OKCOMPUTER

word count: 4.0k+

summary: after escaping from the Hillwalker house, you do your best to settle down after the night you had. Unbeknownst to you, the brothers followed you out, and they’re antsy to put you down for good.

trigger warnings: mentions of violence, mentions of blood

author’s note: wuuh new fic 🤞 ik they died but I thought it’d be fun to write what would happen if they followed us back to our house 😍

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Your hands grip over the steering wheel, fingernails digging into the cold leather. Your eyes stare at the familiar address ahead of you—your address. The headlights of your car illuminate the home you thought you’d never see again.

You practically tear open the car’s console, digging through it to find your keys, as well as your forgotten phone. They’re just where you left them—thank the lord. You snag the chain—as well as your phone—and throw yourself out of the car. You stumble to your front door, fumbling with the lock, cursing your shaking hands. When the key slots into the lock, turns, and unlocks the door, you hesitate to push it open. For the last few hours of what now seems like a hazy nightmare, all you’ve been thinking about is getting back home. It was your sole motivator—other than simply keeping your life, of course. So now that you’re here, standing stiffly at your doorstep, you’re afraid. What if it’s not what you were expecting? What if your relief isn’t as palpable as you’re hoping?

You shake it off. You don’t care about whether returning home is as satisfying as you’re hoping, because it doesn’t matter. You escaped. You escaped, and you live to tell the tale. Who gives a shit if stepping inside doesn’t ‘meet your expectations’, because your expectations an hour ago were to stay alive.

You turn the handle and push open your front door. The smell of home hits you like a wall. Warmth shakes you to your core, the heat from your basement greeting you kindly. To think you always found your lowest floor cold before you took a wrong turn. If anything, it’s a bit overwhelming now.

Your knees buckle as you step inside. You shut the door behind you, locking it with a click, bolting it with a clack. The outside world is gone now. You’re in your home. And you’re warm.

You drop your keys into a nearby bowl, the sound too loud for sensitive ears.

“Holy fuck…” Everything’s so surreal now. You’re safe, actually safe, and you’re not used to it. There’s no whining, mutant animals trying to bite your head off, no thumping or heavy breathing from your perpetrators following you, no pungent smell that makes you gag back vomit, no puzzle to solve, nothing. All you have to do is get ready for bed, and that feels weird. You hate how that house rewired your entire brain in just a few hours, but you’re somewhat glad for it. You’re leaning against the door of your home with a beating heart, and you’ll be ten times more cautious from here on out, so at least there’s that.

Finding the strength to push off the door, you make your way upstairs. The moment you step into your living room, you crash. Your body recognizes you’re finally safe, and your adrenaline crash is borderline lethal. As your knees buckle and exhaustion blooms through your limbs, you decide that crashing on your couch is your best idea yet. You feel gross, and you’d love to haul your ass upstairs and wash up, but your body physically won’t let you. You’ll collapse before you make it up three steps. At least you find the strength to plug your phone in at a nearby outlet.

Your body gravitates to the couch, and you let it happen. It almost tips back with how hard you slam into it, but you’re too tired to care. You sink into the cushions with a sigh of relief, tipping your head back and looking up to the ceiling. You never thought you’d appreciate the white of your roof, but with the horrors you’ve seen and been through, you’ll be thankful for just about anything.

You close your eyes and just breathe. Your lungs fill with the scent of your home, the warmth of the room settling in your lungs. It doesn’t smell like rot. It doesn’t smell like copper. It doesn’t smell like dirt. It doesn’t smell like death. You’d considered ripping your nose clean off in that forsaken house—since every breath you took there triggered your gag reflex—but you’re glad you didn’t. How else would you appreciate the satisfaction of fresh air?

You slip into a half-asleep state. Something dreamless. You’re too boneless, too exhausted, to conjure up a story. But you’re glad for the silence your brain’s giving you. You seriously need a break, so staring at a void of nothing is gratifying. The world around you is just an afterthought. Everything is muted, muddled.

That is, until you hear a dull thump to your right. You think you’re just paranoid, too keyed up from the night. It’s plausible your brain is making up sounds with your spiked nerves.

But you hear it again, and it sounds a bit more intentional this time. You try to open your eyes, but it feels like weights are tied to them. You force them open with your hands, rubbing the tired away. As if you’ll sit idly by with noise outside your house. Even before your recent hours, you’re still smart enough to get suspicious. You immediately look toward your window, and seeing as you were too tired to notice your curtains being open, you immediately spy out the glass. You see nothing but the night sky, but you’re not taking chances. Chances are for people who are 100% certain they’re safe.

You force yourself up, almost crumpling forward when you put your body weight onto your feet. Your soles ache, but you’re not concerned with how you hurt.

You take a look outside, but you don’t find anything noteworthy, but that’s not exactly a good thing. A lack of evidence is evidence in itself.

You push away from the glass, but you never take your eyes off it. Something’s off, and you’re not going to play dumb about it. You have a strong feeling as to what’s making noise outside, but you want to refuse that idea. No way they’ve already caught up to you. No way they even survived that stupid fucking barn fire. And even if they had lived, you were at least expecting a night to yourself. Come now, and you’ve barely gotten 10 minutes? It curls your blood. Why can’t they just leave you alone?? Instead of grieving their farm, mourning their mother, just burning in that fucking fire—they followed you out.

At least you believe so. But what else could it be? If it were an animal, you would’ve seen prints through your yard. Maybe the first thump can be excused, but the second one, coming immediately after, is unnatural.

So much for getting sleep. You groan, moments before cussing out the world. But before you can, a window behind you shatters. Your curses slip to a horrified whine as you whip around. You don’t even see a face—just a tanned hand gripping the inside of the window sill. The window they’re coming from is in the direction of your kitchen, so you’ll have to grab a weapon later.

Like muscle memory, your brain kicks into high gear. You race upstairs to make as much distance as possible, stumbling away with a terrified scowl. You feel vulnerable without the heavy guns slung over your shoulder, and because you’re not a fucking degenerate, you don’t have any weapons like that lying around. At least you have a territorial advantage this time. A few hours away from home doesn’t mean you forgot where all the nooks and crannies are.

You turn into a study room and duck behind a large desk. You refuse to trap yourself in someplace you can’t run from. Better to be out in the open than stuck in a tight place. Inside closets and under beds are out of the question. This type of space gives you room to scramble.

Light yet heavy footsteps trail upstairs, the sound of that walk engraved in the creases of your brain. The faster pace of their stride seals it for you—Jackson was never the patient one. The thrill he gets from this sick type of hunt keeps him too jittery to keep a slower speed.

The sharp of a blade juts into the wall, tearing through the wallpaper and leaving large lines of scrapes to show who was here.

“Come now, friend,” Jackson says oh-so sweetly. Hearing his voice again makes you shiver, but you center yourself quickly. Maybe fear keeps you safe, but it also slows you down, and time is everything.

