Coming Home

Title: Coming Home
Author: Chaosdreamer (dreamerchaos)
Beta: Maiafay *tackles her* Thank you so much for the help! You have no idea how much it is appreciated.
Warning: Slash, gore, and horror, AU. NC-17.
Pairing: Pyramid Head/James, Valtiel/James (Depending on how you look at it)
Disclaimer: Silent Hill is owned and copyrighted by others beside myself. I'm only playing with the boys.
Author's Note: Having fun with my AU fics? This one no doubt takes the cake. Very AU, so be warned.
Summary: What if James hadn't killed Mary? What if she had died from the disease? The darkness still resides in James--the ability to give birth to 'monsters'. They are calling for him now, even if he doesn't understand--and desires no contact with them. So, the question is: How would James be lured to Silent Hill, and would he be able to avoid his dark fate?
Note: I don't know when Mary was born and I'm just guessing the date that she died.

She's dead.

Mary was dead. His Mary, his beautiful Mary.

She hadn't made a sound, from what they've been told. The doctors had found her that morning during a routine check up. Mary had been lying on her side; that was the first indication that something was wrong. Previously Mary was too weak and in too much pain to move from lying on her back. Her face had been smooth and slack, free of the pain that made her skin always tight, with blue veins sticking out underneath taut flesh. Whatever had killed her had struck hard and fast. Mary didn't feel a thing.

But that didn't change things. Mary was still dead.

That unending mantra had begun to numb and freeze inside of him. Etching across his flesh like a permanent tattoo, leaving him corrupted with its presence. James was eventually able to repeat it to himself without wanting to scream. The sharp glass of pain and sorrow inside of him had dug so deep, that no more blood or misery could pour out of it.

He had sat, stunned, in the doctor's office. His father had wept in the chair beside him. Wept for the loss of his daughter-in-law and the loss for his son. The rest was a blur to James. Going to the funeral home had been an utter nightmare. The blank and false sympathetic faces of the workers and attendants there as they led James through the steps and procedures for the casket, the flowers, the burial site. How many would be attending? What music did James want to have played? Would there be an open casket? What color did he want the lining on the inside of the casket to be?

What did it matter? Mary couldn't open her eyes and appreciate whether the lining was silk or cotton, or whether it was rose or white. There would be no soft smile upon her face from the beautiful arrangement of flowers.

James didn't feel or acknowledge the many hands that fell on his shoulders and the arms that circled to offer him comfort. Siblings and friends from Mary's side of the family huddled on the other side of the lowering casket. Mary's mother was inconsolable, collapsing in her husband's arms with the black shroud covering her tear-streaked face. Her father's face was tight and pained and he wouldn't meet anyone else's eyes, the loss of a child beyond description for a parent to express. Frank stood by James' side, even forgoing his dream of starting a business. Frank went as far as to look into an old apartment complex, researched the amount of money it would take to repair and bring the old building back to life.

James stared with dead eyes at the headstone as the attendants filled the last of the dirt into the fresh gravesite. Partway through the ceremony, the sky above had cracked open and had drenched them all with its fury. Most of the mourners had scattered for cover, or for their cars. However, James' father had remained at his side until the priest finished the last of his speech. At the end, his father had pleaded with James to come out of the rain, but he had stood as still as a statue until finally his father promised to wait for him in the car.

The sky poured heavy sheets of rain on and around him. Dense gray clouds hung overhead threatening to burst and pour down. His entire body was soaked through, the suit and long jacket clung attached to his flesh like a second layer of skin. The red roses that James had placed in front of Mary's headstone were flat from the weight of the raindrops, the tears of water dripping down the bruised petals and falling onto the turned soil. A few red petals had fallen free and were scattered like droplets of blood across the brown surface.

