Palace of Dreams Ch.1
Yandere Laughing Jack x American McGeeโs Alice!Reader
Ch.2
What happened that night couldnโt have been coincidental. In fact, it hardly felt real. But the worst things often make the least amount of sense.
The clock ticked in time with the key swinging like a pendulum on a string in front of you. What surrounded it was beginning to darken until only the key remained visible in front of you. Still swinging despite your eyes coming to a close.
The brass key hummedโa rhythmic, dull vibration that clicked against the air like teeth on tin.
โCome now, itโs only a dream.โ Bumbyโs voice felt like it was echoing within your skull, flat and clinical, smelling faintly of the lavender water he used to scrub his cuffs. The darkness which had drowned out everything was starting to flicker with the movement of intangible shadowsโmovement you couldnโt make out no matter how much you focused. They were elongated, accordion-pleated outlines that rose and fell like long limbs draped over the furniture of your mind, expanding and contracting with every tick of the doctor's fob watch.
But then came the soundโfaint, but oh so familiar.
Screams. And behind them, beneath the screaming, the same song that used to bring you so much comfort, but comfort was the furthest thing it brought now. But with the crackling of fire and splintering of wooden beams collapsing.
โItโs not a dream, itโsโฆ a memory. And it makes me sick!โ
โNow, focus. Waitโฆ Youโre floating, again. Weightlessโฆ a cipherโฆ relax.โ At the sound of the doctor's voice, the shadows sharpened, brightening into flashes of red and yellowโvibrant, primary stripes that scorched the back of your eyelids before turning instantly into smoke. Through the heat was still the faint outline of somethingโno, someone. A towering silhouette with a pointed, impossibly sharp face, standing perfectly still while the world turned to kindling. It was hard to breathe. The air in your throat tasted of sulfur and stale peppermint.
โFire! Iโm in hell!โ
The doctor hurriedly cut in, his boots leather-creaking as he shifted on his desk. โForget it! Abandon the memory. Itโs unproductive. Goโฆ to Wonderland.โ
Darkness washed away the flames, but brought no peace with it. You could make it outโWonderland. But it was like trying to capture a shadow. Ever elusive and more frustrating with each failed attempt. โI canโt. Iโm trappedโฆ in my past.โ
The screams which had faded were suddenly deafening in your ears. Trapped in the burning home that used to be yours. You couldnโt make out the faces or distinct features of the people that had crowded around in front of you, but the voices were unforgettable. โSergeant, this girl is badly burnt. Call for a doctor!โ
You moved closer to the house, the flames burning brighter, hard to look at, but also hard to look away from. Through the roaring orange light, a small toy box sat on the floor of the nursery, its metal latch melting like wax, yet the lid remained stubbornly, violently closed. Until it too became a blackened smudge like something made from ink, running down the canvas of your thoughts in monochrome tears.
Bumbyโs voice pulled you away from getting closer; the house disappeared under a wave of water and mist. โNo! Discard that delusion. Forget it. Go to Wonderland.โ
โDoctor, I canโt. My Wonderlandโs shattered. Itโs dead to me.โ
His voice grew sharp and impatient, the patronizing warmth slipping into something cold and metallic. โYour preference doesnโt signify, girl. Now, where are you?โ
The mist faded into the crevices of a maze of small shops and tents selling cotton candy, peanuts, and popcorn, but the water stayed. You stayed in the bobbing up and down motions of a small boat which floated down the narrow streets between the stalls. Yet the sugar-spun air of the carnival was wrong; the cotton candy hung from the wooden pegs like clumps of damp, unwashed wool, smelling faintly of rotted fruit. Sitting on the opposite side of the boat was a familiar face, the lopsided ears, large hat, and wide eyes. White Rabbit.
โIโm sailing. With a friend!โ
But something was different about him, about this whole place from what you remembered. The colors that once flourished now looked washed out, bleached and empty in a deafening way that felt out of place. The blue banners above the tents were the color of bruised slate; the reds had been systematically scrubbed away, leaving only a stark, bone-white canvas.