“We can do this real easy if you just come on out,” Jackson says. If you had a gun, maybe you’d retort, challenge him and put a bullet through his head. You wish you’d done so earlier. Maybe they wouldn’t care so much about their mama if they met her in Hell.

The scraping halts. The hall goes quiet, save for Jackson’s incessant speaking. “You thought it’d be that easy? That we wouldn’t follow you out? I never thought you to be a fool, with how far you’ve gotten, but…times change.” He says. You grit your teeth. You wish you could ask if they had anything better to do, but you know they don’t, since their farm is currently in ashes.

“Come now, lamb,” your stomach squeezes. Lamb? “I ain’t leaving til I see this through. The Lord wouldn’t have led me here otherwise.” And there he goes, referring to his ‘Lord’. His own little deviation from Christianity—a figure to excuse his monstrosities. His lord’s ’guidance’ is bullshit. How could they guide him if all he had to do was tailgate you?

You hear his footsteps nearing. You see the shadow of his figure step into the room, and you shrink into yourself. He scans the room with his eyes first, then actually starts to walk around it. He runs deft fingers along the wall, letting his fingertips glide behind him as he circles the room casually, making his way over to you. You watch him drag his cleaver absent-mindedly over the desk you’re crouched behind, eyes trained on the opposite side of the room. The point tears up the beautiful wood of the thing.

He slows to a stop, fingers curling tight around the handle of his weapon. Abruptly, he yanks his cleaver out of the wood just to slam it back down. You can see the blade pierce through the desk and pop out from underneath.

“I’m getting real sick of chasing you, y’know!” Jackson shouts. “Isn’t much fun when we keep playing hide n’ seek… We’ve had hours to do that!” He says. “So come on out, give me something real! Can’t hide forever!”

You roll your eyes through your fear. At least he makes it easy for you to keep a level head with his childish requests.

Grumbling at your lack of response, he tosses his head back with a groan. Re-curling a hand around the handle of his cleaver, he yanks the blade out of the wood. He brushes splinters of wood off it with utmost care.

“What are you doing?” William asks from the doorway, frame blocking your chance of slipping out of the room.

“Dusting off my beloved. Can’t you tell?” Jackson asks.

“Why aren’t you searching the house?” William asks, tone beyond aggravated.

“I was,” Jackson rolls his eyes. “But they aren’t in here. Promise, I was just about to move on.”

“Did you even look?” Jackson nods. “I find that hard to believe.” William pushes off the doorframe. You duck further under the desk. While this traps you slightly, it gives you an easier path to the door. You eye the brothers wearily, waiting for an exit. Jackson, being the unhelpful ass he is, simply stands in the middle of the room now, arms folded and watching his brother search. You can’t stay in here forever, since William’s actually checking under shelves and opening compartments throughout the space. He has the patience Jackson doesn’t, so he’ll check the ends of this room, and your position under the desk isn’t exactly a revolutionary hiding spot.

You wait until Jackson’s eyes are far enough from the door before making any moves. With William’s back to your escape, you crawl out from under the desk and bolt to the door. The sudden movement catches Jackson’s eye, and he tries lunging for you.

You slam the door behind you, shoulder to the wood, locking it shut. “Come fucking find me,” you practically growl, baring your teeth to no one. The door’s protection doesn’t last long, as Jackson tears his cleaver through the wood, forcing you to jolt back, face inches from silver. You don’t linger on your near-death experience, since your time at the Hillwalker house was just filled with those. Close-calls like those feel watered down, if anything.

You skitter off and run downstairs. You immediately round into the kitchen, snagging a knife from the chef’s block on your counter. It’s a far cry from the heavy-duty shit you used to have, but something’s better than nothing.

You hear the crash of a door breaking down. You turn and flee to your basement before they can see where you went. You find this wasn’t the greatest idea, since the only hiding spots that actually obscure you also serve to corner you. You settle on crouching behind random junk under your staircase.

You hear footsteps above you, loud and antsy. “If you’d actually searched properly, we could’ve killed them by now.” You hear William scold.

“Well, this only gives us a real chase to look forward to!” Jackson replies optimistically.

“Only if we find them.” William deadpans. “Split up, and actually look this time.” He says, Jackson punctuating his words with some smarmy muttering.

The footsteps near close to the steps, “Huh,” you hear Jackson huff. “Looks like they’ve gotten this far. They were smart enough to snag a blade.” He notes. Of course, the knife-obsessed freak would notice one missing, despite not even being in his own home.

William’s eyes turn to the cracked-open basement door. “You search up here.” He declares. Footsteps with some weight to them start to make their way downstairs, one foot coming down heavily after the other. You swallow your nerves, clutching shaking fingers over your knife. When he comes into view, you find William doing something similar, except his handle over his wrench is much stronger than yours. It looked like his veins were trying to make a statement as they outlined his arms.

“There’s nowhere to hide!” William says to an empty room. He has a strong feeling you’re down here, so it’s only a matter of finding you now. His eyes drag along the room, swiping over you and simultaneously scaring the shit out of you. The dark of your basement luckily hides you, but it’s your only saving grace. Though you’re sure William’s last thought is to turn a light on.

He keeps quiet as he searches the room. He’s practically ripping your basement apart—shoving furniture to the side and toppling items in his way. The contrast between his and Jackson’s scouring is throwing you for a bit of a loop.

A minute or two passes, and William is still oblivious to the nook under the steps. He leans back and scans the room with a downturned lip, back cracking as he straightens up. You’re running out of time. If he even lays eyes on your hiding spot, you’re fucked. So you wait for him to turn his back to you again, and when he does, you slowly stand and try to shimmy your way back upstairs. You’ll figure out how you’ll get past Jackson once you’re up there. For now, your main goal is to just get to the second floor.

Just as you step out from under the stairs, he catches you in his peripheral. He immediately locks onto you, and you scramble for the stairs. You stumble up a handful before being pushed onto your back, spine slamming into the wood, hard and painful.

“Fucking finally…” William breathes. His fingers readjust and curl over the handle of the wrench as he gets a proper grip on it.

He swings, but you roll to the side right before it hits. His weapon breaks through your steps with the sheer force of his swing, getting stuck. Instead of prying it out and wasting time, William opts to wrap a hand around your throat, pressing you down farther into the stairs.

“Get off of me!” You shriek, though it’s strained with the pressure at your neck. You try to push him off of you, but to no avail. William leans in closer, as if he wants to watch the light drain from your eyes. You turn your head to the best of your ability, snarling something inhumane in your throat as you grit your teeth. The stench of copper filters down what little airspace you have in your windpipe, but the smell is gone as quickly as it came, as William presses down harder.

Your hand tightens over the blade in your hand. You want to aim for his neck, but you’re not sure if you’ll be able to make your mark without him stopping you, so you take the safer way out and put it through his arm.

His reaction is instant; he hisses and lets out a scream, lifting his hand and setting you free. The moment he leans back, you kick him farther off you with a foot to his jaw. He reels back and tumbles down the stairs, head just shy of cracking against the wall. You cross your fingers, hoping that knocking his head against the floor would be enough to finish the job. His pained breath squashes all your prayers.