For the past week the phone had been ringing nonstop as the hospital and doctors maintained contact with them, discussing the final details of the medical insurance-- and relaying their findings of what exactly Mary had died of. There was no definite answer. Mary's doctors were boggled by the lack of evidence and had done a good job of attempting to console him. After all, no one had predicted the sudden turn of her condition. Dying in her sleep had been a peaceful way to go, by far. It wasn't as if the disease had had any mercy for the poor woman. The fire and agony that burned inside from the disease had finally ceased its torment. There was no more misery for her to have to suffer through. She was at peace now.

He wanted to hate her for leaving him. All the time that she lay there suffering, James had sat guard and maintained his faith that she would pull through. He had endured her harsh and snapping cruel words when her temper would mount and the pain and medicine would leave her aching. The apologies she had offered after her vicious demeanor had been moot when the next time the pain rose again, overtaking her. They had both suffered because of the disease, and it would be so easy for James to be angry with her for not holding on. For not being strong enough and fighting harder, FIGHTING, DAMN IT! Fighting to stay with him, he just wanted her back with him alive and healthy. But he couldn't. The thought of ripping her away from the peace she had finally attained…it was unbearable.

James reached out a hand and traced the words along the headstone, fingertips memorizing each little crevice and smooth script.

Mary Sunderland
Beloved wife
1974-1999
You spread your wings
And are now able to fly
We will miss you


She had flown away. Mary had left without him. He was so alone here. "It's cold here without you." James whispered in the face of the plaque as if he could speak directly to her.

James dropped down to his knees, not caring about the mud and water seeping into the knees, or the front of his suit. He spread both of his hands along the front of the headstone, pressing a cool forehead to the chilling granite. His shoulders shook with the soundless sobs that rippled through him from his gut and throat. "I miss you…" He choked, "I miss you so much."

What was he supposed to do now? They had held onto the hope of her recovering. They had even made plans to do things that there used to be no time for. Spending more time with Mary's family…. Going with his father on that fishing trip…. Silent Hill…Mary had wanted so badly to go back there…

It was a long time before he was able to stand. His father was waiting for him, getting out of the car and quickly opened the passenger door. James' father made no comment when his son finally entered the car, and ignored the stains of mud on the suit and the red tracks along his cheeks.


"Here, James." Frank Sunderland coaxed his son along as if he was leading a wounded animal, holding the door open for him. The arrival at the family home had been a mixed blessing; James had not spoken once during the entire trip, and Frank hadn't been able to find the right words or the right thing to say to fill the dreadful silence.

Finally, James stepped into the warmth of the house and his father closed the door, cutting off the bitter wind that had begun to blow outside. The wind continued to pound at the sealed door like a heavy fist, making the windows rattle. Frank helped James remove his drenched jacket, probably ruined now from the dampness. James' only reaction was to hold his arms up and let his father arrange his arms as if he were a large doll.

When his son wasn't looking, Frank tossed the pathetic pile into the closet at the base of the stairs. After closing the door, he blew a hot breath of air along his hands, trying to force some heat into the numb fingers as he led James upstairs.

The Sunderland house was warm, leeching the chill out of their bones. The foyer at the front of the house was tiled and a small flight of stairs led up to the second story. Several open doorways were scattered down the long hall, the one to the left leading into the dining room and connected to the kitchen. The door on the right led into the decent-sized family room. All rooms had a warm glow and radiance. Dark wood bordered the walls, and every surface was painted in soft crème and yellows.

Frank led his son up the stairs and into the guestroom. He would not let James return to the home Mary and he had shared. Frank was afraid to leave his son alone now. No matter how selfish it may be, he wanted to keep his son as close as possible. Try to hide him away and give the man time to heal.

For him, things had turned out as expected; Mary's death was hardly a shock. They were been warned that the disease was merciless and the survival rate was not promising. But they had hoped, had prayed that Mary would pull through.

