close the distance between them, if only
for a second. If only to see what would happen. Would he disappear if she tried to touch him for a
change? Would her hand just slide straight through him like a hologram?

No need to get jealous, babe. I'll gladly eat you any time. Just say the word.

Oh. My God.

"Jesus Christ, you're such a damn pig, Washington," Sam mumbles, immediately regretting her
previous desire to even contemplate any physical contact with this disgusting, vulgar parody of the
real deal.

Josh... She clutches the armrest to push herself up into a sitting position, the urge to look for him
once again too strong to resist.

Hey... Fake Josh springs to his feet as well, substantially smoother than anything her own broken,
fevered body can even dream of accomplishing right now, and he's reaching out as if to steady her.
She almost wants to let him, the lingering curiosity still plaguing that small, annoying part of her
brain that will literally take anything - anything - that will make her feel closer to him, even with
the full and complete knowledge that there's no possible way in hell she'll ever be able to actually
touch him.

After all, the only physical contact she ever made with him was having him violently ripping out
her insides, and that was more of a waking nightmare than anything. And if that's what it takes for
her to be close to him, she's rather quite satisfied with the distance, thank you very much.

Not quite desperate enough to volunteer as a human scratching post, I don't think.

Sam manages to slowly but surely wobble her way over to the window, her Wendigo stalker never
more than two steps away from her at all times. He looks genuinely concerned every time she
sways on her feet, and even though he's still a perverted asshole with zero sense of personal space
and a very grotesque sense of humor, she can't deny the fact that she prefers this version of him, the
one brought on by her own twisted fever dream, over the much more sadistic and violent
Blackwood-edition.

At least this one seems to actually care about her.

Please, Josh, please... please be out there, please... please... Sam gnaws on her lower lip, fingers
hesitatingly clutching the curtains without actually pulling them back. If he still hasn't shown up,
she has no idea what she's going to do. It's been snowing heavily for hours, and whatever trail Josh
left when he abandoned her in the tub, it's long gone by now.

"Okay... okay. Please, Joshua..." A ragged breath escapes her, and she doesn't even realize what
tiny amounts of oxygen she has been providing her lungs with until black dots start to blur her
vision.

Breathe, Sammy. You gotta breathe, 'kay?

She tries. She really, truly does, but it's as if her stomach has been pulled inwards to the point
where it just permanently decided to cut off her entire air supply, and no matter how much she tries
to release, to breathe, she's incapable of actually going through with it, and she realizes with
agonizing clarity that she is, in fact, having an extremely severe and extremely ill-timed anxiety
 attack. It's been ages since they were this bad, and she always had her mother or Mike around to
help her get through them. But not this time.

This time, she's on her own.

Oh, God. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. It hurts. It hurts! Sam starts to panic, and the added stress
only worsens her condition to the point where her knees buckle, and she collapses onto the floor.

Fake Josh immediately crouches down with her, his gigantic eyeballs larger than they've ever been
with the pure, unadulterated worry that's been etched into his features, and he speaks so rapidly she
almost doesn't understand what he's saying.

Sam, listen to me, okay? Listen to me. You're not alone. You're not alone, Sammy. I'm here. D'you
remember your breathing exercises? Do them with me, okay? C'mon, you know this. You've done it
a million times. Relax your muscles. I know you think you have no control over what's happening to
your body but you do, okay? Fuck... Sammy, fucking listen to me! You're turning blue, for shit's
sake! You gotta breathe with me, d'you understand me?! SAM!

He grabs onto her shoulders, and she doesn't even have time to think what the unholiest of all fucks
before he starts shaking her, hissing through his teeth.

Fucking breathe, goddamn it!

And so, by some miracle, she does. Whether it's the pure shock of feeling his claws digging into
her skin, the frightened expression on his face, or the fact that he's so damn close to her she can
literally feel his breath on her skin, like he's trying to replace it with her own, she has no idea.

But breathe, she does.

Only for a second, though, because when she lifts her head and looks out the window, newly
exposed by the lack of curtains that - thanks to her iron grip - now lie uselessly in a bundle next to
her, she realizes that something is looking back at her.

Something huge.

Something hungry.

Something that definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent is not Josh.

"Oh... fuck."

Chapter End Notes

I will keep quiet

you won't even know I'm here
you won't suspect a thing
you won't see me in the mirror

but I crept into your heart

you can't make me disappear

until I make you

I will be here
when you think you're all alone
seeping through the cracks
I'm the poison in your bones

my love is your disease

I won't let it set you free

until I break you

I tried to be the lover to your nightmare

look what you made of me
now I'm the heavy burden that you can't bear
I'm underneath your skin

the devil within

 Paranoia
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Shit fuck shit fuck fucking fuck!

Sam ducks back down onto the floor, her heart pounding like a war drum in her chest. Every beat
sounds like it's submerged underwater, and the enhanced volume makes it hard to focus on
anything else besides the fact that she might be experiencing a very premature heart attack.

"Great," she hisses through clenched teeth, pressing her body against the wall beneath the window.
"Of course, there's a fucking Wendigo out there! Of course, it's not the one stupid razor-toothed
asshole that probably isn't going to eat me on this entire goddamn stupid mountain! Can I please
have one break?! Just one! It's not too much to ask!"

Wow, Sammy. Keep talkin' like that and I'll have to wash your mouth out with soap.

She sends a scorching glare over her shoulder. Her clawed companion grins, but there's a look of
concern in his eyes that can't be masked by his poor attempt at lifting her mood.

This is great. This is wonderful. Fan-freakin'-tastic.

Broken body. Spiking fever. Hallucinations that for some stupid, insane reason apparently
can touch her now. Torn down curtains. A ravaging, drooling beast that - if the screeching, horrible
noise is any indication - is dragging its claws slowly across the window glass, undoubtedly
taunting her before it breaks in and murders her to death, and all she can do is worm her useless
body across the floor in a pathetic army-crawl that would make any self-respecting drill sergeant
die of shame.

So much for being a brave, heroic rescuer, Sam thinks to herself as she slides towards the
bathroom, looking ever the part of a human caterpillar quite extraordinarily with her broken leg
swishing behind her.

Okay. Okay. Just move. Juuust move. Arm, leg. Arm, leg. Slow and steady does it. You're
absolutely one million and seventy-five percent not going to be eaten alive within the next five
minutes. Nope. There's definitely not an actual Wendigo outside the cabin right this very second.
Nu-uh. Not gonna be monster-chow today. Nooo, sirree. I'm very much not going to get fucked
over by that weird, stupid, heat-seeking infrared whatchamacallit.

Wendigo vision?

Sam grits her teeth as she wiggles pathetically across the floor, inching towards the bathroom so
painfully slow that even a garden snail would outrun her.

Gotta find a weapon. Need a weapon. Need a whole freakin' arsenal. Need an entire goddamn
army!