“William?” Jackson calls from the top of the steps, eyes widening as he takes in his injured brother. You use his shock to try and catch him off guard, racing toward him with your knife secure in your hands. He blinks out of it just in time.

He stops you just short of his neck, hand snatching your wrist and pulling it back behind his head to reel you in close. He presses his cleaver into your neck, where fingerprints begin to bruise, “What did you do to him?”

“Sure, act stupid,” you snarl. “Don’t go stabbing yourself with another death in the family! And so soon?” You pout at him, knowing full well that William isn’t dead down there. God, you wish he were.

The cleaver digs harder into your neck, making a solid cut and puncturing flesh. “Got nothing to live for? No mom, no dad, no brother, no farm. Just you and the blood on your dirty ass hands.” You mock.

Something dark flickers in Jackson’s eyes, but you give yourself no time to name it as you knee him in the gut. He hunches over with a groan, and you tear away from his grip.

As you flee, you realize that this is a losing game. They won’t stop pursuing you until you’re dead, or if you kill them first. You’ve put up too much of a fight to die now, and you’re not sure if you can overpower both of them.

You spot your phone in the living room, and you sprint to it. You don’t have to be alone, you figure. The police are actually trained to deal with shit like this. And they have guns. God bless America and their guns.

You snatch your phone, unplugging it and hastily dialing that three-digit number. As it rings, you see the brothers quickly recollecting themselves.

William presses a hand over his stab wound, blood bleeding through his fingers, staining his skin red. There’s a small bruising on his chin from where you kicked him, but overall, he seems to be dealing with his injuries quite well. Once Jackson notes his arm, he tears one of his own sleeves off and uses it as an impromptu bandage to patch William up, though it’s a bit half-assed.

“911, what’s your emergency?” The operator’s calm voice rings out. Both of them visibly bristle, shoulders tensing up.

They’re on you in seconds, closing in on the little distance you had. You scream your address into the receiver, deciding to get that out of the way first. Your panic should be enough for the operator to send someone.

Speaking of, the woman on the phone calls for you worriedly. You don’t hear her as you run from the brothers, circling tables and ducking under furniture.

Her voice only gets more panicked—or at least shows the most panic she can as a 911 operator—once she hears the sound of you clattering to the floor.

“Fuck—get away from me!” You scream, scrambling back with your arms and legs. You get back up just before they can lay any hands on you. You race back upstairs, spotting a small table at the top of the steps. You need all the time you can get, so you drag the table in front of you and kick it down the steps. You’re not sure what it does, since you turn away and run off, but the shocked yelp gives you some hope.

You turn into your bedroom and slam the door. You’re well aware that a simple lock won’t hold them forever, so you push your dresser in front of it, since your door swings inward. While you continue to pile things onto and around your dresser, the operator’s voice gets past the ringing in your ears.

“Are you alright?” She asks.

You finally acknowledge her, “Yes, sorry—“ You shriek at the large bang at your door.

“What’s happening?” She asks.

“There are people in my house,” you say steadily. “They’re trying to kill me.” Point blank and straight to the point. There’s no shaking in your voice, only pure adrenaline.

“Can you get somewhere safe?” She asks, typing something into her computer.

You see Jackson’s cleaver puncture the door once more. “No.” You put your back against the wall, eyes narrowed and trained on the hole in the door.

“Police are already in the area,” she says, “they’ll be there in five minutes.” You glance at your phone with a small light in your eyes. Hands claw their way through the wood of your door, tearing it down chunk by chunk.

“Do you hear that?” You call out. “Five minutes!” You exclaim. You’re sure they can get the door down in that time, and you’re certain they can snap your neck in seconds, but that doesn’t mean you won’t save face. You look toward a nearby window in your room. It’s a three-story drop, but it’s survivable. If you figure out a way to land properly, you could run off and keep your life.

But the fussing at the door stopped. You furrow your eyebrows, stalking up to the door. You peer through the hole, and they’re gone. For all the shit they’ve done, they’re too cowardly to stand up to the cops?

You stay in your boarded-up room and wait until you see the red and blue flashing of a cop car. Once you do, you push the furniture aside and make your way downstairs, wearily looking around the room with your knife at your side. When the cops knock, you answer them immediately. You tell one officer what happened while the others search the house. They question the blood on your knife, and you answer honestly. They take the blade from you, but they assure you it’s just for evidence.

The multiple signs of struggle around your house have the cops believing your story. Once they secure your house and leave, you’re far too amped up to fall asleep like you want to.

Instead, you snatch your car keys from the bowl in the basement, phone in hand, wallet in your back pocket. You walk out of the house with directions in your phone: a 15-minute drive to a 24-hour store that sells guns. Should the brothers come back, you’ll have a bullet in their heads before they can get a word out.

You hate how the Hillwalker house has changed you, but if this type of action is what keeps you alive, then so be it.

A small part of you hopes they never return, but a large part hopes they do, for you wish to feel the serotonin of giving the brothers the death they deserve.

word count: 4.0k+

summary: while cleaning around the house, you find that you’d like to make your chores a bit more enjoyable. So you turn on some music, completely unaware that you’d get a dance out of it

trigger warnings: none

author’s note: aaaa William slow dancing with us omg 🥺 hello butchery nation I’m back✌️ this came to me in a vision, bcs no shot either of the brothers listen to music often enough to enjoy it

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After a few weeks of adjusting, you realize leaving your old life behind and accepting your place in the Hillwalker house isn’t so bad. I mean, you don’t agree with a lot of their methods, and you certainly don’t like the whole experimenting get-up, but at least the brothers themselves are alright. Speaking of, when they deemed you safe enough to leave your room upstairs, they finally let you roam a bit. Just a bit—you’re really only allowed in the living room, dining room, kitchen, and your room, of course. You’ll take what you can get. At least their messes keep you busy.

Which is exactly why you’re staring at a drawer full of junk situated in the kitchen. You purse your lips, tapping your chin, wondering just where you should start. Well, day’s not getting any younger, you think idly. You shrug and pull over a large trash can. You’ll seriously need it.

You toss silverware rusted with age, keep trinkets that might have value, and set some things to the side that you’re unsure what to do with. With how…unsanitary the brothers are, they lack any proper cleaning materials, but you manage. After scrubbing down that drawer, you figure you’ll come back to the rest, since you don’t want to mistakenly throw something important out.

Your eyes fall to the floor. It’s grubby and littered with patches of dirt. It seriously needs to be scrubbed, but with all the random crumbs, dirt, leaves, and whatnot, it’ll need to be swept first.

Surely the brothers have a broom.

You search a nearby pantry. Luck is on your side—a broom and pan lean on one of the walls. You snag it and step from the kitchen.

Before you know it, you realize you strayed a bit from your designated areas. You’re in the hall leading to the washroom, but it’s close enough to where you’re supposed to be. You’re being productive, so maybe they’ll have some leniency?