When Mary slipped away, Frank had realized that there was a chance that he could lose James as well. His son was more like a ghost now than a man. James never was a particularly cheery or overly friendly type, but he had a sort of small radiance to him that softly drew attention. He didn't go out of his way to meet people, but the few that became close to had the privilege of witnessing with the few smiles and laughs that the quiet man would let out. Shy and somewhat aloof by nature, it was hard for James to express his emotions, seeming almost afraid to let anyone inside his shell. But he was James. He was Frank Sunderland's son. In his eyes, James could do no wrong.

Now…James was like a walking corpse. He seemed battered on both the outside and inside; his eyes bruised and miserable. His shoulders appeared almost too heavy for him to bear. Frank could do something for that. He could offer some solace for James' body. The healing of the soul would have to come later.

"There's not much here." Frank apologized, flicking the switch, and turning on the soft light in the guestroom. He was correct; the room didn't hold too much. Directly in front of the door and with the headboard against the wall, the room consisted mostly of a large king-size bed with pale sheets and comforter and a long dresser underneath the bay windows perpendicular to the bed. The small closet in the farthest corner to the right held all of the extra sheets, pillows, and towels that Frank hadn't been able to stash in the master bedroom.

"Take a shower, James. You'll feel better." Frank waited to see if his son had heard him. James nodded his head minutely, standing exactly where his father had placed him. It didn't seem that he would be moving anytime soon. Standing as if in a trance, frozen and watching the world around him as if it were a movie reel running.

Frank retreated, knowing that now was the best time to leave James to himself. He closed the door silently behind him, and leaned against it -- hoping and waiting for James to make some sound to assure his father that he was okay and moving about. There was no such assurance. The silence was as thick as the walls.

'Oh, my poor boy.' Frank rubbed a large hand across his face, feeling much older and jaded. No one had escaped undamaged from the whole mess. Bless Mary, her fate had been cruel. But her memory seemed to be trying to kill them all from the inside. 'I don't know what I can do. I'm afraid for you. All I can do is stand here and watch you break.'

Frank Sunderland pushed away from the door and went downstairs to the kitchen to heat up some coffee. Perhaps the hot liquid would stimulate some warmth inside his old bones.


Over an hour later, James had finally moved and followed his father’s suggestion. He was back in the guestroom, but his wet clothes were downstairs in the basement. James had finished his shower, pulled on an old loose blue shirt, and faded pair of black pajama pants and black socks. He rubbed the last few droplets of water out of his hair with the large towel, gaining a small sense of peace when surrounded by the softness of the warm cloth. He wanted to huddle underneath it like a child and never come out.

James sighed, pulling his head out from underneath the towel and shaking damp strands of hair out of his eyes. His somber mood wasn't improving anything. Suffocating himself while covering his face with a towel in order to hide from the world wouldn't bring him any joy.

Standing up, James went to the closet and tossed the damp towel into the hamper. His suitcase was on the floor of the closet, partially open and he tossed the small leather bag that held all of his toiletries into it. Closing the closet door, he moved back to the bed.

He sat down on the end of the bed, the thick mattress falling underneath his weight. James let himself drop onto his back, looking up at the ceiling as if it could answer all of his questions.

'So…what now? How do I go on from here? Do I even want to?'

James wasn't considering suicide or anything. There would be nothing to gain from that. He was still trying to recover from the shock of being alone now. It was a shock for him to be without Mary. Their marriage had been a firm and sure thing. Something familiar, always there, an anchor for him to fall back on. Every day had fallen into a pattern. James and Mary had risen and moved to a steady and appointed beat that had filled their day, until they ended up back in bed to rest and begin another day.

'You're forgetting something.' His mind was relentless, seizing and jabbed at his slip. 'You haven't mentioned anything about love.'

He frowned at that thought. That sudden notion had been a surprise. Love? Why wouldn't it have been there?

