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Grant ran through the hallways of the school, a fire axe gripped in one hand. He’d broken into a glass case to rip it out in haste, something reserved for firefighters in emergencies, but there was no fire in the school and he was no hero. His footsteps echoed as he pounded down the tile.
He wasn’t running from something. He was running toward something. His son. His son was screaming, his voice bouncing across the hallways, making it hard to find him. But Grant knew he was getting closer and closer. He almost didn’t recognize the hallways of the school he’d gone to in middle school, somewhere he hadn’t been for twenty years.
He rounded a corner and skidded to a stop. There, a man stood. His face was unrecognizable, a trench coat on, blood dripping from his fingers. Bloody red, sticky footsteps outlined the man’s path up to the point he was at, his boots thoroughly soaked, as if he’d stood in an ankle-deep puddle of it. He turned towards Grant, his eyes widening in fear. Grant didn’t have time to imagine what his face would look like. Terry would probably call it his murder expression, though, the one with a lowered chin, glowing eyes, a sneer on his face. Whatever it was, Grant knew deep in his heart that this man was his target—this man was a monster.
Grant wasn’t one to hesitate. When he was on a mission, he was a machine, simple as that. But—
“Dad!” Lincoln shouted fearfully from the other side of the man. There was blood on him. His eyes were wide and shining, arms raised to protect himself.
Grant’s heart skipped a beat. He’d heard his son screaming earlier, he knew he would be here. But why was he here? Had this man hurt his son?
“Dad, what are you doing?” Link asked, eyes flickering down towards the axe that hung at Grant’s side. The man was snarling, also eyeing his weapon. “D-Dad?”
“Everything is going to be okay,” Grant said calmly, trying to inject emotion into his voice so he wouldn’t scare Link any more than he already was. “Look away, Link. Look away for me.”
“Wait…Dad, you can’t–can’t—”
The man lunged. Grant brought the axe up on instinct, the sharp edge angled straight up into the man’s gut. It was like the man had fallen right onto the blade. Grant stumbled to catch the man’s weight before he pulled Grant down. The man clawed weakly at Grant’s arm, but fell limp far sooner than other targets had.
Link stared in horror, one bloodied arm outstretched, jaw agape in shock.
Grant slid the body of the man off of him, the axe slipping out of his body with a wet slurp. The body slumped to the ground at his feet. Link’s eyes followed it down, wide and silent.
Grant stepped back to pull his foot from under the corpse. Link’s eyes jumped back up to them. Grant felt as if he were physically punched with that gaze. Not accusing or confused—but afraid. Link, afraid of him.
Grant dropped the axe. The metallic clang echoed in the hallway. “Link—”
As he stepped forward, Link stepped back, his breathing becoming more shallow. His eyes still shined in fear as he shook his head frantically.
“Hey,” Grant tried to step forward, but his feet wouldn’t move. He looked down, frustrated, to see that the tile was softening and sucking his feet down. He tugged to no avail, reaching out for his son. “It’s okay, buddy, I’m sorry—”
“No,” Link said, then screamed again, “NO!”
Grant blinked.
His feet were free. He ran through the hallways of the school, a fire axe gripped in one hand. He’d broken into a glass case to rip it out in haste, something reserved for firefighters in emergencies, but there was no fire in the school and he was no hero. His footsteps echoed as he pounded down the tile.
In the far distance, he could hear his son screaming, not able to tell exactly where it was coming from. Everything in the hallways echoed too much. His hands felt sticky, for some reason, clammy with what must have been sweat. He was nervous. His son was in trouble.
He skidded to a halt when he rounded a corner. There was a man there, his face hidden, in a black trench coat. There were bloody footsteps on the ground leading toward him.
Link was there. He was being grabbed by the man, the man that Grant knew was a monster. There was blood on both of their shirts. Link’s eyes were wide, shining with a familiar fear as the man grabbed him.
“Dad!” Link shouted.