The distinct sound of click, clack, click against the tile wood floor freezes every drop of blood in
her body into solid ice, and she stops moving entirely. Her heart pounds in her ears as she stares
down the hallway, her body shaking from the exertion of trying to get her to safety in its weakened
state. Her eyes are stinging from the sweat that's running down her face, but she doesn't even dare
to blink.

Then something hits the side of the wall so loudly it causes her entire body to convulse from the
mere shock of it; she clamps her hands down onto her mouth before the scream that's been building
up inside of her manages to escape from her throat, her ribcage feeling like it's about to shatter into
a million pieces.

Oh my God, please don't come inside please don't come inside please please please please...

With her broken leg being the way it is, her fever spiking to inhumane heights paired with the
hallucinations and the adrenaline, Sam is absolutely positively not in a very good place to fight
monsters right now. If the Wendigo finds its way inside, she doesn't know how the hell she's going
to survive. The shotgun won't kill it, even if she manages to get to it before she's ripped to pieces.
Worst case scenario she'll just piss it off, and if there's one thing she knows it's that the only thing
worse than a Wendigo is a very angry Wendigo.

Okay. Okay. Just... okay. Just get to the bathroom. Get to the bathroom and lock the door. It's the
safest place to be right now. Just get to the fucking bathroom.

Sam lets out a broken, half-choked sob as she gathers herself back up, daring to position herself into
a sort of crouch to move faster, broken leg be damned. She's gonna have a whole lot more than a
busted stomper to worry about if that thing gets in here, that's for freakin' sure.

Just move. One step, two steps. You're gonna make it. You'll be fine. You'll be fine.

CRASH!

Window. The sound of glass shattering. Something massive and large and alive crashing through.
An icy cold gust of wind blowing through the cabin, and a feral shriek from the living room.

Oh my God, I'm so fucked.

She doesn't think. She's acting purely on instinct now, self-preservation pushing through the pain
with a ferocity she didn't know she was capable of. She doesn't even feel it as she gets up and bolts
down the remaining part of the hallway, slamming headfirst into the bathroom doorway so hard it
damn near knocks her unconscious. Not even stopping to consider the black spots dancing in front
of her eyes, partially blind she's pushing the door closed and turning the key, her body crumpling
back into the bathtub like a sack of potatoes.

Wiping the blood from her eyes - wait, what? - she stares at the door, then at her fingers, now slick
and red from the newly opened gash on her forehead.

There's a pulsing heat radiating from it, like an external heartbeat.

No.

Not from her wound. Not from her head.

From her throat.

Sam closes her fingers around the pendant, having completely forgotten about it with all that's been
happening. Who could blame her, anyway? A tiny metal disk with crudely carved arrows isn't
exactly top priority when everything and everyone is trying to murder you every single solitary
second of your existence.
It feels warm against her skin; almost painfully so, but she clings to it like a lifeline. The heat feels
nice and calming, like sinking into a hot bath after a long day. It's also the only thing she can focus
on right now, what with the Wendigo tearing through the cabin outside of the door like a hungry
tornado. Furniture is being flipped over, thrown haphazardly this way and that, and the only
comfort Sam can find is that it doesn't seem to know exactly where she is.

Guess their sense of smell is less than stellar, then.

Thank God for small favors.

She flips the pendant around in her fingers, studying the simple patterns etched into the worn-down
metal with almost manic fascination. Her fingertips trace the arrows repeatedly, despite the metal
being close to scorching at this point.

"Arrows, girl. Protect you from the Evil."

Her mind flickers back to the strange old man on the train - his cryptic words and those
luminescent, bright blue eyes - and for a second she wishes she was back there with him. Back on
that train. Back when she was safe and uninjured and motivated to achieve her goals. She should've
said something to him then, should have done something. Demanded clarification. Asked for
advice. Begged him for help, just anything but stare at him like an actual open-mouthed idiot.

He knew.

That guy knew exactly where she was going. He knew the mountain was cursed. He warned her.
He told her not to come back here, to stay away. But she had to come back, didn't she? She had to.
For Josh. Because she couldn't leave him again. Because staying away was no longer an option, not
after learning that Josh could still be alive. If there was even just the slightest of chances that she
could get him back, she had to take it. She couldn't abandon him again.

But that guy knew.

He knew better than Sam did, better than she ever would. Maybe he could've helped her. Maybe he
knew about the Wendigo. Why didn't she ask him? She should have asked him! Asked him about
the mountain, about the legends and the stories. About the curse.

How to break it.

Don't do that to yourself, Sammy. Fake Josh manifests beside her, perching on top of the porcelain
sink. Don't jump down that rabbit hole. You'll drive yourself crazy. I mean, crazier.

Sam frowns at him, letting the pendant drop back underneath her shirt.

"Nice of you to show up," she mumbles, throwing a glance towards the bathroom door. It's quiet
out there, and she hadn't even noticed.

"Did our guest leave?"

Don't know, Sammy. 'M just in your head, remember?

Yeah. As if she could fucking forget. At least Blackwood's slightly more dickish version of Josh
had the decency to pretend like he was real, that he existed outside of her brain, even if it was just a
strategy to make her feel like she was losing her marbles. As stupid as it sounds, that actually made
her feel less crazy than having her own hallucination pointing out the fact that he was, y'know, just
exactly that.
Not real.

"Pretend," Sam whispers, her voice just a pathetic plea in the darkness. "Please, Josh. Just pretend.
Just for a little while."

Fake Josh looks at her, his gigantic reflective eyeballs once again resembling the twisted nightmare
version of the Cheshire cat, and he smirks knowingly.

Why I do declare, he drones in a fake Southern Belle accent, purring as he slinks up to her. His
tattered overalls seem to slowly patch up as he moves, the tear in his cheek somehow stitching
itself together until there's nothing left but the slightest bit of pink scar tissue. His eyes - still large
but no longer unnaturally so - shining like sleepy emeralds underneath the fall of his dark hair, now
clean and slightly longer than it should be.

I didn't think you'd ever notice little ol' me, Sammy-Sam-Sammy-bird.

Her heart is pounding so loudly it's probably attracting every single Wendigo on the entire freakin'
mountain when the newly healed, painfully beautiful boy climbs into the bathtub with her, his long
limbs somehow fitting perfectly even with her still inside of it.

"You're not real," Sam mumbles, her throat so thick with longing she can barely choke out the
words. "You're not really here."

Fake Josh - no, the human Josh - tilts his head at her, that painfully slow Joshua Washington smile
causing her heart to stop and break simultaneously, and his cold fingertips ghost gently across her
cheek. Sam leans into it, grabbing his hand despite knowing that she's not supposed to be able to do
that, and clings to it for dear life.

Don't cry, he whispers.

Cry? She's not crying. Is she crying?