There had been love there, of course. It wasn't hot, passionate, rip-each-other’s-clothes off kind of love. More like a simple, innocent love of highschoolers, or a beginning crush. Both James and Mary had been virgins when they met, and their physical intimacy hadn't breached into anything fantastic or wild after the honeymoon. Both of them weren't the types for anything outrageous or daring. James flushed with embarrassment even when recalling some of the things he had overheard men discussing 'the women that had gone down on them'.

Whatever the case, they had genuinely cared for the other. They enjoyed each other just as they enjoyed each other's presence. It had been comfortable.

'Sounds as if you would have gotten equal comfort from your own hand.' There was that voice again.

'Good God!' James almost snarled at that internal voice. How could he be thinking of such crude things after his wife had just died? It was disgusting and disgraceful. He had no idea where such thoughts were coming from.

Trying to find some way to dispel that annoying voice James rolled over onto his side, using his right arm to pillow his head. Looking at the small antique clock on the wall, he read that it was just after ten o'clock at night. He was just beginning to close his eyes and attempt to find some sleep, when his gaze flickered to the end of the bed. James sat up partially, frowning at the curious sight in front of him.

That was a bit unusual. The closet door…

It was open.

'…Didn't I close the closet door?' He wondered.

Yes, in fact, he had. But for some reason the door was halfway open. Somehow, it had opened without a sound and remained silent and the door poised.

'Strange.' James rose off the bed and approached the thin wood door. He jiggled the lock, testing to see if the mechanism had failed somehow. 'There's nothing wrong with the lock or anything.'

When James caught himself with one hand on the door handle and peering inside into the gloom of the small space, he had to laugh at himself. Here he was -- a grown man, looking into the closet as if expecting something to leap out at him. He was acting like a small child. The only thing that greeted him was the hamper, hanging clothing, the sheets and towels stuffed at the top of the shelves, and his suitcase on the floor.

Closing the door firmly, James turned away and sat again at the foot of the bed. He shook his head, feeling somewhat embarrassed about his own behavior. There was no reason to be jumping at shadows or from peculiar happenings. It was an old house. It was sure to have a few little things wrong with it.

"Stop trying to scare yourself." He chided. Almost nothing was more embarrassing than fearing the bogeyman or the monster under the bed.

A soft slide and scuttle underneath and the bed jumped slightly. Something strong and tight suddenly wrapped around each ankle and pulled sharply.

James' body lurched forward from the sudden sharp force, crying out as he hit the floor and banged his shoulder into the wall. Gasping, James tried to push himself up -- but he screamed when again the strong grip on his ankles pulled, sending him flat onto his stomach.

James flipped over onto his back and couldn't believe his eyes. His legs were slowly disappearing underneath the long comforter and underneath the bed. There was something pulling at him. The grip around his ankles was easily sliding his body across the carpet, James' shirt sticking and sliding up his back. He kicked at whatever was pulling at him, and his knees banged into the metal underside frame of the bed. James watched in horror as the comforter surrounding the vision of his legs slowly slid into the maw of darkness beneath the bed.

This…this wasn't happening…He was dreaming…he had to be dreaming…

Wake up. Wake up!

Whatever had him, gave another strong pull -- and from James' feet and up to his knees disappeared underneath the bed. Dimly he felt other things…like hand…hands!…scratching their way up his calves and thighs and gripping his pants legs -- pulling at him. The bed rose above, the mattress stretching upwards like a great bulk was pressing up ready to burst through it.

A low skittering cackle, like nails along metal, trickled out from underneath the bed.


"James…"

"James…we've been waiting for so long…"

"Where are you?…we can't see you…"

"..But we can feel you…"


"Oh GOD!!" James screamed, rolling onto his side and desperately trying to squirm or twist free, arms and hands sliding, slipping across the carpet floor leaving faint tracks from his fingers along the smooth pattern of the carpeting. "Let me go!" He tried to kick the many limbs that were pulling at him, but the clacking laughter only increased. The hands were pulling and tugging, refusing to let go.

Someone was pounding at the door. The door handle jiggled wildly twisted and stuck and the pounding continued. "James! James, what's going on? Why is there screaming?" Frank Sunderland demanded from the other side of the door.