Shaking it off, you resume your earlier ministrations. While sweeping dirt into a pile, you hear the radio droning on beside you. You chew your lip and try to ignore the grating voice coming from the speaker. It sounds like it’s a live show, a voice from the news.

“It seems that uh…disappearances in the area have gotten more frequent as uh…as the days go on.” You roll your eyes. Sweeping is already a mundane task. Having to listen to this makes it so much worse. “Now, we’ll have a word from the police…” You huff some hair out of your face, beyond frustrated. But just when you were about to try and tune it out, the most agitating, breathy police voice chimes in. You turn to stare at the radio like it tried to stab you. There’s no way this is real.

You sigh and grip harder over the broomstick. Right as you were about to accept listening to this garbage, you realize something. It’s a radio. Surely there’s a music station somewhere on the thing, right?

Your fingers grasp the dial. You hesitate—what if one of them gets upset that you changed the station? What if they only want crappy news playing constantly?

Well. They’ll just have to suck it up, you suppose. Besides, no one truly hates music. It fills up a room and makes things more lively. Why speak when a melody can do it for you?

You turn the dial and listen to the bliss that is static. Anything is better than the voices you previously heard.

The static slowly dissipates, morphing around a song. You light up when you recognize the melody from the radio. Smiling, you keep sweeping without a care in the world. With newfound, pleasant noise, you find you have a small pep in your step. You sweep the floor like a scene in a movie, overly animated, but you can’t find it in you to care. It’s been so long since you’ve had music in your life, and you’re seriously wondering how you’ve gone without it. Besides, no one is watching. So what if you spin a bit? Music is a very empowering thing.

You hum along, eyes closed momentarily, letting the rhythm wash over you. You sway, head titled, forgetting the broom in your hands. You simply let yourself enjoy the moment, and the peace from it was immensely gratifying.

When you finally open your eyes back up, you look up and immediately lock gazes with William, who’s standing in a nearby doorway. You flinch and curl up to the stick of the broom, spooked and mortified.

“Sorry,” you at least apologize. “Didn’t know anyone was watching.” You say. You move to turn off the radio, utterly embarrassed, but William shakes his head to stop you.

“Didn’t know the radio could play music.” He shrugs.

“Didn’t know?” You raise an eyebrow at him. “Surely you did. You’re messing with me.”

He purses his lips, “Haven’t heard much music since Mama passed.” He says.

Your smile softens, “I’m sure she still wants you to find the joy in it.” You say, and you see him silently agree.

You continue sweeping, but you drop all your humming and swaying. “What’re you up to, anyway?” You ask.

“Feeding the animals.” He answers just as quickly.

“Currently?”

“Just finished.”

“What’re you off to do now?”

“Fix one of the fences.”

“Off in a hurry?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Then,” you tilt your head at him. “Take a break. You said it yourself; you haven’t heard music in a while. So, come listen!” You beckon.

William makes a face, “I have better things to do.”

“Uh-huh,” you roll your eyes. “Can’t even spare me a dance? Not a song?” You tease. William cocks an eyebrow, frown deepening. You try not to roll your eyes again.

“Jeez, you’re such a cliche,” you complain.

“…What?”

“I get it, you’re fitting that ‘mysterious murderer’ archetype, but you can let loose every once in a while, right?” You ask.

“What’re you talking about?” William narrows his eyes at you.

“Nothing, nothing,” you wave it off, eyes back on the floor. “I’m just saying, Jackson would do it.”

William physically recoils, “I’m not an idiot. I know what you’re doing.” He says, crossing his arms.

“Doing what?” You respond innocently.

“That,” he flicks a hand up, waving the hammer in his hand. “Trying to use Jackson to get me to cave. I have shit to do.” He says.

You hum something small, tilting your head. “Well, ‘this’,” you imitate William’s hand gesture. It only serves to irritate him more, which you found much pleasure in. “This is just me making a statement.” You shrug. “Jackson would do it.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Silence. You grin up at him, “Stop what, William?”

He groans stiffly and slams the hammer down on the table with the radio. For a moment, you think that this is your end. You prodded too hard, went too far, and now they’re sick of you. They don’t have to keep you alive.

But he backs away and doesn’t grab you by your neck like you’re expecting. “So?” He jerks his head up. “What do you want? What do you want me to do?”

Well, at least you’re not dead. “Spare me a dance!” You smile. “When’s the last time you’ve moved your feet to a song?”

“Never.” He shrugs.

“First time for everything!” You say merrily, dropping the broom. It clatters along the floor after hitting the wall, but you hardly care. You hold your hands out, “c’mon, this is a good song!”

He looks at your hands with a bit of a wince. He averts his eyes down at his own two palms awkwardly.

“Hey, no judgment here,” you call out. “I’m not, like, a professional, or anything. I just know some basics, I guess.” You say. He furrows his brow and drops his hands. He looks at the radio, which is currently playing one of your favorite songs. He stares as if he’s trying to visualize each note, like he knows anything about music. If you asked him if the song was in a major or minor key, he’d pat at his pockets for a key ring.

You sigh goodheartedly and put your hands on your hips so they’re not just hovering. “It was just a suggestion,” you say, giving him an out. You move to crouch and pick up the broom, “I won’t bother you.” Your fingers are inches from curling around the wood. “If you want to keep doing stuff around the house, I-“

A hand snatches your hand up, yanking you away from the broom. You look down at William’s hand curled around your wrist before looking up at him, and even he seems a bit surprised.

“Uh-“ He stutters, “sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“No, it’s okay.” You instantly reply, eyes a bit wide. You look down at his hand. “So um…are you…?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He lets you go, and you both look at each other in an awkward silence. At least music fills the hall, or this would be even weirder. The song playing slowly fades out, and the radio host says their words. You wait for the man to finish speaking about some morning show they have, hoping for a good song. William waits with you, standing before you stiffly.

When the next song eventually comes on, you light up with excitement, since what’s playing is even better than the song before it. You let your thrill be known with a huge smile and a small squeal, “I love this song!” You add for good measure.

“Do you love all songs?” William asks, amused.

“Music is the best thing ever invented!” You roll your eyes. “If you don’t appreciate it, then you can go wrestle the pig.” You say, then give him a sleazy grin. “Unless?” You hold your hands out again, but you’re not expecting anything.

Snickering, you close your eyes with your laughter, “Okay, I’ll quit! You-“ A large, calloused hand overlaps yours. Palms that feel like sandpaper grate against yours.

You look up at William with stars in your eyes. “Really?” You say through your smile.

“Sure,” he agrees, albeit nervously.

You crook your fingers, “other hand.” You wave, beckoning him. He makes a face and averts his eyes, but he complies, just about dropping his hand into yours.

You immediately start to drag him closer. “I can’t believe it! Stoic William saying yes to a dance!” You laugh, pulling his hands and forcing him to spin you around. While you spin, he barely turns with you, but he still holds tight.

“I’ve nothing better to do…” He mutters, solely to save face. You let it go, slowing down to a stop and trying to act less like a fool.