โItโs different somehow. Things have changed.โ
โChange is good.โ The doctor assured from somewhere far above the water. โItโs the first link in the chain of forgetting.โ
The rabbit quacked, shivering in a manner that looked painful. His fur was missing in patches, revealing skin that looked like wet papier-mรขchรฉ, gray and water-logged. His eyes were unblinking, bloodshot and darting behind youโstaring with absolute horror at the space right over your shoulder, at something large and striped that was crouched on the canopy of the boat. Something was wrong. Shadows which filled the spaces of nothing in-between the stalls widened, stretching past you until the boat started to rock unsteadily. You reached out to him, concerned. โWhatโs happening? Are you mad?โ
โIโm not mad.โ The doctor expressed in clear confusion, his professional distance fracturing, but you ignored him.
โRabbit.โ
He continued to shiver, his jaw falling open into a breathless noise that you tried but couldnโt make out. It was a repetitive, hollow clickingโthe sound of a small brass crank being turned over and over in the dark. Drawing your hand back, you tried to steady yourself on the increasingly rocky boat.
โThatโs not right. Whatโs he doing here?โ the doctor demanded, his voice suddenly sounding distant, as if he were being drowned out by an oncoming tide.
The colors had truly started to disappear, but the red of blood that leaked from the crevices of Rabbit's shaking and opened jaw was hard to ignore. It was the only color left in the world, wet and sticky, reminding you of a dead bird you had once found in a garden long ago. It stained down his neck, pooling onto the boat floor below. โIs something wrong?โ
The Rabbitโs breathlessness finally gave way to his faint voice, a dry rattle that sounded like paper being shredded. โSomethingโs wrong. Raaatherโฆโ
His head fell onto the boat floor with a dull, wooden thud, rolling next to your feet. You gasped and backed away, though there wasnโt much further you could go. The water below had turned from a faint turquoise to blackโan oily, chemical black that smelled of soot. The red from Rabbit had too faded to that ugly black, losing its luster within seconds. So much of itโno longer dripping down, but spraying up into the air to come back down like some hellish rain from the empty hole of Rabbitโs neck.
โOh no, not that!โ
โDonโt struggle. Let the new Wonderland emerge.โ
What emerged from the darkness was just the same, if not worse than what you had glimpsed earlier. That thing was behind Rabbit. The stretched outline you had glimpsed earlier in the fires of hell was taking shape even more; it was familiar, but not in a way that was comforting. A pair of long, striped sleeves extended from the dark, the fingers pointed like iron needles, hovering just inches above your head. From the depths below came handsโdozens of them, the featureless, gray-ash hands of side-show performers who had lost their facesโscratching, clawing, and pulling you down into the water.
You could hear your own voice faintly through the suffocating water, bubbling up into the monochrome dark. โPollution! Corruption! Itโs killing me. Wonderland is destroyed! My mind is in ruins!โ
โForget it. Block that dream! Wake at the sound.โ
The hands continued to weigh you down further into the dark, but even through that, you could still make out that same shape above you nowโa long, striped cone nose pointing down into the abyss, and two hollow, sunken sockets that watched you sink with a patient, terrible hunger.
You gasped awake, your head aching a familiar, but thoroughly unwelcome pulse. The lights from the windows of Dr. Bumbyโs office didnโt ease the pain in any way, nor did the uncomfortable stiffness from having gone under while still sitting up. The scent of carbolic soap and lavender water rushed back into your nose, but beneath it, your tongue still tasted the faint, greasy residue of burnt sugar.
He, himself, was seated on the flat surface of his desk, adjusting his waistcoat. โThere. Better now, arenโt we?โ
The doctor's words, despite intended as being kind, felt more mocking than anything with the pain that chimed with the same persistence as a clock. โMy headโs exploded and thereโs a steam hammer in my chest.โ
โYes, but the cost of forgetting is high.โ
โMy memories make me vomit. What can Iโโ
โRemember other things.โ He cut off sharply, standing from his sitting position on his desk to go look outside the window into the smog of London. His fingers tapped a rhythmic, four-beat count against the glass. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
โI want to forget!โ You insisted, frustrated at the same words you had heard every appointment and meeting with him. โWho would choose to be alone, imprisoned with their broken memories?โ
โIโll set you free. Memory is a curse more often than a blessing.โ
โSo youโve said. Many times. Andโโ
โAnd I will say it again.โ The doctor seated himself on the chair across from you, his shadow falling long and heavy across your lap. โThe past must be paid for. Now, before our next session, collect those pills from our High Street chemist.โ
You restrained yourself from arguing further, moving to stand up, the velvet of the chair feeling strangely hot against your palms. โVery well, doctor.โ
Walking towards the door, you could hear the faint noise of feet moving just outside of it, opening it just confirmed the sight of the next patient immediately after you. Issac was sweet, though impulsive in almost every way. He stood in the hall, his small fingers pulling frantically at the hem of his dirty smock.