James cried out as the fierce pulling continued his hips sliding underneath the bed. "DAD!" He screamed, trying to claw his way along the ground and pull his way out. The tight hands refused to let him break free. The entire bed was rocking and actually rising, falling as if seized by poltergeists. The heavy drum of the bed rising and falling seemed to make the entire room shake.


"Where are you?…"

"Why are you tormenting us by hiding?…"

"James…we're waiting…HE'S waiting…"

"You have to come back…don't leave us.."

"JAMES!! James, open the door! James!" Frank struggled with the door handle. It refused to budge. "James, the door is jammed from the inside!" Frank yelled. This couldn't be. What the hell was happening? The door handle didn’t even have a lock!


"Close, he's so close…"

"Everything's turning…the world is changing…"

"Can't you feel him…he's right there…"

"He's coming! There! We can feel him! We can smell him!"

"James!"

"Where have you been hiding?"

"Your blood sings to us."

"We're calling for you…"

"When we find you, we won't let you go."


"DAD!" James' hands rose and pushed against the shaking and rattling bed above him, his torso sinking into the gaping darkness underneath the bed. "DAD! Help me!! Please!" James begged, screaming as strong hands slid progressively up the path of his body, pulling more of him under.

"JAMES!! JAMES, I CAN'T GET IN!! OPEN THE DOOR!"

'NO!' James floundered and desperately fought against the many invisible hands on him. The entire room was vibrating as if assaulted by a massive storm. The closet door was flying open and slamming shut so hard, that cracks were spreading their way along the plaster edging the doorframe. The pictures and small clock fell and crashed to the floor with the loud smash of glass. Light inside of the room dimmed almost pitch black, then the light burned and burned until the light bulb looked as if it would explode from the ball of energy that it contained.

"Get off me!!" James screamed, scrabbling at the floor when his hands failed to keep him from sliding further under the bed. "Get off me! Get off me! GET OFF ME!"


There was a heavy breath. The presence was here.

The hands stilled.

"LET HIM GO."

Shock. Confusion.

Why?

But they're so close.

"But…he's there.." … "We have him.." … "Valtiel…"

"NOT YET…NOT NOW…SOON…"

"THE RED PYRAMID WILL WAIT…"

What?

Lies. Can't be.

Fear. Fear. No. No, there will be pain.

"Wait?" … "He won't wait…" … "You've seen him.." … "He'll kill us for letting him go…"

"THEN YOU WILL DIE. THIS CHANGES NOTHING. HE WILL COME."

"THEY ALWAYS DO."

"LET HIM GO."


Whatever it was, appeared to have heard his plea, since suddenly, the entire room fell silent and still. A dull creak signaled the closet door ceased its constant slamming, and one of the hinges had snapped from the force of the door's movements. With a loud thud and shudder, the bed fell flat and still.

The hands upon his body slipped away with a long caress, and James made a small pathetic sound as he was released.

Frank Sunderland literally fell into the room, the door finally breaking under the guide of his hand and allowing him inside. The condition of the room stunned him; it looked like a tornado had ripped its way through.

His son was nearly sobbing as he slid from underneath the broken and turned bed.

James shakily began pulling himself free when his father's hands grabbed onto him and helped him the rest of the way. James fell into the safety of his father's arms, pressing close, his hands twisting into the thick sweater that covered the man's chest. "Dad…."

Frank had his back against the wall opposite of the bed, holding his son against him. "James. James, talk to me, please. What happened." Frank begged the grown man huddling in his arms as he had when he was a small boy hiding from the monster in the closet.

"Dad…Dad…it wouldn't let go…" James pleaded.

"James, what--" Frank didn't understand. 'It'? What had happened to make James so scared?

"My legs…it just kept pulling…"

Peering down at the aforementioned limbs, Frank was shocked into silence.

