Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is there. It is not exactly sure what it is, but what it does know is that it is something. It looks around. It does not know what it’s looking for, but the surroundings are familiar to it. It feels like something. It feels familiar with this.

And in an instant, it becomes he.

All his memories rush back to him- a riptide of emotion and awareness that rocks him to the core. He has a name. Willard Stiles, twenty-eight years of age, blue eyes, light hair, five-foot-eleven inches tall. The Ratman. He is engaged to a beautiful girl of twenty-seven, Joan Barclay. Soon to be Joan Stiles.

He was aware that something had occurred, but he couldn't quite discern what it was. Was this yet another nightmare? He was finding it increasingly difficult to distinguish reality from his dreams. The one issue is that he didn’t remember anything past seeing something in the living room and coming down here.

How did he get here? Where was he? These are all things he would love to know. He slowly realized he was in the cellar. Where he kept… yes, the rats. The rats. The furry-tails, Socrates… and Ben. What was he forgetting? Why did just the name Ben strike him? Why is he afraid of his name? He had so many questions and nobody to ask. It was like he was stuck in a limbo, or some sort of sleep paralysis, and he couldn’t move or do much of anything at all.

He was so busy looking around and comprehending his sudden amnesia that it never occurred that he was much more elevated than normal- more like he was levitating towards the ceiling. He was aware of all his senses except touch and taste; like he was a set of floating eyes and ears. It was like each sense was like a light switch, needing to be consciously flicked on to work.

What could he see? He could see the tables. The boxes, the heaters, the vents, the cobweb’d ceiling… it was too dim to see much else from his vantage point. He didn’t think to move his head (if he even had one). And what could he hear? He strained, forcing him to pick up any sound. He heard the distant buzzing of cicadas and this awful, almost wet, smacking noise. It cut through the air like an assassin’s dagger. Crunch, munch, munch, crunch, slurp. It made his skin(?) crawl.

He also noticed a strange but oddly familiar sound, like the soft tapping of marbles or pebbles hitting the floor, creating a gentle pattering noise as they landed on the carpet.

And then he made the mistake of looking down.

His sight takes a minute to register, but then he sees it. The darkness moves. Through the tiny screen window, he can make out a sea of furry bodies swarming about something. He knew what was happening at some point, why can’t he remember what was going on?

The swarm yielded and cleared a bit from the “something” lying prone on the cellar floor. Here, Willard noticed five things:

• The creatures were an unfathomably numerous swarm of rats (more than his ever was).

• They looked frenzied like they had been starved and were finally being fed.

• It smelled horrific, putrid, disgusting, fetid, and any other version of the word. It made him want to vomit.

• The “something” that the rats were eating was a bloody, torn-up corpse.

• The corpse was his.

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Fear choked at my nonexistent throat, looking upon my mangled self. My body fell like a puppet cut from its strings, falling onto the floor with a numb thud. I scrambled to try and swat away the rats from my body using his hands, but they went right through the ravenous muridae.

“Stop! I was good to you! Get off!” I wailed in anguish, my yells falling on deaf ears. My agonized yet painless screams faded into sobs of defeat, accepting the fact that the rats could not hear me nor would listen if they could. And after all I had done for them, they repay me like this?

They covered my face and tore the soft flesh from it, and the smell was that of rotting flesh and ensanguined concrete flooring. If I truly was a madman, I might’ve been proud of the wretched creatures. Yet, I still couldn't bring myself to hate them completely. I was the one who taught them to be the way they were, anyway. It was all my fault in the end, and these were just hungry animals led by an anarchistic leader created by me and me only.

It made it nonetheless frightening, but at least I knew who to blame.

It only occurred to me now that I was truly dead because by looking at the scene still unfolding before me, I knew I was just as dead as Martin. Soon I’d be nothing but a bloody skull in a coffin just like him. Another pitifully light casket and I’d be dead two weeks before…

Joan.

Joan is coming home on Monday.

We are supposed to be married in two weeks. She had gone out to see a friend in London. How did I forget? She’d come home expecting a warm welcome home and a kiss or two, only to be left with nothing. She’d search and call for me, and finally see my bones in the cellar.

Poor Joan. She never needed to be ensnared in the things I caused. I deserve a fate like this and worse. I miss her already. If it weren't for my idiotic actions, I’d be alive and I’d see her home tomorrow. Yet, of course, my cowardice and greed bind me here.

Joan, love, if you can hear me…

I’m sorry.

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There isn’t much space in my third notebook, so I’ve started a third one. The rats are all gone. They left my skull and a bit of flesh on it, but not much else. The wooden and concrete floors soaked up most of the blood, so at least there was enough evidence of my demise. I’ve come to the conclusion I am a ghost. A poltergeist even, as I can still move around objects. I left the cellar (I can phase through walls and solid things now, so I needn't any doors) and made my way back to the parlor. The fire was blazing before I went down there, and now there are only smoldering ashes.

I’m going to copy what I wrote before I went down into the cellar into this book, just to see if I remember by writing it again.