“What do you wanna do, then?” You ask. “A…freestyle? Move as you please?” William seems to be vehemently opposed to that. “Okay, umm…something slow?” You suggest. “I guess I could kinda l guide you through that, but a slow dance requires…touching…” You mutter. Not that you’re entirely opposed to contact—you’re the one who was spinning around William a of couple seconds ago, but you don’t know where William stands on it.

He looks at you, silently telling you to elaborate. “Nothing crazy, y’know. A hand here,” you move William’s hand to cup over your shoulder. It lies a bit stiffly, but you brush past it. “Another hand…” your fingers twitch over William’s hand as it hovers shy of your waist. Before you can ask if your actions are fine, William takes initiative and wraps his hand around your waist without any comment.

“Y-Yeah, uh-“ You clear your throat. “I’m pretty sure this is what people do when they slow dance.”

“You don’t know?” William raises an eyebrow.

“I told you, I’m no professional!” You grit, and he gives you an amused look. “Besides, we aren’t in a ball, or anything. Who cares if I’m wrong!” You huff.

“You’re the one who wanted to dance.”

“You’re the one who agreed!” You shot back, but you soon realized how childish this back and forth is. You take a deep breath, “There’s multiple ways to slow dance, I’m pretty sure. You could move your other hand from my shoulder to my waist, and I could put my hands on your shoulders.” You throw out, but you come to a quick realization. “But that’s a bit…close.” He hums tonelessly.

“Or we could do hands on shoulders. I guess you don’t have to have a hand on my waist if it makes you uncomfortable. It’s kinda stiff that way, but y’know…” You shrug.

“If I’m uncomfortable?” He asks.

“Yeah, I mean, this was my idea. And you can back out any time, no pressure!” You stammer. He draws his eyes down and stares at the hand close to your hip, curling his fingertips a bit farther into your skin.

“You’re the dancer,” he throws out. “You tell me.”

“I am giving you a chance to set boundaries, you ass.” You groan. “Whatever, you agreed, and I gave you an out. Now, are we doing this?” You ask.

“Ready when you are,” He says.

“I’ve been ready, you-“ You bite your tongue. “God, you are such an ass! You’re the one acting like a schoolgirl over slow dancing!”

“And you’re the one who proposed it.”

“You really need to stop hanging around Jackson.” You sigh. “He’d do some shit like this.”

“Now you’re using his name illy? You were just using it to coax me into this.” He points out.

“Can we just fucking dance?” That pushes a small chuckle out of William, and it surprises you. You really only hear an earnest laugh like that when he’s around Jackson.

You feel William’s hands on you tighten a bit. His body stiffens up, limbs locking. “Hey, hey,” you murmur, squeezing a hand around the bicep by your head. “It’s alright. Listen, I have the coordination of a baby lamb. And I’ve never slow danced before, I’ve only seen it in cheesy rom-coms.” You say, and he eases up slightly.

“Here,” you put your other hand on the shoulder parallel to you, sliding the palm over William’s bicep to squeeze over the hand that’s on your shoulder. “Slow dancing is kinda like mirroring your partner’s moves. If you step back, I step forward. Vice-Versa, of course.” You instruct.

“Right, so…” he drags a foot back, and you slide yours forward, like you said you would. William locks up again, unsure how he should move in an entirety.

“Uh…” You clear your throat. “We could make this a bit easier.” You say. “If you’re up for it, I could stand on your feet. That way, you don’t have to worry about any type of synchronization.” You throw out awkwardly. “Would that be okay?”

“Uh, yeah.” He agrees timidly. It’s a bit funny how a six-foot farm man can get so flustered like this.

You look down and hesitantly step onto the toe of William’s boot. The shoe barely dips down, the material sturdy enough to hold you. But this isn’t all your weight, so you move to step on his other foot. Your hands curl into William’s shoulder and sleeve, looking up at him with questions in your eyes.

“You weigh nothing,” William comments.

“Ah-ha, wow.” You roll your eyes.

He picks his foot up, and you sway, losing some balance. To account for this, William readjusts the hand at your waist to support your back instead, steadying you.

“Uh…thanks?” You gulp comically.

“Don’t be so awkward.”

“Who’s being awkward?” You say, knowing it’s both of you. “Listen, you clearly don’t know how to take initiative-“

“I’m not the one about to fall from such a small movement.” He scoffs.

“I was just stabling myself, clearly.”

“Do it faster, then.”

“You’re stalling, cus’ I’m stable!”

“Then hold on, since we can’t have you falling.” He says sarcastically. Even if that pissed you off, you held on a little tighter.

Slowly, William takes a step back, leaning back and turning a bit. He still steps with unsure movements, but at least with him being your legs, it’s less awkward.

A song or two had passed while you and William got it together. You listen to the one currently playing fade out. You’re not particularly upset, since you didn’t know the one that was playing last, but you do wish you could’ve heard the first song playing before you got situated. No matter, you won this interaction fair and square, so that’s good enough.

William curls his arm farther around you, squeezing you closer as he carefully spins you around. You bite back a small smile and focus on the static of the radio, waiting in anticipation for the next song. When it eventually fades in, and you recognize the melody, you light up.

“William.”

He jerks, “What?”

“William. This is a really good fucking station.”

“Are you serious?” He snarls.

“You clearly don’t know good music. I bet you grew up on country.” You say smarmily.

“Are you stereotyping me?” He asks.

“Am I right?” You ask back.

Instead of responding, he lets go of your shoulder—but still keeps an arm wrapped securely over your back—letting you dip. With that hand moved, all you’re holding onto now is his shoulder.

“William!” You screech, scratching at your handhold. With his free hand, he slaps his palm over your forehead, pushing you down so you stoop farther. “Hey-wait! Let’s talk, please!”

He casually plucks your hand off his shoulder, forcing you to lean entirely on his arm.

“Fuck!” You wave your arms around frantically. Even though there’s no sign of you actually falling, you still feel like you’re going to. You’re practically on your tippy-toes with how far back you’re leaning.

“I swear, if you don’t pull me up right now!” You yelp.

“I thought this was all a part of this sorta dance,” William says flatly.

“That’s for cutesy little couples who have candle-lit dinners and share wine from the same glass!” You scream.

Your shoulderblades bow back farther, and you’re seconds away from practically back-flipping over William’s arm. Your back bows farther, “shit—“

William leans forward and wraps his other hand behind your shoulders, stopping you from rolling off. “You are such a fucking-“ You groan. “Just pull me up, jackass!”

He finally listens and does as you ask. Your toes flatten, and your back straightens. You breathe out a sigh of relief, “Pull that shit again, and maybe I’ll actually get Jackson to do this instead.” You say, but it has no weight to it.

William gives you a half grin, “You think my brother would be any better? If anything, he’d be ten times worse.”

You sigh, “I hate that you’re right. Ugh, let’s stop wasting songs. Radios never go long without playing some bullshit. It’s a miracle they haven’t played something trash yet.”

William glances at the radio and nods, readjusting to your earlier position.