"I'm not," she protests, only to find her voice raw and broken with emotion. Her cheeks are wet,
and her eyes are burning.

Oh. Maybe she is crying.

Why're you crying, Sammy? Josh coos, leaning in closer. 'S okay. I'm not gonna let anything
happen to you.

"That's not something you can promise!" She catches herself, internally cursing her emotional
outburst. The Wendigo is probably still out there, lurking around, trying to sniff her out, and here
she is practically ringing the damn dinner bell.

Brilliant.

"That's not something you can promise, Joshua," Sam repeats, barely making any sound this time.
"You're not real. You're just in my head. Just some messed-up fever fantasy that my brain is
making up to torture me because I'm probably about to die. I know that, okay? I know I told you to
pretend, but just don't. Don't. Because it's not real. You're not real, and you're never going
to be real, and I'm gonna get murdered on this godforsaken hunk of rock and I won't be able to save
you and-" Her tirade abruptly cuts off as he closes the distance between them, his cool lips
brushing gently against her own.

He lets out a low, throaty growl, and when he pulls back, his eyes are burning with an intensity
she's never seen before.

Shut up, Samantha, he demands, his fingers digging into her shoulder blades. Shut up, okay?
You're gonna fucking make it. D'you know why? Because you're Samantha fucking James, and
you're not a quitter. You're my Sammy, okay? You're my stubborn, beautiful, tiny little fireball, and
you're gonna kick this stupid ass mountain in the goddamn balls, okay? He chuckles, his eyes
glinting with amusement. I mean, y'kinda already did. Kneed me square in the nutsack. That hurt,
y'know. Very uncool.

"Well, if you weren't trying to eat me then I wouldn't have to!" she hisses at him, still dazed from
the kiss that never really happened.

His eyes slide over her, very much taking their sweet ass time conveying what he's thinking.

I mean... we already established that you would very much enjoy- hey, OW! Violent! He rubs his
shoulder, giving her newly clenched fist a dirty look. 'S a joke, babe. Unless you don't want it to be.
I can be very-OKAY okay, yeah, no more hitting the stunningly gorgeous hallucination, alright?
Cool? Cool.

"Goddamn it, Josh..." Sam wipes her eyes on her sleeve, smiling despite the absolutely ridiculous
situation she's finding herself in. "I really freakin' hate you sometimes, you know that? Like, for
real. You're such a... such... a..." Her words fade out as a girl's voice echoes through the cabin, so
hauntingly familiar it feels like being dropped in a pool of liquid ice.

It's not her own voice, she's not being mimicked. Though she wishes desperately that she was.

Because she knows that voice - she has nightmares about that voice - but it's a voice that doesn't
belong here.

Doesn't belong anywhere.

Not anymore.

"Frère Jacques, frère Jacques, dor-mez-vous? Dor-mez-vous?" Soft knocks on the bathroom door
follow the rhythm of the song, perfectly synced to the eerie melody that's causing goosebumps to
rise all over Sam's entire body.

"Sonnez les matines... sonnez les matines... ding, ding, dong... Ding, ding, dong..."

It's Hannah.

It's Hannah's voice.

"Josh..." Sam turns around, grabbing for him, but he's not there anymore. She's alone in the
darkness, listening to the rising cacophony of voices that seem to increase in both volume and
number.

Hannah's voice, Beth's voice, Emily's voice.

Ashley. Jess.

Josh.

She crouches down; curling in on herself as the noises reach a deafening volume. She presses her
hands against her ears and closes her eyes, internally screaming at them to shut up shut up shut up
shut up! The door creaks and shakes, barely able to withstand the violent assault when the gentle
knocking turns into furious pounding. The voices sound completely inhumane now, thrills and
shrieks of the Wendigo mixing with the eerie singing and the sound of her friends screaming song
lyrics at her.

"SAM! Help! SAMMY! SAMMY-SAMMY-SAMMY-SAMMY-SAMMY!" Josh's voice is

shouting her name desperately, ending in a horrible, agonizing death scream, and it takes every
single piece of Sam's resolve to not just open the door and let it take her.

It's torture.

She can handle broken legs. She can handle being beaten, bruised, cut, and sliced. She's a climber.
Her body has taken more punishment than she can account for. But this? Being subjected to the
sounds of her friends being torn to pieces on the other side of that door, hearing Jessica cry and
Hannah scream and Josh beg for her to just open the door open the door open the door open the
door OPEN THE DOOR! ... it's absolute hell.

Her fingers unconsciously seek the comfort of the pendant beneath her shirt again. The heat of it
nearly causes the fabric to catch on fire, but for some reason, her skin is completely unharmed. She
grabs the pendant and - acting on nothing but naked desperation - thrusts it towards the door like a
priest wielding a cross against an actual demon.

Nothing happens.

Of course, nothing happens. It's just a stupid piece of thermal jewelry. A glorified lump of coal.

Infuriated, Sam tears it off and throws it at the door.

There's a loud howl - louder than anything she's ever heard in her entire life - and she feels like
every single part of her ear canal is bleeding and exploding and shattering into a million pieces.
The door shakes once, twice, and then a third time... and then it's silent.

Her ears are ringing, and her head is throbbing so hard it feels like she's been kicked in the skull by
a damn kangaroo, but she can still hear the infuriated screams as the Wendigo scutters back down
the hall and leaps back out into the night, shrieking like a banshee until she can't hear it anymore.

Sam stares. And stares. And stares.

"No... fucking... way," she whispers in disbelief.

There's no way. There's just no way she just scared off a fucking Wendigo with a flimsy piece of
metal.

Grabbing the edge of the bathtub, she hoists herself back up, her body shaking from the adrenaline.
She presses her ear against the door and listens, terrified that it's all just a sadistic trick and that
she's gonna have her entire body ripped into pieces as soon as she twists the key.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

Sam picks up the necklace and looks at it, turning it around in her palm. It looks slightly worse for
wear; there's a crack in the metal like it's been forcibly torn open, and one of the arrows looks
warped and twisted, almost as if it's literally melting off of the surface.
 Well. Shit. I guess that crazy old guy wasn't so crazy after all.

Now, she's not entirely sure how this whole protection-thing works, but far be it for her to look a
gift necklace in the mouth. Or whatever.

"Thanks, guy... whoever you are. You probably just saved my ass," Sam mutters as she slowly
turns the key, daring to peek exactly one single eyeball through the tiny crack in the door. She
stands there for a hot minute, her chest barely moving as she listens for movement, but it seems
like she really is safe.

For now.

I know one thing for damn sure, she thinks to herself as she fashions an impromptu crutch out of
the shower curtain rod. And that is... I'm freakin' onto you, Blackwood. This is the exact same shit
you did to me for an entire year. Tormenting me, making me feel crazy. Fucking with my brain.

Oh. She's onto it, alright.

