>You wake up.

>And you feel absolutely awful.

>Alright, maybe you have to lay off the pawnch when you go to Jeremy Wheeler's parties, your head is killing you.

>Your back feels strangely sore as well.

>Actually, now that you think of it, your head hurts in a different way than if you were hungover.

>More like something cracked you across the head.

>Maybe you fell out and smacked yourself on something in Jeremy's house.

>You sit up, with a bit of difficulty and open your eyes.

>It's still dark, and your vision is slightly blurry.

>You immediately notice two things however.

>You're on a hard floor.

>And this is neither your, nor Jeremy Wheeler's home.

>Your vision slowly clears, and you can barely make out more of the space you're in.

>It's very large and open. There's small amounts of light gracing the area, but they're a deep red.

>Like if a red alarm light was on, or mood lighting in a cheap motel.

>But it's dim and slowly pulsing in and out, as if the bulbs need changing.

>The red light bounces off of those long rectangular shipping containers, that are covering the area around you.

>Their kind of scattered around too, not very neatly placed.

>So judging by that fact, and the size of this building.

>You're probably in a warehouse of some sort?

>... Why?

>How the hell did you get here?

>You really don't remember drinking that much. And you've never gotten blackout drunk at one of Jeremy's parties anyway.

>And fuck. Where's Mirabelle?

>You went to that party together. You should still be together.

>Unless she ditched you.

>... Unless something's happened to her.

>Nah, that's ridiculous.

>This is Towngrove. Nothing bad ever happens in Towngrove.

>Knowing Mirabelle, several ideas of why you're here come to mind.

>Alright, time to find her and get outta here. this place is kind of creepy.

>You stand up, a little shakily what with the random dull pain in your head.

>You know what. Maybe you tripped in this low light and bonked yourself. So Mirabelle went to look for an office with a first aid kit, or to step out and call for help.

>That sounds reasonable right?

>"Heeey Anon. You're finally awake." A... Voice, calls out to you.

>You don't know from where. It seems to, carry around the room.

>Like it's coming from above you, and right next to you, and every other direction.

>It almost sounds familiar too, but you can't quite place it.

>... And it knows your name.

>But you do know. It sure ain't Mirabelle.

>"Hello?" you call out, straining to see someone in the low light.

>"Got you all to myself now." the voice says.

>Huh?

>"Uhh, excuse me?" you say, confused.

>The voice doesn't respond.

>Alright. Well this is odd.

>You don't like this. This is weird.

>"Umm, have you, seen my girlfriend? Little white rabbit, kinda sassy?" you ask.

>"Your girlfriend?" the voice repeats, very slowly. "Why yes, she's right here."

>For some reason. You kind of doubt that.

>Or, maybe you don't.

>Oh God, did this person do something to Mirabelle?

>Is this like, a homeless person squatting in this warehouse?

>You've heard that some homeless people get unimaginably defensive with the places they choose to commandeer.

>Did you two accidentally walk in here, and they attacked you?

>That could be why your head hurts the way it does.

>Your breaths are quickening and your heart is beating faster.

>Try and keep calm.

>Fear is the mindkiller.

>You slowly check your pockets for your items.

>No phone, no keys, no wallet.

>So this person likely took them.

>That's probably how they know your name.

>That's fine, let them have your bullshit.

>"Look, we don't want any trouble. We're sorry for invading or whatever, just let Mirabelle and me leave and you'll never see either of us again, I promise."

>The voice remains silent for a moment.

>Hopefully it's seeing reason.

>"I think you're a bit mistaken Anon." it finally says.

>"About what?" you dare to ask.

>"... I brought you here."

>You think your heart just skipped a beat.

>But, not like it does when Mirabelle's around.

>Like in a, it almost stopped, kind of way.

>"The hell do you mean?" you ask, trying to keep the fear from poking through your voice.

>"Just like I said, I brought you here." they repeat. "To fix your mistake."

>What?

>"What mistake?" you ask.

>"The one you made last year. When you made the wrong choice."

>"The hell are you talking about?!" you snap.

>This person is so far off the deep end, they're finding Mariana snailfish.

>"That one, they tricked you and made you choose. You chose wrong. And ever since, that choice has been keeping you down. Tethered and docile. So I came to fix it." the voice explains.

>If you can call that an explanation.

>You bring yourself back down. You don't want to blow up again when dealing with a possible psycopath.

>You're not even sure this is a psycopath.

>This is Towngrove. Nothing bad ever happens in Towngrove.