He falls into a small rhythm, his steps making wide circles that fill the hall. He sometimes breaks the cycle by turning you in a gentle spin. You’re content to just sway with it, getting an odd sense of security in strong hands. Sometimes you hum along to the song, but you usually keep quiet, comfortable to just exist calmly and in the moment.

The hands on and around your figure tighten, drawing you closer, but you hardly mind. William’s warm—but not too warm—his body temperature sitting at something comfortable. Whenever close like this, usually your nose can pick out the distinct smell of blood and gore on him, but as of now, you really only smell dirt, moss, wind, hay, old wood, and the twang of body odor. That last scent is a bit gross, but it’s expected with how often William’s outside. You figure you should probably stop sniffing the man in front of you.

You feel William’s forehead press along the crown of your head. You don’t care. You find the pressure a bit nice. His lackluster slow dancing has practically slowed to a stop, but you barely notice it, content to relax into William’s hold. He slightly noses into your hair, but calling him out on it would be hypocritical, since you were practically doing the same earlier.

The song playing fades. The host starts to speak as it goes away, and you try not to grimace. Such a droning voice…you chew your bottom lip. Way to ruin the moment.

And if that wasn’t enough, the loud bang from the side of the house is enough to break the spell over the two of you. William startles and straightens up, picking up his head and turning to the noise. You jolt too, cracking open eyes you never knew you closed.

“Wil!” Jackson distantly calls. “William, where are ya? I need a hand!”

William’s lip twitched. You smile at him and push away from him, but only slightly. “I guess you should get back to it.” You say. He makes a face.

“Go help your brother,” you roll your eyes. “And here, while you help out there, I’ll finish up in here. When you’re done, you could help me sort through some drawers! I don’t want to toss something you guys think is important.” You say.

“…alright.” He huffs, casually gripping over your sides and lifting you off his feet. Jackson calls for him again, and he groans, “I’m coming! Give me a damn minute…”

As he stomps off, you pick up the once forgotten broom. The radio finally picks up again, but it’s less warm than before.

You finish up, sweeping all your messed-up piles of dirt into the pan. When you go into the kitchen to dump it out, both William and Jackson walk into the room.

“Ooh, just in time!” You say.

“What’d ya need help with?” Jackson asks.

“Just sorting some stuff. Hey, I’ve got an idea!” You snap your fingers, skipping off into the hall. You grab the radio and come back into the kitchen, “Have you also been on a music strike, Jackson?”

He shrugs, “Guess you could call it that.”

“Well, lucky you, this is a good station. While we go through these drawers, let’s make stuff a bit more lively!” You say, placing the radio on the counter.

You don’t ask for any more dances. You don’t ask for any singing. Honestly, you asking William was more of a joke in your head, but you can’t say you’re upset with the result. Your time in the kitchen—as well as Jackson’s and William’s—is spent casually sorting in a warm atmosphere, thanks to the radio situated on the counter.

Music is a very empowering thing.

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author’s note: When I was writing this idk why but Liberian Girl from MJ was the song that came to mind idk maybe cs I was rlly into it like a week ago but it made me realize that the brothers most DEFINITELY don’t know who Michael Jackson is 😭

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You hum along to the song playing currently, a soft thing. It’s a well-known song for most people, but you’ve realized that the Hillwalkers aren’t ’most people’. So you’re not surprised when they listen to the song like it’s their first time, because it probably is.

“Who’s this song by?” Jackson asks, almost as if he knew your thoughts.

“Figures you wouldn’t know…” You mutter jokingly. When he gives you a bit of a pout, you wave your hand, “teasing, teasing. This is by Michael Jackson.” You answer.

“Looks like we share a common name! Of course, having it first is better than last.” Jackson goads.

“Sure, because Michael’s the blessed one to share a name with you…” You roll your eyes, then immediately blink at him. “Wait…do you seriously not know who Michael Jackson is?” You ask.

“What, is he, like, important?” Jackson asks.

“Like, the Michael Jackson. You don’t know him.”

“Can’t say I do.”

“…My God.”

——————————-

word count: 3.3k+

summary: with each day you spend on the farm, you’d be stupid not to notice the monsters roaming the Hillwalker’s house. You never really questioned how they came to be, since you had a general idea. But Jackson takes it into his own hands to show you exactly how the farm animals are created.

trigger warnings: graphic descriptions of gore, mentions of vomit, torture if you squint

author’s note: wow first post hello butchery nation!! Um I’d like to clarify that what I mean by “if you squint” is not because they put any hands on you, but bcs you’re forced to watch the whole process. Also “mentions of vomit” is rlly js you thinking ‘oh im gonna throw up’—nothing comes out! This is pretty graphic, so read w caution! And also this might be a bit OOC…I’ll get around to writing the brothers soon enough. I took Jackson’s 10 and brought it to 100💔

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“Hey—wait!” You thrash, hands scratching at the grip over your collar. William doesn’t respond. He only digs his fingers further into your clothes to deliberately curl his nails into your skin. Not too long ago, he burst into the room you’ve started to accept as home, beckoning you with a nod of his head. When you had an inkling of refusal, he took matters into his own hands, chasing you around the room and forcing you into a corner.

So now here you are, being dragged down the steps into the living room without mercy. You tried struggling at first, but with the way William’s hand tightens impossibly further into your shirt, you finally succumb to whatever waits for you.

After being dragged down another staircase—the steps leading to the basement—you’re finally brought into a room lit by a red light. William shoves you into a chair situated parallel to a table in the middle of the room. He doesn’t bother tying you, especially since he doesn’t leave, leaning on one of the doorways with a scowl directed at you.

“Ah, just in time!” You hear Jackson’s voice call cheerily. Something drags behind him, long and heavy. You force your eyes away from the doorway, but it doesn’t matter, since you see Jackson lift and dump whatever he was dragging onto the table. The smell hits you first, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“None of that,” Jackson clicks his tongue. It comes out awkwardly through his missing tooth. “We’re here to show you The Lord’s gift! It’s high time you learned the beauty of labor!” He says, raising his arms in a show of what’s in front of him. Not that you were looking. “The gift of creation! The Lord has bestowed me the gift of Their birth!” You shiver. Birth? You crack open an eye, and the sight in front of you has you holding back vomit.

A corpse lay on the table, seemingly fresh with the way blood still drips from its flesh. Their head lolls in your direction, eyes cold and lifeless. Their jaw slightly creaks open, as if it were weightless, and a line of spit drools down their chin, pooling on the table.

You clutch the sides of your chair, squeamish, letting out a horrified breath through your nostrils.

“Wh-“ You gag over your words, retching forward. “W-What are you doing?” You force out through heaves, teeth clenching and body tense.

Jackson raises an eyebrow at you, “oh, this?” He pokes the corpse below him. “Just some hitchhiker walking along the roads by our farm. He wasn’t too far off from where you ran into the pig!” He says. “Nothing like a fresh kill to spill new life in.”