The notion that an actual mountain can be evil, or even sentient, would sound absolutely insane.
Completely bonkers. If it were any other mountain. But it isn't. It's Blackwood, and this place is
going to fight tooth and nail to make sure Bob Washington's last remaining kid isn't going
anywhere. And what does that tell her? That she actually has a chance. That there is a way to save
Josh, and she's going to find it. She's going to save him, even if she has to chain him up
and starve the goddamn Wendigo straight out of his body.

"You almost got me, I'll admit it," she concedes, standing up a bit straighter.

But you showed your hand.

Walking through the cabin to assess the damage, her newfound resolve wavers just slightly. All of
her reinforcements have been broken down, and the cabin is vulnerable. Weak. Her base of
operations needs a complete and total make-over, and she has absolutely no idea how to go about
doing that.

But then, just as she feels herself sinking back into hopelessness, there's a gentle nudge against her
shoulder, and a familiar thrill breaks the silence.

Sam smiles.

"Well, Josh..." she turns to her newly returned, overall-clad ally, peering into those gigantic green
eyeballs.

He cocks his head at her, a dead squirrel locked between his bloody teeth.

"I'm putting you to work."

Chapter End Notes

my heart, it pounds, my face is red

the silence drowning out my screams

see everybody look at me

their bodies turning into beasts

their eyes are red, they come for me

wait and slowly, in my head

just calm down, breathe in, breathe out

another episode just calm down

calm down

instincts waging war inside me, they hold me up so tightly

fear freezes me to ice, I'm locked up in my mind

it wavers back and forth, paranoid so calm and sure

lucid dreaming every day, from chill to hyperventilate

see everything that could go wrong

it clings to me from dusk to dawn

to isolate's the only way as mental health deteriorates

I can't take much more, won't you let me go

don't know if I'm awake or I'm asleep

these thoughts are burying me deep

afraid of every little thing

I'm drowning, I'm drowning

this soul's just longing here for peace

but the darkness screams and shouts and shrieks

 Wanted
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"No, Josh, don't... Josh! That doesn't-no, not there! Not that one! No, not... don't- oh, for Pete's
sake..."

Sam groans.

It's not that she doesn't appreciate his efforts - really, she absolutely does - but it turns out that
trying to instruct a mythological being on how to properly fortify a building is not as simple as one
may think - and so far she's had to keep him from both impaling himself on the bottom part of a
spiked fence pole and strangling himself with barbed wire within the span of half an hour.

"Joshua. Hey. Give it here." She smiles through gritted teeth, reaching out to take the metal sheet
from him, but he dodges her outstretched hand and starts shoving it quite unceremoniously through
a cracked opening in the fence.

"That's... no, nope, that does absolutely not go there. At all. Nope, not there, either. Not even close.
Yeah, no, that is absolutely also very, very wrong."

He looks at her, his jerky head movements and unblinking eyes still sending shivers down her
spine. He drops onto all fours and gives an annoyed screech, scuttering up the shed's wall until he's
hanging upside down above her, sending her a pointed look and hissing like an offended
cockroach.

Jesus Christ, it's like babysitting an actual child.

"I'm sorry!" Sam tells him, doing her best to keep her own frustration in check. "I'm sorry, okay?
I'm sorry, Josh. I know you're trying. I know. And I appreciate it so, so much. Like, super-duper
incredibly a lot, okay? This is just... it's really freakin' difficult! It's like..." Sam spreads her arms
helplessly, looking up at him. "It's like you've totally forgotten how to human, Josh, and I don't... I
don't speak Wendigo! It's not like I can just go buy a translation guide at the local Wal-Mart. And
it's really really limiting when you're just mimicking and repeating other people's words ninety-six
percent of the time!"

Josh clicks his jaw at her, but his eyebrows pinch together like he's actually considering her words
for a while before he eventually drops back down and lands smoothly on his feet, completely
without making a sound.

"Show-off." Sam rolls her eyes at him, ignoring the smug look he gives her in return. "Let's try this
instead, shall we?" She presents him with a simple wrench, watching him study it with intense
focus.

He looks at the tool, then up at her, then down at his hands. Then back at her, before raising an
eyebrow.

"What?"

Josh smirks - the corners of his mouth creeping slowly upwards in an almost taunting expression -
and brandishes his claws at her like Edward Scissorhands, clearly attempting to convey his silent
dilemma.
"... Ah. Right. Yeah." Well. That's freakin' inconvenient. "I don't suppose you can, like... use those?
For, like... I don't know... screwing stuff?"

He looks at her. Blinks. Once, twice. Looks at her. Blinks. Looks at her. Aaand looks at her.

And then...

"Why are you laughing?!"

Josh collapses in on himself, that odd mixture of human snickering mixed with coos and thrills
reverberating inside the shed. He's in absolute stitches, oversized tears rolling down his face in
buckets, and for a second Sam is terrified that his cheek is going to rip completely open from the
way he's grinning and guffawing.

Then it hits her, and she groans.

"Oh, God. That is so not what I meant, you asshole! Stop laughing! You'll break your face, like,
literally!" She smooshes his cheeks between her hands, determined to keep the gnarly wound from
growing even further. It's bad enough as it is, and she still has no freakin' clue how to even
begin trying to fix that. His skin isn't healing, not the way it is now, and the ingrown filth from the
mines does not help the situation even one iota of a bit.

"My God, we really need to get you washed up. You're super gross, dude."

Well. Yes. Gross, he absolutely is. And smelly. And disturbing. And freaky. And absolutely very
much close to her and standing right here and oh my God she is still holding his face abort abort
abort abort abort!

Sam removes her hands, clearing her throat awkwardly as the weight of his attention turns her
mouth into ash. How is it possible for him to still have this much of an effect on her when he's not
even currently human? Illogical. Impossible. Inconceivable. Does not make one single lick of
sense. She needs to seek professional help immediately. This is so not the time for whatever mental
breakdown she is currently experiencing, not when there's what Mike would call an
actual fuckton of stuff to do.

"Right," she mutters, avoiding his eyes as she hops a couple of steps away from him. "Do you
remember how to use a hammer, at least?"

Josh considers this for a moment, and she wonders if she seriously needs to explain the very basic
concept of repeatedly hitting stuff to him before his face lights up, and he parts his lips. Sam fully
expects him to echo her own words back to her, when...

"Every time you see me, that hammer's just so hype, I'm dope on the floor, and I'm magic on the
mic..."

.... What. What.

Oh. My. God.

"Stop!" Sam begs of him, only just barely resisting the primal urge to knock herself unconscious
against the wall rather than listen to that god-awful caterwauling for one second longer than she
has to. "Stop, Josh, for God's sake, stop!"

"Hammer time!" Josh continues, before breaking out into another fit of thrills and giggles.
Great. Nice to see he still kept his weird-ass sense of humor, at least. That's something, even if it
does make her want to passionately and enthusiastically headbutt the sharp end of a gigantic knife.