The fabric of James' pants had long broken strips hanging off, as if something sharp had dragged their way along the light material. James' legs appeared dug into, with thin trails of red marking his skin.

Frank carefully moved James to lean against the wall, keeping his son behind him as he leaned forward towards the foot of the bed, throwing the comforter to the side. His eyes squinted partially shut as he peered into the space underneath.

Only darkness… with deep gouges and thick lines of stripped wood underneath the carpet -- as if large hands had released their rage upon the helpless floor.


It was eleven o' clock the next day, and both men had barely spoken a word to each other.

What had happened last night had been…horrific. Neither James nor Frank managed to get any sleep. James refused to stay in the guestroom, opting instead to sleep on the couch in the family room; after checking under each piece of furniture. He had been able to get a few hours of restless sleep.

Breakfast was a somber affair, the cereal and toast dry as sand going down their throats. James had large bruised bags under his eyes, and Frank caught himself drowsing while he waited for the effects of his cup of coffee to sink in.

Frank had been the only one willing to go back into the guestroom and grab fresh clothes from James' suitcase. He hadn't been able to stay in the room long enough to try to repair the damage that remained from the previous night.

Sitting around the house in heavy silence didn't bring any good. So, after several long hours Frank had pronounced that they would both head to the grocery store to stock up the refrigerator and shelves. Hopefully the drive would boost their spirits.

Frank was now wishing he could go back in time and take back his words.

James sat in the passenger seat, sullen and silent with his arms crossed over his chest. The large green jacket he favored appeared to be his security blanket while he huddled within its loose arms and long waist. His hair was sloppy from running nervous hands through it many times today.

They finally reached the medium sized grocery store, and Frank eased the car into the parking lot. The car fell silent as he turned the ignition key off.

Both men remained in their seats, waiting for the other to get out of the car or speak.

James surprised his father by actually being the first to say anything.

"You think I'm crazy." He spoke softly, his words accusatory.

"James…" Frank sighed, rubbing his face with his hands, trying to dispel the grit in his eyes. "What you told me…it's too amazing to have…"

He didn't have to turn to see James stiffen and draw back into himself.

"James, I want to believe you. I do. But after Mary died…the shock, it could be the thing that's making you see things." Frank tried to reason with him.

The sound James made was a twist of a laugh and a hiss, "You can't make up hands that trip you to the floor and start pulling a person across the floor." He shot back. Thanks a lot, dad. You could at least pretend that you believed me. "It's not like I faked the scratches on my pants or legs!"

"That could have come from you kicking your legs under the bed. The frame of the bed could have snagged your clothes." Frank argued. He turned in the seat to face his son. "James, I'm not accusing you of lying to me. I'm afraid for you. Your mind can play tricks on you. It can make you believe that anything is happening, as long as YOU believe it is occurring." He insisted.

Frank hesitated before continuing. "Maybe it would be best if you went to see a doctor." He broached the sensitive subject.

James scoffed, not bothering to hide the snide sound. "Yeah. The minute they look at my file, they'll think I'm suicidal. My wife died, and all of a sudden, I'm seeing the bogeyman. I'll be lucky to avoid a padded room." Pushing the car door open, James stepped out onto the pavement. "Let's go, dad. I…" He paused, closing his eyes to try to center himself. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. Okay?"

He turned, watching Frank step out and lock the car, and gave his father a forced smile. "Maybe you're right…I could have been seeing things. I just need to relax and stop running around in circles fretting about the entire thing." James said in hopes of soothing his father's worries.

Frank wasn't fooled by his son's efforts to lead the conversation away. However, he let James think that he had fooled him. "All right." He finally agreed, tucking the car keys into his pocket.

"Thanks, dad." James followed his father as they stepped through the automatic doors.

"Don't block me out, James." Frank pleaded. "Don't let the silence separate us. I'm here for you."

"Th-thanks, dad. It means a lot to me." James said, sincere.