Grant threw the axe. It hit the man perfectly in he back of the head, the sharp blade sinking into skin and skull like it was warm butter. The man’s movements instantly ceased and red blood sprayed over Link’s face, his hair, his shirt. The man went limp in the legs and collapsed to the ground a moment later, blood leaking from the filled gorge in his head.
Link stood, petrified, staring down at the body. His hands were shaking, covered in blood, blood in his mouth. His eyes turned to Grant. Shock. Fear. This was familiar.
“D-Dad, what–” Link choked. “What did you do?”
Oh, no. This was not what Grant wanted. He’d never wanted Link exposed to death and violence and himself. This was something—This was something that could never be undone.
“Link, I…He was going to hurt you.”
Link took a step back, shaking his head. His eyes still shined, his body still trembled. “What did you do?”
The door to Grant’s left blew open with an invisible gust of wind. He shouted, reaching for his son as another gust blew him into it, dragging him away. He scrambled to get his feet under him.
Once he found his balance, he began to run. He gripped the axe at his side, cold metal. He’d broken into a glass case to rip it out in haste, something reserved for firefighters in emergencies, but there was no fire in the school and he was no hero. His footsteps echoed as he pounded down the tile.
He skidded around a corner. The man had a knife and he held Link in one hand, snarling at Grant threateningly.
Grant didn’t hesitate this time. He lunged forward and the axe sunk into the man’s face, splitting his features, spraying blood into Grant’s mouth, bones caving under impact, muscle ripping and flying.
Link screamed, stumbling away as the man’s body fell away, his face taking Grant’s axe with it. There was less blood from before, but Grant’s attack has soaked his son again with it. The blood in his mouth wasn't bad.
Eyes wide and shining. Grant reached for him. “Link—!”
His feet pounded against the tile. The axe swung at his side.
Grant skidded around the corner. The entire hallway was coated in fresh blood, the walls dripping with the stuff. It covered school banners and melted down doorways. Link groaned from the ground, a hole carved through his stomach, intestines and organs spilling out, but his eyes were still open, his eyes shining with fear. The smell of fresh roadkill filled Grant's nostrils.
The monster crouched over him, looking like a man, but Grant knew he wasn’t. The knife was bloodied to the hilt and buried in Link’s chest. The man’s arms were dripping, his mouth was stained. The man stood.
Grant’s axe met his chest. Grant was the one screaming, this time. The man fell, but Grant didn’t pause. He pulled the axe out and slammed the blade into the man’s face. He was dead. Grant pulled the axe out and slammed the blade down again. Blood sprayed. Grant pulled the axe out and slammed the blade down again. Brain matter splattered. Grant pulled the axe out and slammed the blade down again. The skull cracked in two. Grant pulled the axe out and slammed—
It swung at his side. His feet were pounding against the tile, echoing. A firefighter should have been the one holding it, not him. He wasn’t a hero, like them, he was a killer. But he ran and ran and ran down the hallways of his once-school.
Link was screaming. Grant followed. He ran for miles. Then, he skidded around a corner.
There was a man there with no knife, with clean hands and clean boots. Link stood on the other side of him, looking scared and confused. He looked up at Grant. The man turned towards Grant.
Link screamed when Grant buried the axe into the man’s chest without hesitation.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING—?” Link stumbled back from him, but Grant ignored him for now. Grant was lunging forward to grab the hilt of the axe, sweeping the man’s legs from under him. The man fell, the life already leaving his eyes.
Grant didn’t take chances. He brought the axe down again, and then again, and then one more time. The man’s head rolled away from his body, Grant’s face and front a bloody mess. He breathed hard over it.
Link stared at him. Eyes, wide and shining with fear. Grant stared back, his arms going limp at his sides.
Link reached for him and Grant’s axe swung at his side. His feet pounded on the reflective tile. Link was nowhere to be seen, but Grant could hear his voice in the distance.
Blood dripped down Grant’s face, down his arms, down his fingers, red dripping from his axe with every swing of his arms with his run. He left bloody footprints behind him. Had he stepped in a puddle? Whose had it been? His own, the man’s, or Link’s? He had to find him.