Josh grabs the hammer from her and scutters out of the shed, disappearing up the cabin wall and
out of sight before Sam can even begin to tell him exactly what she wants him to do with it. The
same thing probably occurred to him, because his head suddenly pops back out from the corner
like a morbid version of Whac-a-Mole.

"Forget something?" Sam calls up to him, grinning when he shoots her a dirty look.

"Hey, don't blame me. Not my fault you can't stay still for more than five seconds at a time, you
oversized energizer bunny. Come back down here! And don't-" That's all she manages to say
before he kicks off from the wall and leaps into the air. Her heart damn near stops as he descends,
but at the last second, he grabs onto an overhanging branch and uses it to swing the rest of the way
across, landing briefly on the gutter pipe before he hits the ground softly right next to her, his face
glowing with pride.

"Jesus effing Christ, Washington! Don't do that!" Sam pushes against his chest, her concern
immediately turning into anger. "You're gonna give me a heart attack, do you get that? Why can't
you just...God! Just behave like a human being! I'm sick of worrying about you, okay?! Can't you
just... just... just try to act like a normal person!? Just once!" Sam closes her fists and pounds into
him, his emaciated body not even budging one single inch from the impact.

Josh lets out a soft laugh and catches her hands before she can punch him again for the tenth time.
The fact that he just stood there and let her throw her tantrum annoys her greatly, but she's also
grateful for it. She's grateful because he knew she needed it, grateful because he's still human
enough to understand her worry and frustration.

He pulls her into him and nuzzles his face against her neck, breathing a contented sigh.

"I'm still mad at you, asshole," she whispers against his chest, but her anger dissipates just as
quickly as it arrived. Of course, he's not going to die. He's a stupid Wendigo - a creature that
apparently can take a shotgun shell to the brain and keep on keepin' on, according to Mike - and he
can literally scale a building like he's just taking a nice little Sunday stroll down the street. Really,
as long as she keeps him away from any open flame or an active volcano, he's pretty damn near
indestructible.

But still.

"You smell like a sewer."

He pulls back, looking entirely too offended at her muffled statement.

"What? You do. Like, so, so bad. When we're done fixing up the cabin, you're getting a bath. And
we really need to do something about this, as well," she notes, brushing her fingers gingerly against
his wounded cheek. He winces a bit but doesn't pull back, allowing her to trace the jagged edges of
his newly acquired razor teeth.

"I'm not gonna lie, Josh. That looks really..." Horrible. Terrifying. Grotesque. Disgusting. "...
Uncomfortable," Sam settles on, deciding that this poor boy has been through enough without
having to deal with any explicit commentary about his disturbingly altered features, on top of
everything else.

"Does it hurt?"
It definitely looks like it hurts.

The entire left side of his mouth has been torn open, leaving his skin inflamed and irritated but
thankfully not infected. It's clearly not healing the way it should, though, and it seems that the
constant movement and animation of his face is - at least - a massive part of the reason why, but
she can't imagine that Blackwood Mountain provides any kind of stellar health care services to its
hungry, monstrous habitants either.

Josh frowns, processing her words. She can almost see the inner workings of his mind trying to
formulate an appropriate response; possibly plowing through every single phrase he's ever heard in
his entire life to find something that can voice his thoughts out loud in a semi-coherent manner. His
throat seems to work painfully to shape his response, and Sam realizes she never gave much
thought to how limiting and frustrating this must be for him.

Seriously, could I be more selfish? she thinks, feeling suddenly disgusted with herself.

Sure, Josh seemed to have preserved his twisted sense of humor and his ability to make light of
pretty much any situation, but how could she even for one second think that this wasn't absolute
hell for him? Being trapped inside of that body, his ability to speak ripped away from him;
reducing him to nothing more than a gigantic, sentient voice recorder. Being abandoned by his
friends for a whole goddamn year down in those disgusting mines, probably thinking they had
forgotten about him, or that they hated him... maybe even thinking that they left him down there to
die because of what he did to them.

"Hey... Josh?" Sam looks up at him, her fingers curling themselves into the fabric of his filthy
overalls at their own volition, almost as if she still needs to reassure herself that he is actually,
truly, honestly there with her.

"You do know that you won't be stuck like this forever, right? I mean, I don't know how or
even where to start looking, but I'm gonna figure out how to get you back. I don't care how long it
takes. If I have to wait for my stupid leg to stop being a little bitch, then that's what I'm gonna do.
If I have to amputate it and drag my ass by the fingernails back down into the mines to fix you, I
will."

His eyes are wide as they stare into hers, and despite the fact that he's more animal than human
right now, she knows he understands every single word.

"I am not abandoning you ever again, Washington," Sam tells him, her voice low and serious.
"Never again, do you hear me?"

Josh smiles - or at least he tries to, with the best of his ability, though it looks more like a menacing
grimace - and brushes his knuckles gently across her cheek. The emerald green of his eyes seems
more vivid out here; more alive, but the gruesome visage of all the blood and viscera caked onto
the edge of his wounds distract her from the flash of humanity that seems to ignite within him.

"Jesus Christ, this thing really smells," she mutters, scrunching her nose up at the putrid odor
emanating from his clothes. "Seriously. It's like you took a swim through the sewers with
Pennywise."

"Hiya, Georgie!" Josh quotes, his voice matching that of the homicidal, maniacal clown down to
the slightest pitch, and it makes the goosebumps rise on Sam's entire body.

"Yeah... no. None of that."

 "Wanna balloon?" The Wendigo grins, flashing every single razor-sharp chomper, and Sam has to
resist the urge to violently facepalm herself into next week for being stupid enough to provide him
with new pranking material.

Well. Shit.

This... is going to be a very long trip.

Chapter End Notes

you gave me chances

and I let you down

you waited for words

that I couldn't get out

I have no excuses

for the way that I am

I was clueless then

I couldn't understand

all that you wanted

and all that you needed

was a side of me I never let you see

and I wish I could love you

and make you believe it

because that's all you ever wanted

that's all you ever wanted

from me
 Long-Running Joke
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"Okay, okay. It's fine. You're fine. It's just some stupid game. You'll be fine. It's fine. It's fine."

Sam stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her fingers are clutching the cold porcelain sink for
dear life, digging into the unyielding surface with enough force to nearly break her own snowflake-
painted fingernails.

"You're fine. Just breathe. Just... shit. Stop being such a freakin' baby, won't you? It's just a stupid
game!"

Truth or Dare.

Such a simple thing to play.

Or at least it had been until Jessica had dared Josh to kiss her.

And he did.

It's not like it was this long, passionate make-out session or anything. Josh was too drunk to even
stand up properly, so he just kinda half-crawled-half-stumbled into her, and there was a lot of
giggling and fumbling before they finally locked lips, but Sam didn't stay long enough to witness
the aftermath.