"I suddenly remembered." Frank muttered.

"What?"

"Why I hate shopping on a weekend." He answered.

James took a step to the side to avoid another small child that careened past him. The little kid was screaming his lungs out as he ran from his parents, refusing to release the candy that he wanted. "You mean you don't enjoy having to avoid wild shopping carts and screaming little demons?" He teased. The small teasing smirk that spread across James' face made Frank's heart lighten.

"I'm an old man. You would think I'd have some sort of protection or privilege that deems it as a crime for me to be run over." Frank grinned at the teasing look from James.

"No way." James refused to back down. "You're just a more tempting target."

"Hmmph." Frank snorted in feigned disgust, acting betrayed by his son's lack of concern. "And you act as if you're my son."

James laughed softly.

Frank shifted the little shopping list, folding it with one hand and reading off the remaining items. "Damn. The chicken is on the other side of the store."

"A little walk wouldn't hurt." The same child from earlier blundered past. This time the father was in hot pursuit.

Frank groaned under his breath, using the shopping cart as a shield to defend himself. "Lead on." He gestured with a hand for James to go ahead.

Thankfully, father and son met little resistance passing through the fruit and vegetable section and then to the meat section. Pristine meat lockers arrayed the back half of the store, each package sealed tight with thick plastic. The large coolers hummed softly, maintaining the steady frigid temperature that was necessary to keep the meat safe and sanitary.

James shivered from the chill coming from the machines. He located the small section of chicken in the distant corner of the coolers. "Which kind are you looking for, dad?" He asked, looking through the various pieces and cuts of the meat.

"There's a coupon on the eight piece of breasts." Frank looked at the small coupon in his hand, confirming that he hadn't lost it.

James caught sight of the illusive package, and reached down to grab one at the top of the pile.

**RIIIIP**

He jerked his hand back from the sharp slice of air and squeak of tearing plastic. His hand came back out of the cooler, frigid and damp.

"Cold!" James yelped, shaking his hand and trying to wipe the dampness off. He stumbled slightly, catching himself when both feet suddenly lost support as the ground became slick. His hands banged sharply on the edges of the cooler as he braced himself, shoes skidding and squeaking loudly while they tried to gain purchase.

The floor was suddenly too slick to stand on. Something must have broken and spilled across the linoleum.

"James!" His father's voice startled him. James looked over, meeting Frank's bewildered face that was ash-white. "Your hand! Did you cut it?" Frank demanded, looking down where James' hands held him upright and steady.

"What…? I didn't..." James peered down at his hand, and finally realized how his father had come to the conclusion that he was injured. Seeing the thick streaks of red liquid underneath his palms and along the rim of the meat cooler. The thin blood trickled down the side of the cooler in a steady drip.

From not that far away, James could hear other customers suddenly shouting and making sounds of shock and surprise. Vaguely he heard the crash of a person unsuccessfully avoiding the hazard on the floor. The individual grunted as he smacked hard into the linoleum, released an angry "Shit!" that was woven with an evident trace of disgust.

"Mommy! The floor!"

"What the hell!"

"Where is it coming from?"

James' father moved towards him, overhearing the static voice across the intercom system as employees were ordered to the meat department immediately. "James! Give me your hand." Frank ordered, carefully approaching James while keeping one hand on the cooler to keep him on his feet.

"Dad?" James asked. He reached out and clasped his father's hand. Their fingers slid together, mingling the thin layer of blood that covered James' palm. The slippery fluid glided between their hands with a greasy, disgusting smack.

"It's fine. It's fine." Frank persisted, wanting to avoid any unanticipated movement on James' part that might possibly send them to the floor. "Watch your step. The floor's slick." Frank warned, pulling his son with him. Their footsteps splashed loudly as they both moved through the pools of liquid underneath their feet.

James looked down to confirm his father's warning about the state of the surface under their feet.