Grant skidded to a stop around a corner. There was a man with clean hands and clean boots and a clean trench coat. The man turned towards him. Grant grabbed him by the collar of his coat and brought the blade down hard into the junction of his shoulder.
Someone screamed and lunged forward, grabbing onto Grant’s wrist. The man had an accomplice this time. Grant shoved the other man away, slamming the trench coat man into the ground, his head cracking on the tile, his eyes already glassy, blood spurting heavily through his deep wound. Grant brought down the axe one more time, hard and heavy, for insurance. Blood spurted from the stump of a neck.
The other man grabbed onto Grant’s axe arm, wrestling him off the trench coat man. The second man was crying, covered by the spray of the other man’s blood. Grant hooked his legs around the second man's, sweeping the feet from under him and straddling him. The second man screamed as Grant ripped his axe hand free and brought the axe down hard.
Grant felt the thrill at long last. At long last, he wasn’t doing it out of fear of protecting someone.
It was instantly cut short when he pulled the axe out of the second man’s chest to see wide eyes, shining with fear, tears streaming through blood. The boy gripped at his hands weakly, his chest bloodied and disfigured beyond saving. His gaze was already glassing over.
“Dad…?” The breath that left Link’s lips whispered the words. Bloodied lips.
Grant dropped the axe. He grabbed onto his own chest at a pain so sudden and intense, he could only be having a heart attack, with the other hand, he clutched the boy’s shirt.
“Link?” Grant choked, his throat swelling in shock. He scrambled to released the shirts, pressing onto the wound, but there was no way to stop the bleeding. “Baby, no, no, wait, Link, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—Stay with me, baby, stay with me, okay?”
Link’s eyes fluttered, then closed. His mangled chest stilled with Grant’s hands against it.
“Link?” Grant sobbed. The blood on his hands was somehow cold. “LINK!”
Grant shot upright, his heart beating loudly in his chest, his breaths coming out in shallow gasps. His body was sweaty, hands gripping cold sheets beneath him. His hair stuck to his face. The room was dark, a soft creaking coming from the ceiling fan above him.
He released the sheets to quickly pat his arms. Aside from sticky sweat, he was clean. There was no thick, dripping blood between his fingers. There was no axe in his hand. No tile, no school, no men in trench coats. There was no Link. A faint light came from a window to his right, the faint light of a streetlight in the middle of the night, no more.
He was in his bedroom. He glanced over towards his nightstand, still breathing hard. It was two in the morning. He pressed his shaking hands to his face, drawing his knees up to himself to focus on his breathing. Inhale slow…exhale.
“Honey?” A warm hand touched his already hot skin, near his lower back. “I’m here. We’re alright, we’re safe.”
Grant let himself focus on the warm hand. His husband’s voice sounded groggy. Grant must have woken him. Of course he had. How many nights of sleep did Marco lose to him? How many of his nightmares ended up waking them both? Grant didn’t want this to turn into another night of him waking up three different times before going to the couch.
For the moment, he just took deep breaths. He was safe. Marco was safe. They were in their home, a nice house in San Dimes, California.
He peeled his hands from his face to breathe in cooler air. He let himself relax a little after deciding he wasn’t spiraling into a panic attack, thank god. He just felt tired, now, as if none of his sleep had counted at all. He reached back to take Marco’s hand, lace their fingers together, and squeeze lightly.
Marco sat up, touching Grant’s leg gently with the other hand. It was dark, but Grant could still make out Marco’s kind features, a soft, round nose and thin, well-maintained eyebrows, a line probably between his brows. His husband sat beside him patiently.
“How bad?” Marco asked him softly, a known routine.
Grant looked away, back toward the window and sighed. His voice was also gravely, unused with sleep. “Solid eight, I think.”
That was a lie and his shaking voice let it show. On a scale of one to ten, that had definitely been a ten. Objectively, he’d dreamed of far more gothically horrific things, but there…there still wasn’t anything worse that he could imagine.