She excused herself quickly to the bathroom, forcing an uncaring smile onto her face until she was
locked safely behind the door where she immediately crumbled with her back against the
barricade. She sat there, unmoving for what felt like an hour before she got back up, annoyed and
frustrated with her own stupidity.

So what if he kissed her, she'd thought.

It's not like I own him. We're not dating, or together, or... well. Anything. Anything at all.

He even said I was like his little sister.

Sam turns the tap and cups her hands underneath the cold water, splashing her face a few times
until her head clears up and her skin cools down.

"It's fine. Stop being such a child. It's just a freakin' game," she mutters to herself, grabbing the
towel from the rack and unceremoniously scrubbing her face viciously with it.

It's not like Josh owes her anything. He's not her boyfriend. He's not her anything, really, and
despite the fact that he kissed her under the mistletoe last Christmas, neither one of them had even
so much as mentioned it after that night so for all she knows, he doesn't even remember.

He was, after all, drunk off his mind on stolen eggnog.

Brushing her hair back from her face, she leans closer to the mirror and inspects herself with
critical eyeballs.
She's not ugly, she knows that much. Sam doesn't believe in false modesty, and she's aware that
people find her aesthetically pleasing to look at. And sure, yeah, she does fit the average Western
beauty standard.

Hazel eyes, blonde hair.

Very American cheerleader. Very cookie-cutter.

Very boring.

Besides, the role of Blonde Bombshell already belongs to someone else in their dysfunctional little
band of merry misfits, and Sam doesn't fit the bill either.

Which is fine. She can be Sporty Spice.

Or whatever.

She tilts her head to the side and narrows her eyes, chapstick-covered lips puckering in thought
before she reaches up and pulls the elastic out of her hair.

Josh likes it down. She knows that. He has told her so himself, on multiple occasions even, and if it
wasn't for the fact that having hair falling in front of her face drives her absolutely up the wall,
maybe she would wear it like that more often.

But totally not just because he likes it, or anything.

I don't care what he likes.

Ha. As if anyone - much less herself - would ever believe that particular bluff. She even wore
a dress for him! And HEELS. Boy, was that an experience. At least they were pretty. And shiny.
And also slightly awakened her weird, dormant instinct to collect sparkly stuff like a freakin'
magpie.

"Okay. Okay. Back into the fray, Sammy ol' girl. Stop being such a jealous infant."

She slides the hair tie onto her wrist for safekeeping before unlocking the bathroom door, throwing
her reflection one last glance as she exits the brightly lit room in exchange for the dark, narrow
hallway outside.

It's quiet.

That's the first thing that strikes her when she walks across the floorboards, listening intently after
the telltale sound of drunken teenagers, finding the cabin almost eerily silent.

"Hey, guys?" Sam calls down the stairs, stopping for a second to wait for a response.

There is none.

"Guys? Hey, guys! Did you all pass out while I was gone or what?"

There's not a voice to be heard during her descent down to the main floor, and she pointedly
ignores the tiny knot of anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

She enters the bar area and lets out a breath of both frustration and relief as her eyes fall on the
pair of drunken, unconscious idiots currently slumped over the counter; Josh with his arms crossed
and his face buried in the crook of his elbow, and Chris drooling quite impressively with his cheek
smooshed against a small pile of poker chips.

"Guys? Josh?" Sam walks up to him and peers down, tilting her head to get a better look.

"Josh? Hey, Josh," she repeats, placing her hand on his shoulder to give him a few gentle shakes.
He stirs for a bit, turning his face fully towards her, and flutters his eyelids sleepily.

"Mm... Heeey, Sam," he drones, his slurred voice giving away exactly how much he's had to drink.

"Saaammyyy... Sammy, Sammy, Sammy-bird. Flew away. Flew..." His eyes slide shut once again,
and he lets out a small snore.

"Josh! Josh, where did everyone go?" Sam insists, shaking him a bit harder this time.

"Away," he replies without opening his eyes, seemingly attempting to lift his head before giving up
and resuming his previous position.

Well. He's about as useful as a wet noodle in a rainstorm in this condition, Sam concludes. She's
about to move on to Chris when a slurry of whispers catches her attention, coming from further
down the hall.

Abandoning the drunken fools to their impending hangover, she ties her hair back into its usual
bun as she follows the sounds, her speed picking up when a cacophony of giggles and shushes
interrupt the string of excited words.

This feels wrong. She doesn't know why, but this feels wrong, and the knot in her stomach tightens
when she catches sight of her friends grouped together in an almost conspiratorial fashion.

"Hey, guys? What's going on?" Sam questions as soon as she reaches earshot, only to be quickly
silenced by Mike putting his hand over her mouth.

"Shhh-hhh, not so loud," he whispers in her ear.

She pulls herself free and twists around to look at them all in turn, eyebrows pinched together.

"What are you guys doing?" she demands, her voice automatically reduced to a loud whisper. She
doesn't know what this is about, or what they're up to, but they're acting super sketchy and the knot
in her stomach is steadily growing into a gigantic lump.

"Oh my god, dramatic much?" Emily rolls her eyes at her, giving her that arrogant once-over that
pretty much screams I can't believe I'm even breathing the same air as you right now.

"It's just a prank, Jesus Christ. A joke. Stop overreacting."

"I don't even know what I'm reacting to right now, so I'll thank you to leave it to me how I choose
to respond!" Sam bites back at the dark-haired girl, earning her another eye roll and the
loud pop! of pink bubblegum in her direction.

Turning towards Matt - one of the more reasonable members of their group - she raises an
eyebrow expectantly.

"Well?"

He scratches the back of his neck and avoids her eyes, shuffling his feet uncomfortably as he
responds vaguely.

"It's... y'know, it's just a bit of fun. Nothing really mean, like... I mean... or..." Before he can stutter
out more incoherent words, Emily reaches out and digs her nails into his shoulder, smiling sweetly
at Sam.

"Hannah is trying to get with Mike, okay? We all know about her pathetic little crush. Sad, really. I
mean, why would he even want her when he has me? Like, come on. It's not like he's blind."

Sam grits her teeth.

"So, what? She has a crush. Big deal. It's not like she's the only one, and what does it even matter?
Everyone knows you're together, and Hannah would never actually go for it because she's a decent
person!"

Emily smirks at her, and suddenly she looks far too pleased with herself for Sam's liking.

"Yeah? Well, it just so happens that you'll get to test that little theory. We'll see how 'decent' little
Miss Bible Study is when Mike gets her alone, won't we?" She turns to Jessica, her arrogant
expression morphing into excitement.

"Oh my God, I can't believe you actually did this!"