>It's probably just some wild prank. This seems like something Verne could pull off.

>"Look." you say. "I'm not too sure what you're talking about. But I am sure that I'd like to go home now. I don't know what problem you 'fixed', but if it's done, I should be able to leave right? So can I just find Mirabelle and go?"

>"... Sure." the voice says. "But uh. If you want to find the rabbit, you should hurry. She's in one of these containers, somewhere. And if I remember correctly, these things are air tight."

>The voice pauses for a moment.

>"And you have been asleep for quite some time already."

>... They're joking.

>"You're joking." you say.

>"Do I sound like I'm joking?" they respond.

>...

>Hey, they might not be joking.

>This might be real.

>This can't be real.

>This is Towngrove! Nothing bad ever happens in Towngrove!

>Now is the time for fear.

>You look around quickly.

>Again, it is still very hard to see.

>But when those red lights flare up, it gives you a better outline of where things are.

>When enough of the light reveals where you are, you move toward a container.

>Of course, it would be too easy if this psycho put Mirabelle in a container this close to you.

>But you would hate to anticipate her being distant and mess up.

>But at the same time you would hate to waste too much time and-

>Nope nope. Don't think that way, it'll be fine.

>Watch, you're going to open one of these, Mirabelle is going to jump out and yell 'you just got beaned!' or something.

>"Mirabelle!" you begin to shout, hoping she can hear you and respond.

>You hope these containers aren't soundproof or something.

>You continue to call her name while you search.

 >"You know," the voice says suddenly as you check another empty container. "With those big floppy ears dangling behind her head, do you think she can actually hear anything you say?"

>What?

>"What kind of question is that?" you ask.

>You'd probably be better to ignore them, but you think you've heard that in situations like this, it might be best to engage your captor to keep them from getting overly upset and doing anything rash.

>"I mean, when you talk, do you think she actually listens to you?" they continue. "Actually hears what you're saying? Or does it just go in one ear and out the other?"

>"What the hell does that even mean? Of course she listens." you say.

>"Or is that just what you've been brought to believe? Could the truth be that your words have been falling on deaf ears??"

>You have no fucking clue what this person is on about.

>They go any farther off the deep end and they'll be past catching snailfish and onto shaking hands with Cthulhu.

>"Oh." the voice says unconsciously as you come up to another container.

>That was an 'oh' reminiscent of 'oh, he found it'.

>You throw open this container and.

>There's nothing inside.

>Wait that's not true.

>There's a tiny little stick and click light stuck to the top of the container, shining onto a box in the back.

>Maybe the box has a key or something that you'll need to unlock the container with Mirabelle in it.

>You run in and grab the box.

>It's not sealed or anything so you pull open the flaps.

>This is not a key.

>These are.

>Well.

>You can't be sure, but.

>They look like ears.

>Floppy white, rabbit ears.

>Very. Familiar. White rabbit ears.

>They're bloodied at the bottom, like they were lobbed off and haphazardly tossed in the box.

>Noooo.

>Nope, nope, can't be.

>You lift your hand up and begin to reach into the box.

>You hesitate more than once.

>They can't be real, they have to be fake.

>You slowly reach in and grab an ear near the top, running your thumb over the fur.

>It's so familiar in your hand that your mind actually pictures all the times you've rubbed Mirabelle's ears.

>The content gentle smile she would have on her face as you did so.

>You recoil in horror and drop the ear like you just bare handed something radioactive.

>You run out of the container.

>That's not funny." you call out to the voice, your own voice laced with venom.

>The voice doesn't respond for a long moment, before finally it says, "I know."

>"What the fuck is that?!" you shout.

>"It's exactly what it is." the voice responds calmly. "Or do you not recognize them?"

>They're lying. They're bluffing.

>Keep calm. Mirabelle is fine, she has to be.

>You take some deep breaths to steady yourself.

>"You should hurry." the voice calls.

>This is a goddamn game to them, isn't it?

>Well of course it is, that's why they're doing it.

>You resume checking these containers with more urgency.

>It's a good thing the doors aren't heavy or rusted. It takes barely more effort than opening a regular door, so it isn't tiring you.

>Which is good because you need all your energy.

>How many of these do you need to check?

>Have you been this way already?

>Where did you start?

>Shit are you going to have to backtrack?

>How are you going to find your way back?

>What  if you're going north and she's actually toward the south or something?

>All these questions run through your head before the voice calls out again.

>"You know. I've been wondering. Is that rumor about a rabbit's feet being lucky actually true?"