He toys with something at his hip—something obscured by the table. You see a reflection before you see the object—bright red gleaming off smooth silver. Jackson’s cleaver slowly comes into view, “of course, the lovely cows you see roaming around our farm don’t just come from nowhere!” He says.

“It’s by our hands that we bring them into newfound animation!” He says, thumbing over the handle of Hilda, lifting the cleaver with a wide, open-mouthed smile. The blade comes down, slamming into the already limp corpse’s head. With the body being laid to rest not too long ago, blood spurts from the new cut and spews over the sides of the table.

Jackson finally relaxes his jaw, his wide smile softening into something simpler, but he still keeps his mouth slightly ajar, huffing over his tongue. He tilts his head and pushes the cleaver to the side, shifting and stretching any connected muscle he has yet to slice. You hear it tearing as he continues widening the cut.

You want to tear your eyes away, but you can’t. You don’t want to watch the scene unfolding in front of you, but you keep watching anyway. You’re afraid that if you look away, one of them will force your head back. You don’t want hands stained with blood anywhere near your skin.

Your fingertips bruise from how hard they press into your chair. The bones of your knees ache from how they’re locked into one another, squeezing enough to bruise. Your muscles beg for you to go lax as they cramp and tense. Your skin blemishes with goosebumps, your stomach twists, and you can’t look away.

You’re stuck.

Jackson, who only seems to delight in your shaking, lifts the cleaver once more. He specifically holds it up to the light just so you can see the blood dripping off of it better. Though the red light washes out most of the blood’s sheen, you could still point out the dark crimson dripping from the cleaver. You watch a particularly thick droplet splatter down on the already bloodied corpse, and you shrink further in your chair.

Jackson eventually repositions the blade and swings down again. Where you thought you’d be happy that Jackson’s crude ways of decapitation are finished, your thoughts are cut off as the head casually rolls off the table. It drops to the floor with a dull thump. You tuck your feet in closer, hiding them further under the chair. It doesn’t roll toward you, but it still faces you, lifeless eyes boring a hole into your soul, asking you why you didn’t save them. Not that you could’ve helped if you wanted to.

Looking down at the head, Jackson rolls the sole of his foot over its crown, dragging it closer until it was close enough for him to kick away. Distantly, you hear William scowl to your left. You’d honestly forgotten he was there.

“Did you have to kick it away?” He asks. Not because he found it gross, but because he would be the one taking the responsibility of cleaning it up.

“Just getting rid of the trash, William!” Jackson responds. “It had to go to make way for something much more beautiful.”

Beautiful? Beautiful, he says, while referring to cow heads sown onto human carcasses. The cow heads that somehow brought back the corpse’s autonomy, but kept their body functions locked in the jumbled head of an animal that only knows pain. You know better. You’ve seen actual beauty, and this? This is far from it. How could anyone see blood and suffrage and label it as pretty?

“Ah, now that you mention it,” you focus back in on Jackson, who’s talking. “We still need the head for this body! Mind getting it for me, William?” He asks sweetly.

The man in question snarls but turns on his heel anyway, walking off with heavy footsteps.

“Isn’t this just great?” Jackson asks, drawing you back in. You weren’t even aware you looked away, and you curse yourself for looking back. The blood in front of you only seems more apparent now that you’ve looked away. “You’re finally able to see what we see! The Lord blessed this farm with clay to mold. I am only its humble sculptor.” He says, putting a noble hand to his chest, the hand holding Hilda. The silver smears blood into his flannel, blending in with the red squares. You try not to think about how much blood has already mixed with the fabric of the shirt.

You hear footsteps coming back. Something new is being dragged into the basement, something heavier. You hear it thump down on multiple steps, making old wood creak with effort. William reenters, hand curled around a cow’s horn. He pulls its entire body into the room, dropping it and letting it slump along the floor. You note the cow’s already dead, and how it has uncharacteristically long, sharp teeth. Seems like it mutated. Maybe that’s why it died?

“Good enough?” William asks gruffly, crossing his arms.

Jackson drops to a crouch, leaning from side to side, inspecting the cow. “No sign of rotting…” He mutters. “Yes, this’ll do.” He says. “Mind grabbin’ the corpse for me?”

“As if you could pick up the cow,” William comments flatly. “You move the body, I’ll move the cow.”

“You always gotta fight about it…” Jackson complains, but he scoops up the corpse anyway. He rounds the table, and he starts making his way toward you. You lean to the side to try and get away from him, a fearful whimper in your throat. You hunch and close your eyes, fully expecting the corpse to be lain atop of you, but Jackson merely places it on the table behind you. You sigh with the most amount of relief this situation could let you muster.

William hefts the large cow onto the table in the meantime. He seems to sway with its limp weight, but you might’ve made that up. He rolls it onto its back and waits for his brother’s move.

Jackson pushes him away with a little wave, and William rolls his eyes and retakes his earlier position.

You’ve seen the cow monsters. You have an idea of what comes next. The hitchhiker—that’s currently dripping stickily warm crimson on you—is missing a head. Something has to replace it. At least the cow’s decapitation is a bit easier to watch. It feels slightly less inhuman—with it being an animal—but you feel like your opinion of the matter is a double standard. Humans are animals, too. Does a species with a more developed brain give it more privilege to life? How is that fair to any living matter?

You blink your thoughts away and find Jackson’s gaze in your direction. Your nerves spike, but you realize that he’s not looking at you. He looks at the corpse in thought, cleaver at his chin. He taps the blade on his jaw, and you pray he sorts his thoughts soon. You hate his eyes being in your direction.

Deciding something, he shifts down to the cow’s stomach. With utmost care, he drags a sharp corner of the cleaver along the udders of the cow. You don’t like how he’s gentle. You don’t like how he looks like he truly believes what he’s doing is for the greater good.

He pulls the udders from the cow’s body, squelching as it tries to stay connected to the cow. He sets the udders and cow head at the end of the table, “mind finding a place for this?” Jackson asks, looking to William.

“I’ll see if the pig’s still hungry,” William says, rolling the cow off the table, its weight slamming on the ground with a loud bang. William winds a hand around one of its legs, since there is no longer a head to hold on to.

As William leaves once more, Jackson gathers up the hitchhiker behind you. You flinch all the same. You’re just glad you no longer feel streams of blood running down your neck.

Jackson sets them down and rolls up their shirt so it sits above their stomach. “One day,” he starts, finally addressing you for the first time in a while. The cleaver pierces skin, sinking into flesh with a squish. Your jaw twitches. A phantom feeling of a blade running over your stomach has you becoming more uncomfortable.

Jackson starts carving out a wide circle in the corpse. “The Lord will give me their vision for you, one day.” He says with a softness that makes your skin crawl.

Your voice crackles in your throat, “why-why would you n-need a vision?” You ask through a croak. Jackson looks up at you, distracted enough to accidentally puncture the corpse further. He chews the inside of his cheek and slides the knife back.

“For what you’ll breathe life in,” Jackson finally answers.