"Shhhh!" Jessica giggles, pressing her hands against her lips to keep the laugh from spilling out
too loudly. She's positively giddy with anticipation, bouncing on her toes like she's about to break
out into full-on jumping, and whatever it is that Emily was talking about, it's something Jessica is
actually proud of. It looks like they're about to celebrate Christmas from the gleeful atmosphere,
and Sam can't believe how much they seem to be looking forward to messing with one of their own
friends.

Who are these people?

"Don't you guys think this is a little bit cruel?!" she tells them, her nails digging into the palm of
her hands to keep her calm. If she can just make them realize how stupid their plan is, how
completely ridiculous and mean they're being, then maybe she can stop their little 'joke' in its dirty
little tracks before Hannah ever has to find out what her best friends were planning on doing to
her. Surely they'll be able to see reason if she can only get through to them.

... Right?

Jessica rolls her eyes, her pigtails bouncing perkily on her shoulders when she turns towards the
younger blonde, a look of absolute satisfaction mixed with self-righteous justification on her face,
and Sam's hopes are rapidly dwindling.

"Oh, come on, she deserves it," Jess replies, completely unbothered by what they're about to do.

"It's not her fault that she has a huge crush on Mike-" Sam begins, but she's immediately cut off.
"Hannah's been making the moves on him," Jessica interrupts. "I'm just looking out for my girl
Em." She turns around and skips merrily down the hall, not even allowing Sam the chance to argue
with her.

"Just because he's class Prez doesn't mean he belongs to everyone," Emily says, a tint of entitled
ownership in her voice as she narrows her eyes at her before skip-running after her blonde friend.
"Mike is my man."
Mike looks at Sam, giving a half-shrug and winking at her. Then he, too, goes after the others.

"Hey, Em," he says teasingly." I'm not anybody's man."

Sam runs past him into the next room, her anxiety manifesting with every word from her so-called
'friends.'

Are they really going to do this? Really?

To Hannah?

Sweet, naive, shy Hannah, who never in her life did anything even remotely mean or even slightly
mischievous to anyone.

Seriously?

The same Hannah they have known for years now? The one who cries when they cry before she
even knows the reason why they're crying?

Who's cabin they're currently staying in?

No. Not on her watch. No way.

"Whatever you say, Darling!" Emily replies to Mike in a happy sing-song voice, letting him and
everyone else know that him being his own independent person isn't even a slight possibility in her
book. If she says he's her man, then he's her man, and fuck what anyone - including Mike himself -
has to say about it.

Sam doesn't even bother with them anymore, leaving them behind in search of her best friend.

She needs to find Hannah before they do. Before they can put whatever horrible plan they have
into action. She knows it's not just about getting her and Mike alone in a room together. There's
something else going on, something worse, because if all they wanted was to see whether or not
Hannah would actually try something with him despite knowing about him and Emily, then why the
secrecy? Why all this preparation, and why did they all need to be there for it?

No. There's definitely something fishy going on, and Sam needs to stop it.

God, Josh. I really REALLY wish you weren't completely useless right now, she thinks as she
runs up the stairs towards Hannah and Beth's shared bedroom.

I really need you.

"Hannah!" Sam calls out, checking every room and every door she passes on the way. "Han, I need
to talk to you!"

God. Her heart is beating so hard against her chest right now.

Hannah needs to be notified. She needs to know, she needs to be stopped. She's too sensitive for
whatever bullshit they're pulling, and if Beth were here... Sam stops abruptly, her fingers
clutching the railing. Of course, why didn't she even begin to think of this earlier?

Beth!

She picks up her pace, her feet sliding across the polished wooden floor and she just barely avoids
crashing into the doorway from the sheer momentum when she reaches their bedroom, bursting
through the door.

"Beth! Beth, I need to..." Her words cut off as she realizes she's talking to absolutely nobody.

Beth isn't here. Beth isn't here and where the hell is she?! Where the hell is Hannah? Why does
everyone just keep disappearing right now? It's not like the cabin is that big, and they were all
together in the TV room barely an hour ago! How can so much go so wrong in one tiny little hour?

All she did was go to the bathroom, for Pete's sake!

"Screw this," Sam mumbles, spinning on her heels as she barges back through the open door.

I'm gonna go give those assholes a piece of my mind. I can't believe this... they're supposed to be
her friends! She's practically fuming at this point, her hands balled into fists at her sides. The
familiar sting of her nails digging into her skin keeps her grounded, but she's not above dealing out
some proper physical damage if the situation calls for it. The fact that they're playing such a cruel
prank on her best friend - their friend - infuriates her more than anything, and she's about to let
them know it.

So what if she has a crush on Mike!? Jesus Christ, that's like, half the school! He's a popular
jock, and he's the freakin' Class President! Everyone and their grandmother have a stupid
freakin' crush on the guy! Hell, that's the whole damn reason Emily even wants him! If nobody
else did, she'd drop him like a bag of actual trash. Nothing is worth anything to her if nobody
else wants it. It's not like she even loves him, so what the FUCK does it matter!

She reaches the bottom of the stairs and continues onward like a tiny, furious whirlwind of justified
rage, her internal dialogue egging her on with no sign of stopping.

He's just a novelty to her. Just another pretty face to orbit around her and her glorious
existence.

Getting closer.

Hannah's too good for him anyway.

Voices. Loud ones.

Not good.

Sam can hear her now, in the guest room. Hannah.

Oh, shit.

"Matt?! What are you doing here?!"

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit! Nononononono... Sam bursts through the door, instantly
taking in the scene in almost excruciating detail. It feels like time is moving in slow-motion like
she's watching it unfold in bullet time, and every horrible detail adds to the cruel, terrible reality of
their so-called 'prank'.

Matt holding a selfie stick with his phone camera. Jessica and Emily crawling out from under the
bed, Emily still smirking and Jessica looking slightly ashamed. Mike standing in front of her, a
mixture of glee and sheepishness on his face as he tries to defuse the situation.
"Uh, I'm sorry, Hannah, this all got out of hand, but..."

"Hannah!" Sam interrupts him, anger and concern fighting for dominance in the pit of her
stomach. She needs to calm her friend down, she needs to comfort her first of all. It's not hard to
understand the context behind her shirt being partially open, and combined with everything else
going on in the room, Sam knows perfectly well just what sort of prank they had planned. She feels
absolutely disgusted with every single one of them, and they better believe she's gonna tear them a
new one as soon as she takes care of the most important issue first.

"Hannah, hey honey..." Sam says soothingly, lifting her hands disarmingly towards her best friend.
"Don't... it's just a..."

"Mike?" Hannah whispers, the look of confused betrayal etched into her features. Her voice
sounds small, and it's like she doesn't even register Sam's presence at all.

Or worse; like she thinks Sam was actually in on it.

Sam reaches out for her, but she blinks away her tears and spins around, leaving them behind so
quickly Sam doesn't even have time to finish her sentence before she's gone.