Marco hummed in understanding and began to rub Grant’s back for reassurance. Grant’s heart sank at his reaction. The fact that they already had a preconceived system for ranking his nightmares was pretty telling. One of many, so many, things that made Grant wonder why Marco had ever stuck around in the first place, much less asked Grant to marry him. But Grant couldn’t question it any more, not when Marco would give him a dry eyebrow raise and kiss him the way he did.
It made Grant feel worse and worse for not telling Marco the truth. He’d hidden it already for twelve years. Did Marco not deserve the truth at some point?
But the fear in Link’s wide, shining eyes flashed in Grant’s mind and his breath hitched. He slipped his hand from his husband’s fingers and balled then into fists to keep from shaking. Some of the nightmare had already faded away, but Grant knew some of it would always remain, as they always did.
“Go back to sleep, love,” Grant said, leaning over to kiss Marco’s hairline. “I’m just going to go check on Link and make myself some tea.”
“You sure?” Marco asked, but his voice was still half asleep. Grant let himself smile softly into the darkness.
“Mhm,” Grant assured him quietly. “Sleep. I’ll be okay.”
Grant flipped Marco’s pillow to the cold side and fluffed it up a little before sliding it back as an offering. Marco hummed in appreciation and laid back down, catching Grant’s hand to squeeze it a little before letting him go. Grant straightened out his side of the sheets a bit before leaving.
He opened and closed the door quietly behind him. He took a breath while his hand was still on the doorknob, composing himself before letting go. He paused next to Link’s door, just a room away. But his heart was still beating fast, so he continued down the hall to put on some water first.
The kitchen was kindly silent. There was the occasional passing of cars outside, but no echoing. No screaming, no pounding feet. Just…soft silence. Static built in his ears. He barely noticed as he filled the teapot with water and turned the stove on, watching the blue fire flicker under the metal for a moment. The kitchen air was cool and crisp through his sweats and goosebumps rose on his bare torso.
His hands were still trembling a little. He touched his phone in his pocket. It had been instinct to pull it from the charger off of his bedside. He squinted at the bright screen, not having turned on any lights in the kitchen. No new messages. He breathed out in relief and set it face down onto the kitchen counter.
He briefly thought about texting Terry or Sparrow for their magical and natural sleep remedies respectively, but he didn’t. Instead, he waited for the water to boil. Impatient as he was, he didn’t wait for the steam to begin to hiss, just stared at the wall for a few minutes until he heard telltale boiling.
He took the water off the fire. Filled a mug. He breathed in the steam, but didn’t drink it. He wanted to enjoy the chill for just a moment longer.
He took the mug with him back down the hallway. Link’s door was slightly open—he got scared when it was closed all the way, but also if his closet was cracked. Inside, there were some dorky posters on the walls of athletes Grant only sort of recognized but Link could talk about all day. His lamp was a lightshade on top of a soccer ball, his sheets even soccer-themed. The obsession was relatively recent, but Grant wasn’t one to deny his son a hobby. Before, it had been trains, but as a boy soon to be in middle school, Link had told them that it was time for him to grow up.
Grant had been sad at the thought, but…it had to happen sooner or later.
His eleven year old son was snoring lightly, tangled in his blankets on his bed. He was big for his age, but it didn’t show when he was cuddled up with his favorite stuffed bear the way he was. A present from grandpa when he’d been younger, of course.
He was so undeniably vulnerable. But also safe and unharmed and…drooling a little.
Grant set his mug down on his son’s dresser and crouched next to his bed. Link’s lips were slightly parted, huffing softly with every breath. Grant lifted his hand, intending to feel his forehead—just in case, just to make sure, just to see if this was real—but his hand was still shaking, so he dropped it. He didn’t want to interrupt his son's sleep.
Instead, Grant sat down next to his bed, sitting with his back against the frame. He cradled his tea there. If any monsters decided to crawl out from under Link’s bed or spawn in his closet, Grant would be there. If anything tried to curse him or hurt him or threaten him or infect him—Grant wouldn’t let them even wake his innocent son.
He sipped his tea. It burned as it went down, the water still scorching, but it was nice now that he was shivering a little. Grant sighed.