You swallow thickly. “What I’ll breathe life in?” You echo. Why wouldn’t you be any of the normal farm animals? A cow? A chicken? You don’t feel special. Why would Jackson need one of his ‘visions’?

“I’m thinking a sheep,” Jackson offhandedly throws out. As he speaks, he finishes up his cut. “Somethin’ delicate, y’know? Skittish.” He wriggles his fingers down into the new scrapes in the flesh, prying the chunck of stomach out. “What d’ya think?”

You don’t respond. “Well, maybe a horse or sumthin’ would be more accurate. But I guess the jockey isn’t prone to spookin’…” He shakes his head.

“It’s your fault for giving it a taste for meat.” You jolt at William’s entrance for a second time. At least his presence distracts Jackson from his recent topic. The thought of you being turned into one of those monstrosities…your body straightens with a harsh shiver.

“It wasn’t my fault that girl put her nose in places it didn’t belong!” Jackson says. You can only assume he’s speaking of previous victims, ones long before you.

“Why would you want to put them in a new animal?” William asks, reminding his brother about his previous words, dutifully. You curse him, though you recognize you’re curious, too. But you think you should go without knowing.

“As kudos for surviving as long as they have!” Jackson answers, your prayer going unanswered. “The Lord guided them through our farm, helping them bide their time so The Lord could give me ideas to create something new. Why would he keep supplying us with those hearts if he didn’t want new works of art?” He asks rhetorically.

“Hm,” William hums. He doesn’t disagree.

Jackson makes work of scraping out the corpse’s organs now, bare-handed and nasty. He pulls out a rope of intestines, staring at them with awe. He holds it up to the light, but this time, it’s for his own selfish desire. William narrows his eyes at Jackson, who scrapes the hitchhiker’s stomach clean. It’s far from methodical, and it’s done at a deliberately slow pace. Jackson steals glances of your souring expression and relishes in it.

“Oh, William-“

“I’m not running any more of your damn errands.” William cuts him off. “Get it yourself.”

Jackson gives him a look and drops everything he’s just dug out onto the floor. It splatters, wet, gross. Your body slumps toward your legs before your mind can even think it, crumpling forward and swallowing back vomit for what feels like the nth time. You dry heave into your knees, letting out a distressed groan, but you’re otherwise quiet.

You don’t see it, but you hear Jackson’s foot coming down to step in the pile of gore on the ground. The noise it makes is sputtering and soaked, squishy and wrong, and he chuckles at the pained whine you let out. He leaves you be with William, which is the most mercy you’ve seen all night. William’s terrifying, brooding, angry, serious, and quiet. So, so quiet. You let the silence ring in your ears, trying to use the squealing pitch to deafen out all else. It doesn’t work—you’re still aware of blood pitter-pattering off the table, still aware of William’s heavy breathing and shifting, but you pretend it does.

Please, your thoughts beg, please, let this be over soon. You’re not sure how much more of this you can take.

Your spine twangs with how far it’s bowed, your neck burns with how you crane it into your knees, your limbs ache from tensing and untensing, and your fingertips bleed at their clutches in the chair. But nothing is worse than the sick you feel in your stomach. It churns in your gut and boils you from the inside out, and your body can’t decide if it wants to make you hold your breath or if it wants you to pant.

Jackson eventually returns with two needles and two spools of thread. Not that you knew—you kept your head down. Jackson is kind enough to step over the pile of organs this time around, setting down his newfound tools. He gives a small frown, “none of that, friend! I brought you here to show you my process. We’re so close to being finished! Don’t make one of us sit you up…” He says a bit pathetically.

You shake your head weakly. Not wanting to deal with any back and forth, William immediately pushes off the doorway. You hear heavy footsteps thumping toward you, and you shake your head harder, whimpering. He grabs your shoulder firmly, but not brutally. He leans you back with little effort, forcing you to lay your eyes on the table again.

You see that Jackson placed the cow udders over the hole in the corpse’s stomach, stitching the two together. The seams of the cuts mold into one another, fusing like they were never there. Your eyes water. You focus on the hands performing the action rather than the result it’s causing.

William immediately goes to aid Jackson, taking the second needle and thread. He grips the cow’s head with a large palm, keeping it upright so it doesn’t loll to the side. He begins his line of sowing with his other hand, making quick work of replacing a human’s head with something unnatural.

“William’s a show off, innit he?” Jackson says to you, but it flies over your head. Your mind’s awash with white noise, a constant static.

“It’s not hard to develop the skill when you keep slicing off your own fingers, Jackson,” William says, unamused. Jackson rolls his eyes and finishes up soon enough.

Once he pulls the thread taught, he flicks Hilda up once more, cutting a steady line through the corpse’s chest. You grimace. “What? The gift’s gotta go somewhere.” Jackson says, plunging his already blood-stained hand into the chest’s gap, ripping out one of the last things that made this corpse human: the heart. He piles it with the rest of the organs on the floor. “Speaking of,” Jackson mutters, walking out of the room to a nearby fridge. He undoes the chains around the appliance, cracking open the door and showing you shelves full of green.

He pulls out one of the green jars, the glass holding the ‘Lord’s gift’. “This’ll bring ‘er to life. Aren’t you ready to see the beauty of birth?”

No. No, you’re not. You can’t watch this. It’s one thing to kill someone, to sew animal body parts into their skin and call it art. But bringing them back? Forcing the rotting corpse to adjust to a brain that doesn’t belong to them? Forcing the rotting animal to adjust to a body that doesn’t belong to them? It’s too cruel. It’s too disgusting.

You jolt out of your chair, your muscles finally unlocking. Even you seem surprised that you moved, but you can’t dawdle on that. You force your legs to move, to pick up the pace, and you sprint out of the room.

“Hey!” Jackson calls after you, dumbfounded.

William’s already moving, pushing off the doorway and chasing after you with heavy thuds. He has no weapon on him, but he doesn’t need one.

You don’t make it far. You stumble down a few steps and throw yourself into an open room, but William knows the house better than you. Where you stutter at corners, William pivots, wasting no time. He crashes on top of you, forcing you to the floor and pinning you down with his own body weight. All the air in your lungs is forced out, and your face being half-submerged in water is certainly not helping.

You struggle and thrash, but it’s fruitless. Another pair of footsteps makes their way up to the two of you.

“And here I was, praising you for accepting my showcase of Their gift!” Jackson says with a hint of annoyance. “We got so close! Couldn’t you have sat still for one more second? I mean, I was gonna keep the cow away from ya’ for your good behavior!”

“I’m not sure why you were expecting much else, Jackson,” William says. You try to make a retort, but all that comes out is a gargled groan.

“Well, I’m sure they’ll come around one day,” Jackson says. “Soon, they’ll feel the warmth of The Lord’s light, and on that day, They will welcome you.” He says eerily.

“So? What about the cow?” William asks.

“Ehh, throw him in that tub over there,” Jackson nods over to the bathtub not far ahead of you. “We’ll give him life another day.”

You silently pray they never invest in ropes and really force you to watch.

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