Well, never mind that. The last pages are torn and chewed up. All I can make of the last page is “Maybe someone will hear me.” Shame my vivid documentation is gone, but I do remember what happened now. I was in the parlor resting by the fire and I heard scratching. Ben had brought a new mob of rats that I had never organized, and I planned to poison his army. But, it appears the mastermind can read now (damn you, Ben) and he knew what “poison” meant. So I tried to whack Ben to death, but as I chased him to the cellar I was overpowered by all of his little friends and they ate me alive just like they did to Mr. Martin.

Somebody did not hear me.

And now I must go because I hear Joan pulling into the front.

Chapter Text

It was a tiringly long way home from London. The train wasn’t horrible- it’s actually quite nice, especially if you’re going on holiday- but it just took too long. I hailed a cab the rest of the way and now I can put away all of my luggage and just enjoy being home.

I walk up to the front door and grab the spare key Willard had given me. I plugged it into the lock and thought about him. He’s probably waiting in the parlor, yearning for his sweet fiancé to come home! What a thought.
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Joan is here, and I am very very afraid. It's been only ten minutes since I heard the noise of a taxi on the curbside and she’s only come inside just now. I scrambled into the cellar and now I am waiting.

Also, I found the mask.

The vile rat mask I just so happened to find in my home one day and the same mask that earned me the title of “Ratman”. A man(?) with rats. Very creative. I’ve put it on again… frankly because it makes me feel powerful. When you have any item that can strike fear into a person such as this you tend to grow attached. I am the Ratman, whether I like it or not. This is my purgatory.

I’m just hoping she doesn’t check the cellar.

She was never good with blood or horror.
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To my dismay, he was not here. I haven’t a clue where he had gone- I checked everywhere. This had to be some joke! Where does he have to go?

I hadn’t checked the cellar. To be honest, I had always disliked that musty old place. If I had my way I’d never go down there, but that’s where you keep tools and wine. I don’t need tools, but wine is nice I guess.

I stood at the door and felt an odd sense of trepidation. Something was amiss. There were scratches and bites on the bottom of the door.

Just my imagination, I told myself as I opened the door.

I first noticed the sour scent of rotting wood, followed by a sharp, unidentifiable metallic smell. I had to go down and reach the light before I could even try to see. I stepped down the creaky staircase, and I stepped on something with a brittle crunch. I ignored it and grabbed the little cable to turn on the light.

As it fizzled to life, I realized that the scent I didn’t recognize was smeared on the floor.

Soaked into the concrete was a huge splatter of reddish-brown, a few bones with bits of flesh clinging to them, and a skull.

I was too shocked to scream. I just stared for a good few seconds.

“What?” I choked out, confused and disgusted by the gory sight.

There was no doubt who this was; I knew this was Willard’s remains, but I didn’t think about it. I was trying to deny it.

I caught up with my confusion and just ran. I ran out of that wretched cellar and I vomited into the bathroom sink. I fell to the floor and just cried.

“…dear god, have mercy…” I whimpered into my trembling hands, curling tighter into the corner.

I looked up and I saw nothing. I had to get help- the police- anybody- there is a bloodbath and human remains in my cellar which may or may not belong to my fiancé.

I warily walk over to the phone, when I nearly trip over something. It’s a pen (which has now exploded all over my shoe and the floor), and a bunch of other pens that fell out of the pencil holder. I pick up the pen and go to place it on the coffee table when I see the book.

“Notebook #2,” is titled in pen on the cover, and it looks to be in Willard’s handwriting. I open the notebook to a random page.

What the hell?

It’s Willard’s, but lo and behold he is writing about-

Rats.

Rats, slashing tires, robbing stores, robbing people, robbing homes, and killing Mr. Martin.

I shut the notebook and threw it down. I felt like I had seen too much. I was about to marry this man, and he was the Ratman? A murderer, criminal, and urban legend all in one terribly normal package. No wonder he seemed so crestfallen when Martin killed that rat.

I stood up, and slowly backed away from the book in fear- but I ran into something and gasped.

I whip around only to see a shadowy figure in a rat mask reaching for me. I swatted at the humanoid creature and ran out as quickly as my legs would carry me. I ran down the street to the nearest payphone to call the police.

The operator answered swiftly, “999, what’s your emergency?”

“I think there’s been a murder in my home,” I whined.

“You think someone’s been murdered there?”

“Yes! I went out on a short holiday in London and now that I’m back my fiancé is nowhere to be found, and there is blood and remains all over the cellar floor!”

“Ma’am I need you to calm down and tell me the address…”

As I rambled on and on to this officer, begging for help, the notebook was scalding in the back of my mind.

What else was that man hiding from me?

Chapter Text

HELLO! first of all I didn’t expect anyone to read this (all 4 willard fans rise up) but I’d like to say that YES I will continue working on this and NO i haven’t given up. School and just… life… has been kinda controlling the flow of rat related brainrot spewing from my unintelligent brain so just bear with me

I beg of you

also does anyone know joan’s ACTUAL last name barclay is kind of a placeholder because I couldn’t find it anywhere

sadly the book just calls her “the girl” so we might be cooked 💔

okay bye my lil skiblings

-angie