โItโs my turn to forget,โ he declared, his voice high and trembling. You were barely able to hold the door open as he ran past, his small boots scuffing the wood.
Dr. Bumby turned to Issac, his attention completely shifted onto the young boy now settled in the same seat you were minutes prior. He reached into his pocket, his hand brushing against something that made a faint, metallic clink like a key. โNow Issac. Your Pa was hung for killing your Ma, who beat you. Letโs forget that shall we? The past is dead, Issac.โ
Hovering near the door, you hesitatedโsomething felt off. The air in the room felt heavy, compressed, like the sky right before a thunderstorm, and for a terrifying second, you thought you saw a pair of long, black-and-white striped suspenders dangling from the coat rack behind the doctorโs chair. You blinked, and it was only a pair of old measuring tapes.
Shaking your head to clear the static, you closed the door and started down the hallway. The walls of Dr. Bumbyโs office were thin as you could still hear his voice, though fainter, the further you went.
Houndsditch Home for Wayward Youth was a much better accommodation compared to Rutledge. Though, truthfully, anything is a better accommodation compared to Rutledge. You had your own private room, and though barren, you had spruced up with some drawings, a photograph of your family, and a handful of keepsakes youโd managed to snag from your former place of living for those ten years.
The children you passed on the way to the door whispered, making no attempts to hide their contempt, their eyes tracking the ink stains on your fingers. But at least they were upfront about their dislikeโyou much preferred it to bitterness hidden under sugary sweetness.
Outside, the sky made everything look more muted despite the rain having long since stopped earlier that morning. The stone steps of the Home gave way to cobblestoned streets, with the only thing dividing the building from those same streets being a large heavy iron gate which barred the sign indicating its exact purpose. As you crossed through the open gates, you commented under your breath, โAnother day. A different dream, perhaps.โ
The path to the High Street chemist was familiar enough that you instinctively knew to go down the left path and keep following that same road. Past the same violin player that was always there and playing the same songโa repetitive, looping melody that sounded horribly like an old circus march played at half-speedโand past the many outdoor shops selling meat, leather, and a variety of other goods. Further, still, you had to go, but you stopped at the sight of the mangy thing sitting at the entrance of one of the alleys.
The cat's white fur was soot-stained, its body frail against its bony frame. It looked remarkably like the old family cat that had perished in the nursery, its coat ruined by gray ash.
It let out a loud, but wheezing meow upon your slow approach before scurrying off further into the alley as you called out after it, โHello puss. Puss, puss, puss, puss! Donโt be afraid!โ
The white of its fur stood out almost vibrantly against the muddy charcoals of the streets and buildings, making the cat easy to track through the many alleys and corners you darted through. Corners that opened and stretched into areas you knew were best not to dwell in for too longโprostitution wasnโt necessarily uncommon, but the people that lurked in those places were definitely better left staying far from on your part.
Quickly ducking into the next side street, you ran down it in pursuit of the cat, mumbling under your breath, โSeems following furry creatures into dark holes has become a habit. I hope itโs not a vice.โ
Though, unfortunately, your pursuit yielded little reward, as the cat had vanished from your sight, leaving you in a small, enclosed courtyard between several towering brick warehouses. Sighing, you walked around the bricked center you had come to a stop in. Surrounding the area were buildings, but beneath the setting sun and encroaching night, it was beginning to look extremely isolated and deserted. The London fog was rolling in, thick and gray, carrying with it a sudden, inexplicable smellโthe distinct, heavy scent of old peppermints left to rot in a damp drawer.
You were about ready to call it a day and head back to Bumbyโs, but the sound of an all-too-familiar crackling wheeze drew your attention.
โI see youโve managed to get yourself lost again.โ
Turning, you faced it.
This wasnโt the same cat you had been following, that much was apparent. Its fur was a dense, smoky black that seemed to shift and drift like coal exhaust, and as it moved, you could see the faint, red-hot embers of an unquenchable fire dancing throughout the texture of its pelt, pulsing like a buried heartbeat. No, this was not the same cat as before, as was the unforgettable fact that normal cats donโt talk.
And most importantly, normal cats donโt grin.