He wasn't expecting to look down into a shiny reflection of crimson, his face and body a flickering shapeless blob across the pool's surface. A massive lake of blood covered half of the floor, extending from the foot of the meat lockers, and half an inch thick.

A brief imaged flashed in his head -- Red rose petals along the spoiled surface of a fresh grave. Repugnant but yet strangely beautiful in its filthy state, but drawing the unwary in with the bright and burning glow. "Dad…"

"It's the meat. The packaging ripped." Frank explained rapidly as employees in the store came running, aghast at the state of the meat department. The inside of the lockers housing the meat were filled a quarter's way with blood, the torn remains of the meat packages floating in the viscous pools. None of the employees looked willing to reach in and extract the soggy remains of the spoiled cuts of meat.

Employees were careful when they leaned over to peer inside the deep pools to try to see what remained of the store's product. "Every single one is ripped open!" One of the employees warned another when they approached the meat lockers. The plastic packaging on each individual carton were slashed open, bearing several long clean cuts from one edge of the carton to the other.

"Oh, no." The manager groaned, flushed face growing white as he surveyed the amount of damage. "Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost to replace?" He didn’t seem surprised when no one was able or willing to answer his question.

An employee who worked in the meat department shook his head in anger and frustration, hair held back in a white cap and white uniform stained with the fresh blood that was beginning to smell and spoil. "Someone decided to play some sort of sick joke." He snarled, furious at the damage.

"A joke?" Another worker parroted.

"But when? There's no way someone could tear these open where everyone could see them." A customer argued fiercely while standing near the edge of the pool of liquid.

"Oh Christ." A voice said in horror. A younger man, around James' age, was looking up at the wall above the meat department. His eyes, huge from shock and awe, stared up as if mesmerized by the sight laid out in front of him. "Someone has a really twisted sense of humor." He moaned in disgust.

Those who stood near him followed the direction that the young man was looking.

They immediately wished they hadn't.

Across the white expanse of the wall above the meat lockers, and above the logo for the meat section of the store -- were a series of words freshly painted. In long, thick streaks, the words were spelled out in blood. Each bold patch of letter was as thick as an individual hand. Droplets of blood fell from the surface and spattered the floor with a quiet rain of crimson.

The five words were bold and underlined with a long streak of blood, a flourish to accentuate the gory etching.

YOUR BLOOD SINGS TO US

"When did those…" Whoever spoke wasn't able to find the proper words to describe the sight.

"Dad." James clasped his hands around Frank's wrists, giving him a sharp tug until his father turned to face him. "Dad. Let's go. I don't want to stay here." He pleaded.

"All right…give me a minute to just…"

"No, dad! Right now. Something is happening and I don't want to be anywhere near here." James interrupted sharply.

"James, be reasonable. This has nothing to do…"

Their argument ceased when the intercom system came on.

"Attention, please. All customers please leave their purchases directly where they are and calmly exit the store. I repeat, all customers-"

A loud click throughout the store and almost everyone cringed and covered their ears as the intercom system came on, so loud that the pitch of the metallic ringing made their eardrums feel as if they would rattle right out of the cranium.

The speakers vibrated so badly they appeared dangerously close to rattling right off their mountings. A long and rapidly rising screech of sound began to fill the store. Many people began to cry out, and several children began screaming in pain as the rising scream began to mount.

It didn't sound remotely human. James thought the screaming was tantamount to a rabbit when it screamed, but it was too long and the pitch was totally wrong.

Another shriek and people feared that their teeth would begin rattling. Employees desperately stabbed at the controls for the intercom system, trying to shut it off. As if to punish them, the screams alternated into whooping howls and agonized bellowing wails. It was something straight out of a person's worse nightmare.

Smoke began to billow out from the speakers. Sparks flew out and the speakers gave a death wheeze as the smoke turned ink black. With a sharp crack and rattle, the yowling shrieks faltered reprieving the store and customers of the nightmarish gibberish. The entire store fell into silence.

TBC