>You don't like where this is going.

>"I wanted to test it, but it didn't seem true to me. Although maybe it has something to do with the length of exposure. So I figured I'd ask you, since she's basically been walking all over you for so long."

>You don't respond.

>That bad feeling is getting stronger.

>"Ooh." the voice says as you come up to another container, as if you've found something interesting.

>You grab the door and pull it open.

>Same setup as last time.

>You don't want to, but you probably have to.

>You inch forward into the container to reach the box.

>And you can already tell you aren't going to like what you see.

>You slowly pull it open, dreading what might be in there.

>And the object threatens to force the contents of your stomach straight out.

>In line with the voice's ominous questioning, the answer is.

>A foot.

>Freshly severed from its host and placed inside a small cardboard box.

>You feel sick.

>Your stomach heaves, your mind burns, your eyes are overflowing with moisture.

>And a terrifying visage of Mirabelle screaming bloody murder with her right foot missing invades your already addled mind.

>And the image pushes you past your limit.

>You spill your guts on the shipping container floor.

>This isn't real, can't be, no way.

>You scream these things in your mind, as if repeating them will make the situation true, and you'll come to true consciousness heaving your guts into Jeremy' toilet or something.

>But of course your violent expulsion of your stomach's contents end.

>And this nightmare does not.

>You spit on the ground and wipe your mouth  with the flap of your flannel.

>You stomp out of the container, half terror, half rage.

>"This isn't funny!" you bellow. "Stop fucking messing with me! Just give me Mirabelle so we can leave! I'm not playing these games with you, they aren't funny!"

>You're still trying to cling to the idea that this is all a bad joke.

>You're trying. But you know you're not succeeding.

>The voice keeps quiet for an ominously long time.

>"You're right. It's not funny." they finally answer. "It's not supposed to be."

>Your heart is pounding now, threatening to burst from your chest.

>This is real shit, not fake at all.

>Something horrible has happened to Mirabelle, and it's almost certain that the same will happen to you.

>What are you supposed to do about this?

>Fighting in the Circle didn't prepare you for going against psycho killers.

>Who are you?!" you scream. "The hell do you want?!"

>"I told you already. I had to fix your mistake." they reply.

>"What mistake, there is no mistake! You're the fucking mistake!"

>"That's not true, that's just what you've been forced to believe right now. But you'll see clearly soon." they say.

>"You- what- I don't-" you stumble through your words.

>You once again try to peer through the darkness.

>The ominous red light only adds to the difficulty and builds your dread.

>What you wouldn't give right now to be able to see better in the dark.

>Some anthros have all the fucking luck.

>"You should keep going." they remind you. "You're almost there."

>Do you even want to?

>It's getting worse.

>You're finding pieces of what might be Mirabelle.

>Or at least you think they are?

>There aren't many white rabbits in Towngrove.

>And why do you assume they're still real body parts?

>Or that you even are still in Towngrove?

>You're losing your mind now.

>You can't think rationally.

>You're trying to keep calm and failing spectacularly.

 >But something compels you to move forward.

>Persevere.

>You continue to open containers.

>As long as Mirabelle is alive.

>As long as she's alive you can get out together.

>Even if she's permanently crippled, as long as she's breathing you'll help her however you need.

>You just need her to be alive.

>Your sanity depends on it right now.

>Because for some reason, every empty container you open seems to whisper terrible things to you.

>Whispers of failure, of suffering, of death.

>Whispers that will haunt you in this world and the next.

>Whatever lost spirits that still cling to this world are whispering of your imminent demise.

>"You know." the voice says.

>Oh no. Dear God no, don't.

>"She doesn't actually love you."

>That's bullshit, you want to say.

>But for whatever reason, you can't summon your voice.

>Because whatever this voice is about to say is going to ruin you somehow.

>Just like it has the last two times.

>Whenever it pipes up, you find a piece of Mirabelle in the next container you open.

>And you're terrified of what you're going to find next.

>"She may have pretended to care for you, but she was just using you." the voice continues.

>"Look how she taunts and teases you. Like you're some sort of toy for her enjoyment. It's all wrong. She doesn't love you."

>And then silence.

>A long, droning, empty silence, that grows paradoxically louder every moment it remains silent.

>"Not like I do." they say.

>And you feel the bile struggle to rise and purge your already empty stomach again.

>"Excuse me?" you whisper so quietly, it almost felt like you didn't even say it out loud.

>But the voice heard you perfectly.