"... stupid prank," she mutters, the sinking feeling in her stomach mixing with the anger and worry
she's already feeling. She turns towards Mike, willing every single bit of disgust and disbelief to
show in her eyes when brown meets hazel. She wants him to know exactly how despicable he is,
wants him to feel the whole weight of her fury like a boulder; like he's Atlas holding up the entire
world and just one single tap of her finger would crush him like an ant.

"Uh... damn!" Mike says, lowering his gaze.

Sam looks at them all in turn, unable to recognize these people as someone she used to call her
friends, and she's seething as she scolds them.

"You guys are jerks, do you know that?!" She turns and yanks open the door, pursuing her friend
and leaving the rest behind with every intention of giving them a proper run-down later.

"HANNAH!"

The others are following behind her, she can hear their footsteps against the floorboards, but she
doesn't care. The front door is swung open, and the freezing cold gusts of air tear through her like
a million tiny daggers as she exits the cabin with everyone else hot on her heels.

There's no sign of her best friend, but she can see footprints leaving the cabin and heading towards
the forest. She's getting ready to follow them when Beth appears in front of her, already dressed in
her winter coat and that eternal beanie that most likely must've sprouted roots and become part of
her anatomy at this point.

"What's going on?" she demands. "Where's my sister going?!"

Jessica scoffs, rolling her eyes at nobody in particular before replying. "It's fine. She just can't take
a joke."

"It was just a prank, Han!" Emily chimes in, and her mocking usage of Sam's nickname for Hannah
makes her want to knock her ass flat into the snow and drown her in it.

Beth turns towards her, brown eyes already burning with determination and anger.
"What did you do?!"

Mike steps in, shrugging his shoulders in that casual, too-cool-to-care kinda way that's probably
supposed to look nonchalant but just ends up making him look like the world's biggest douchebag.

Which, coincidentally, he is, so.

Checks out.

"We were just messing around, Beth," he says, far too unconcerned with the way events are rapidly
unfolding. "It wasn't serious-"

"You JERKS!" Beth spits out at him before speeding off into the woods, shouting her sister's name
as she's swallowed up by the darkness. There's nothing left after her than the snowy drifts and her
footprints quickly being erased by the storm, as if she was never even there to begin with.

Sam makes to run after her, then halts.

Josh. Someone needs to tell Josh. We need to... shit... we need to tell Josh, I need to tell...

"So..." Mike's voice breaks her out of her increasingly panicked train of thought, bringing her back
to reality. "Should we go after her..?"

She spins around, hands already balled into fists. She can't believe that asshole. That dick! This
is his fault, more than anyone's, and he's suggesting Hannah even wants to exist on the
same planet as him right now? Hell, he'll be lucky if Sam doesn't fucking smite him where he
stands!

"Y'know, I kinda think you're the LAST person she wants to see right now, Mike!" Sam hisses at
him, her voice practically dripping with venom. Then she pushes past him, making sure to slam her
shoulder good and proper into him on her way, noticing with no small satisfaction that the
unexpected impact sent him crashing into the open doorway with a surprised " Ooof! Ow!"

She smiles to herself when she hears him complain to the others, with Emily mockingly calling him
a baby and Jessica snickering at him.

"Hope it hurt, asshole," she whispers as she crosses the threshold to the bar area, the sight of Josh
still sleeping peacefully on the counter causing her heart to leap painfully in her chest. He looks so
serene, completely unaware of what just transpired.

No idea that her best friends - his sisters - are out there somewhere in the blizzard.

And she has to be the one to tell him.

God... Sam thinks, trying desperately to ignore the gnawing, terrible feeling in her gut that
something awful is about to happen.

Please... please be okay...

Please...

"Please... please... no... Hannah... Hannah... HANNAH!"

Sam jerks awake, her body completely drenched in sweat and aching all over. It takes her a few
seconds to realize where she is, why everything hurts, and that her best friends are gone.

They're gone.

There's a shift on the mattress next to her, movement in the darkness, and then she's pressed up
against something.

Something cold, but alive. Something familiar.

Someone.

"They're gone," she whispers. "They're gone..."

Josh wraps his arms around her, rocking her slowly back and forth as the gentle sound of rain
against the cabin roof fills the silence. It's one of the precious few moments of respite Blackwood
has given her, and she's glad for it.

Maybe it's the calm before the storm. Maybe it's the prelude to something even worse, or maybe it's
simply...

A truce.

She's not stupid. It's not going to last, she knows that much.

There are still plenty of terrible, horrible, awful things in store for her. Maybe for them both. And
to top it off, there's also the issue of figuring out how to exorcise the stupid Wendigo spirit out of
Josh and make sure it stays out, for good.

But that's for later.

Josh rests his chin on top of her head and starts humming. It's not a melody she recognizes, not
even a familiar voice, but it's soothing all the same, and she tightens her grip around his bony
waist. Every rib, every ridge, every nook, and every cranny is poking into her, and it's like hugging
a sentient bone golem, but it's still Josh. It's the only one she's got at the moment, and he's still here
with her.

And he doesn't even smell bad anymore.

"I'm glad you finally took a bath," she mumbles into the crook of his neck, nuzzling her face
against him. "You don't smell like a sewer system anymore."

He chuckles.

It's an odd, throaty sound - not quite human, not quite animal - but it fills her with warmth
regardless.

He's not her Josh. Not quite yet.

Sam looks up at him, finding his eyes already fixed on her, and she smiles. Her fingertips carefully
trace the edge of his razor-sharp teeth, the sight of them through the tear in his cheek still grisly
and horrifying, but it doesn't scare her. He's had plenty of chances to hurt her since she found him
in the mines - or maybe he found her - and he hasn't yet. Quite the opposite, in fact. He saved her
life, and not just once.

Now she needs to save his.

 "Does it feel better at all?" she whispers, inquiring about the freshly cleaned wounds and torn skin
around his mouth.

"... B... Bett-er," he confirms, repeating her word but using his own voice, something that clearly
causes him a lot more trouble than it should.

But it's still progress.

No, he's not her Josh. Not quite yet.

But soon.

Chapter End Notes

so you put on your suits

and you're all in cahoots

but who cares

silent prayers won't keep you from going insane

or maybe they will, if just for a time

they could say it was God, or something divine

you could blame it on flesh-eating monsters

or even yourself

well, it's a long-running joke

and I'll run 'til I croak, God knows why

we all keep on feeding the shame

so I'll put on the suit

if you promise to shoot when I'm chased

sins erased and bound for those big pearly gates

End Notes

So, this is it. I have finally decided to throw my fragile excuse for a ship onto the horrifying
Ocean of Writing.

Gulp.
 Please refrain from murdering me. It would be highly appreciated by my loved ones, and
by 'loved ones' I mean my rabbit. And maybe my fern. His name is Frank and he is very
adept at being stationary.

I am such a failure at life.

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