>"She doesn't love you like I do." they answer. "I love you far more than any person on this planet, and she, is physically incapable of loving you in the same way."

>Who the fuck even is this?

>Your head hurts.

>Not from the blow you apparently took, but from the splitting migraine cutting through your brain as you attempt to make sense of what the hell you just heard.

>"Do you know why?" they ask when you remain silent.

>You refuse to respond.

>They however, take your silence as curiosity, and answer their own question.

>"Because she doesn't have the heart."

>...

>Your own heart sinks into the pit of your stomach.

>No. No no no please.

>Don't say that.

>It had better not be what you think.

>You won't allow it, you swear to God.

>That voice only starts with these when you're near a container they want you to be at.

>You walk slowly by the containers until the voice goes 'Ah', and confirms that you are where they want you to be.

>"Please" you beg silently. "Don't be another box."

>You open the container.

>And the universe denies your humble request.

>You can already tell from where you are.

>That box is wrong.

>The bottom of it is dark.

>No.

>You don't want to open that box.

>You refuse to open the box.

>Your heart will stop if you do.

>... Your heart.

>Your legs are inching forward on their own.

>You take tiny steps forward, as if that box is volatile and will explode if you approach it too quickly.

>A thick irony smell catches your nose as you come up to the box.

>You bend down, and reach for the flaps.

>You close your eyes.

>You don't want to see what's in there, but a force not your own commands you.

>You take a peek through one eye, then open the other in a similar manner.

>You immediately wish you hadn't.

>There's a small lump of muscle and sinew sitting in the box.

>Bloody and sickening.

>Less like it was cut out and more like it was straight torn out.

>Your mind falls into the sea.

>Your body follows.

>You're lying on your back, staring up into the container.

>Your vision is fading, your muscles are going limp.

>No, no! Don't pass out!

>You can't afford to lose consciousness.

>You have to fight.

>But for what?

>To live?

>Mirabelle is. That's her...

>NO.

>You refuse to believe it.

>The deep red wrath that surfaced when you fought together with Mirabelle in that tournament returns with double- no, triple the burning ferocity.

>You try to throw yourself off the ground, but your limbs are having a hard time moving.

>You scream to the heavens as if your anguish and rage will summon an avatar of war to aid you.

>Your arms gain motion first and you crawl on your elbows until your legs gain their fighting spirit as well.

>You step out of the container, attempting to burn holes in the darkness and locate your aggressor.

>"I take it you didn't like what you found." thet say nonchalantly.

>You point a finger into the container. "That. Is not. Her. I want the real Mirabelle. Right now."

>The voice says nothing.

>"Now!" you repeat, much louder.

>"So be it." they say. "Lucky for you, you're right there. Just check the one right behind you."

>Fucking finally, you can be done with this charade.

>You turn on your heel and step toward the container.

>You place your hands on it, ready to throw it open.

>But you freeze.

>Your blood runs ice cold, and you aren't sure why.

>No. You know why, you can feel it.

>Whatever's in here.

>Your very soul knows, it isn't going to be pleasant.

>You open the doors.

>...

>........

>.......... Oh dear God have mercy.

>It's her. It's Mirabelle. There's no mistaking it.

>But. She's. Not. Whole.

>In fact, she's missing more pieces than the ones you found.

>A hand and an eye are absent alongside her ears and foot.

>And the large, awful gaping hole in her center.

>Your brain turns off, trying to shelter you from the horror it just processed and deemed to extreme to witness.

>It turns your body off too for the second time in just about two minutes.

>You fall flat, half your body in the container, the other half sticking out.

>Your face is wet.

>Probably from the tears pouring from your eyes.

>No, more than that.

>It smells like blood.

>Mirabelle's blood travelled from her body to the entrance of this container, and you're face first in it.

>So once again your stomach goes to purge.

>But there's nothing left so you heave painfully for a long time.

>After your body stops attacking itself in fear, you push yourself onto your hands and knees.

>What the fuck do you do now?

>What can you do?

>You want to approach Mirabelle, to confirm.

>But there's no need for that, you can see from here.

>You don't know-

>There's no-

>What.

>You force yourself up too quickly and stumble backward, collapsing on your ass.

>"I see you found her. Or, what's left of her." the voice says.

>"Wh- you... Wh- Why?" you mumble.

>"Hmm? the voice hums. "Didn't quite catch that."

>"Why why WHY?!" You grow progressively louder. "What the fuck have you done?! Why?! Why did you- you fucking- I can't... Why?"

>You breathe quickly and heavily, holding your hands over your eyes, trying to keep the tears in.

>Trying to keep the last threads of your sanity from snapping.

>Your emotions are running wild.

>Your fight or flight reactions are struggling for dominance.

>We have to run.

>We have to find them and fuck them up.

>We need to get the hell out of here.

>We have to fucking kill 'em!

>Both extremes crash against each other in your head.

>"I told you why. The voice responds. "To fix your mistake."

>Again with that mistake shit. What does it even mean?

>"And, now that you can clearly see she's gone. You don't have to hold on to her anymore." the voice continues. "You can live free from her oppression, you can move on. You can love another. The person you were meant to love."

>And when it next speaks, it's almost like it's speaking directly into your ear.

>"Me."

>You whip your head around and find absolutely nothing.

>"I'll treat you right Anon. Better than she ever could, I promise."

>...

>You stand up slowly.

>Looks like. Flight wins.

>Time to make a tactical advance in the opposite direction!

>You sprint through the darkness.

>Which is a terrible idea when you can't fucking see, but you don't care.

>You rush this way and that, often slamming into shipping containers as you hunt blindly for an exit.

>The pain flooding your body barely registers as the adrenaline drives you forward.

>"Wait. The voice says. "Where are you trying to go?

>You say nothing. Running is more important.

>Gotta be an exit. Gotta find an exit. Need to get out. Run.

>"Anon, stop. There's no need to run. Slow down. You'll hurt yourself. You don't need to leave. It's okay. Stay with me. Don't go. Please. I need you. You have to stay."

>The voice spits line after line at you, and the directions they come from are more pronounced. 

>Sometimes from the sides, sometimes from right behind you. 

>At one point you could swear something was standing right in front of you as the voice spoke and you almost tripped and crashed headfirst into a container.

>And you're no closer to an exit.

>No wait. There's something.

>Straight ahead is one of those red alarm lights fading in and out.

>And as it fills in, it casts a glow over an indentation in the wall.

>When it fades, you can see a sliver of whitish light behind it.

>It could be moonlight.

>Freedom?

>You don't know but you have to take it.

>You're gonna smash through that door and run until you either get home or find a police officer or a good samaritan somewhere.

>You sprint like a track star going for the gold.

>It isn't proper door breaching technique, but you're just going to throw your entire body into that door, hope it caves, and get the fuck out of here.

>Come back with men more experienced in handling chaotic killers.

>But right now, escape is the top priority.

>You're getting closer.

>You prep to slam into the door.

>But the red light flares brighter than it has while you've been in here, and as you look ahead you see something that looks like metal glinting off the red hue of the light above you.

>And whatever it was catches you in the leg moments before your collision with the door.

>You go tumbling and sliding forward, mere inches away from the door, your gateway to the real world outside.

>Your leg burns. No not just burns, it's on fucking fire.

>It feels like something ripped straight through it.

>You roll over and look at it.

>And that seems to be exactly what happened, as your shin area seems to be hanging limply from a particularly tough section of meat.

>You can see the bone.

>Coupled with the wild charge you made, and the intense mind numbing fear you're experiencing, you're surprisingly numb to the pain, but you're pretty sure your heart is seconds away from bursting.

>That might be the pleasurable alternative to whatever happens next.

>"Why are you running, Anon?" the voice asks. 

>And you hear slow measured steps coming toward you. Like, the click of heels.

>Or the clip of hooves?

>A figure stands before you.

>They don't seem very tall. But with your vulnerable position on the floor here and your now mangled leg, they may as well be ten feet tall.

>You can't make out any features on them at all, even with the slowly pulsating light.

>It's as if the shadows have wrapped them in a monstrous veil.

>"Oh I see." they say. "You can't forget about her that easily, can you?"

>You can barely hear them over the deafening thud of your heart in your ears.

>"And if you can't get over her, then there's no chance of you being able to reciprocate the love I have for you."

>Your mouth is dry like you've been strolling through the desert.

>"She dug her claws too deep in you, huh?" they ask, more to themselves than to you. "I was too late. I see."

>You hear a grinding sound and finally take notice of the fire axe hanging loosely at their side.

>"The body is wrong, the soul is tainted, the mind is corrupt. But that's okay. Really. I just want your heart, Anon. So if you can't give it to me..."

>You look up into what you think is their face.

>And can see the piercing, abominable gaze, slicing through the blackness and peering out at you from those awful violet lights.

>No, those aren't lights.

>If there was a word to describe darkness shining outward in the same way light does, you would use it to describe the orbs glaring at you.

>You can feel the malice, the malevolence, the misery permeating your very being as this creature stares at you.

>They raise the axe high over head.

>"I guess I'll just have to take it, huh?" they finish their thought.

>Your eyes dash between the sharpened blade and those tenebrous orbs locked firmly on you.

>You try to speak, to scream.

>Maybe you can bargain.

>Lie to them to save your life.

>Pretend to say you can love them.

>But you can't.

>No words come.

>Your mind moves a thousand miles per hour but your mouth is slow as a sloth.

>A twitch of your murderer's hands, and the blade comes down.

>It tears into your chest, cleaving through flesh and bone.

>Your mind screams in pure terror, but your voice is still cowed into submission.

>You reach your hand up for mercy.

>They casually slap it back down, then reach to wrench the axe free.

>They bring it back up, then it comes crashing down.

>And you-

>You shoot up in your bed, gasping for air, feeling like you've been moonwalking on the sun, and skinny dipping in the waters of Antarctica.

>Mirabelle stirs awake next to you, with significantly less urgency than you.

>"You okay?" she mumbles, still mostly asleep.

>You don't answer, instead trying to fill your lungs with the precious oxygen you feel like you weren't getting.

>Mirabelle notices your heavy breathing and your lack of response, and comes to clarity much sooner.

>"Are you okay?" she asks, more clearly and with more worry.

>"Mhm." you mutter, finally beginning to catch your breath. "Just uh... Had a nightmare."

>"Oh is that so?" she says, laying back down.

>You can only assume she has also applied her grin of smug.

>Be right back." you say as you get up.

>You head to the bathroom to apply some cold water to your face and dry the places on your body that feel like they were soaked with sweat.

>You come back in gently, to avoid stumbling in  to anything. But you know your room pretty well so that doesn't normally happen.

>You change your shirt as well.

>"I told you it was getting late, and you should cut the horror movies, but no." she tells you as you get back into bed. "You just had to watch that last one about the murderous stalker girl chasing her ex boyfriend."

>Yep, that's on you, you may have hungered for one too many spooks.

>"And now you're having nightmares." she says patting you on the back.

>"Okay, I goofed, you're right." you assent. "Mistakes were made."

>Mistakes were made, indeed.

>"You gonna be okay?" she asks.

>"Yeah." you say as you lie back in bed. "Probably."

>She chuckles. "Well just think of me when you go to bed. I'll show up in your next nightmare and mess them up."

>"You're awful with horror, how are you gonna be any help?" you ask.

>"Well. If I show up and you think I'm in danger, maybe you'll go crazy and slaughter whatever monster was terrorizing you."

>"... Sure, that could work."

>She moves in closer and wordlessly holds you close.

>You turn and mirror the gesture.

>You feel a bit better already.

>However, you're probably not going to get to sleep as easy now.

>One thing bothers you.

>That nightmare was pretty vivid and intense.

>Usually your nightmares are simple and pathetic, like you open a box and oh no, the box is full of spiders. Or, you walk down a street and as you turn the corner, oh god scary gutter clown.

>But this one was lengthy and in depth.

>And it had.

>... It had a lot of.

>Wait, what was it about?

>Goddamn it you hate when that happens.

>Actually, this is one time where you'll be glad to have immediately forgotten what happened in your mind.

>You snuggle closer into Mirabelle and attempt to drift off to sleep.

>But. There's one part of the nightmare that you remember that doesn't seem to want to leave you alone.

>Who the hell actually was that nightmare killer?

>Didn't look like the actress in that horror flick you watched, or any of the others for that matter.

>Now that you think of it. You kind of remember them having violet eyes?

>Who do you know with eyes that color?

>Somebody right?

>Ah well, it was just a bad dream, and has nothing to do with your current predicament.

>Mirabelle is safe and whole in your arms. And you are of similar form. That's not going to change any time soon.

>... You do hug her just a tiny bit tighter though as you try to drift off to bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author Notes:

Happy Halloween all. Make sure you practice safe spooks.

Wanted to put together a quick something for Halloween, because I fucking love spook month. However, I am by no means a Stephen King, so it might not even be all that scary. Maybe if I read more horror stories instead of watching horror movies, it might help me out for the next time I try to write a scary story.

Not really connected or foreshadowing anything in my normal KotR stories, just used Anon and Mirabelle because, it's easier to work with what's familiar, I"d say.

Let me know how you feel about this one.