It sat atop a pile of discarded shipping crates, its mouth split open into an ugly, wide grin made entirely of broken glass shards, yellowed to the exact, sickening shade of human teeth.
โIโm not lost, I was following a whiteโโ
โRabbit? I thought you were more creative than that.โ The cat flicked its tail, a small shower of orange sparks drifting into the fog before dying on the wet cobblestones.
โMaybe I would be if you didnโt cut me off as often as you do.โ Turning away from the cat, you glanced around the square. Unlike the other places youโd been, the isolation here was more off-putting instead of a welcome peace. The brick walls seemed to stretch up forever, blocking out the sky until the courtyard felt like the inside of a massive, closed box. โWhy havenโt I been able to get to Wonderland? Itโs been practically inaccessible outside of those dratted sessions with Dr. Bumby, almost like itโs been locked away.โ
โHave you considered that maybe the reason why you havenโt been able to enter as effortlessly as you used to is a fault on your end?โ
You crossed your arms, practically hugging them close to yourself. โOf course I haveโฆ itโs because of the music box, isnโt it? I left himโฆ him and everyone else.โ
โIf the existence of everyone in Wonderland was dependent on the whims of a music box, weโd all be dead by now?โ The cat's eyes crinkled, though his grin stayed unmoving as it always didโif you thought about it, you werenโt entirely sure if the cat could do anything outside of grin. His body started to disappear, almost like ash dispersing in the wind, the toothy smile remained for a few seconds after he disappeared which too faded almost by the blink of your eyes. He left with the parting words, โThough that remains to be seen.โ
Sighing, you hissed under your breath, annoyed at his sudden disappearing act, though it wasnโt entirely unsurprising. He always did that. Explained things in a purposefully ominous and confusing manner and vanished the minute you started to question him further.
The sudden grip of a hand on your shoulder startled you, causing you to turn and be greeted by Nurse Witless, โMy stars and garters, itโs you! Slumming again are we?โ
โNurse Witless! What luck. Twice in as many months.โ
โOut on your own? You look frazzled, Dearie. Not doing well?โ
โNot really.โ You admitted, though the words felt stuck to the back of your throat.
She smiled, moved her wrinkled hand to adjust the wired glasses on her nose. โCome along home, then, and look at my pigeons. Pretty birdsโฆ like you.โ
โI donโt think so.โ You asserted, in no mood to go in circles with her. The last time you had tried to get information from her, it had proved even more futile than throwing coins in a fountain. โOur last visit cost me several pounds and got me nowhere.โ
Nurse Witlessโ smile turned taught before softening into that grandmotherliness that looked so out of place on her. โI might know where your burnt little music box is.โ
The box was painted vividly with the lines of a circus and the many animals populating itโsome stranger than others. There were giraffes with flowers in place of their spots and blue-paper lions whose manes were clipped into neat, geometric ruffs. But at the center was where you had seen him. It wasnโt the most detailed drawing since it was simplified due to the size, but he was bright. So much brighter than everything else with rainbow stripes, a conical nose, feathery shoulders, and red hair the same shade as cherries in the summer.
It had been your fifth birthday, a day when the windows of your bedroom had become battered by a sudden, violent summer tempest. The sky outside had turned the bruised purple of an old plum, and the thunder didn't just rumbleโit cracked against the glass like iron plates breaking. At the time, the world outside the heavy mahogany frame of the Liddell manor had suddenly become an unpredictable, roaring monster. You had crawled beneath the heavy velvet dust ruffle of your bed, clutching your knees, your heart hammering a frantic, rhythmic panic against your ribs.
This wasnโt at all how the day was supposed to go. As selfish and hopeful as it may have been, you had really been wanting to go outside. Go to the park, and play in quaint gardens with Lizzie. But now that feels too far away for you to do anything but curl into yourself.
Then, your motherโs hand had reached through the dark, sliding the heavy tin box across the carpet.
The lacquered metal slid over the floorboards with a soft, scraping hiss that temporarily drowned out the howling wind against the eaves. Even in the dim, dust-mote shadows beneath the mattress, the colors on the tin seemed to hum with their own light. Your motherโs voice followed, soft and grounding, though her face remained obscured by the heavy drape of the bedskirt. "Iโm sorry today didnโt go as youโd hoped. This is a special friend for a rainy afternoon. When the world outside gets too loud, you only have to turn the crank, and he'll make a space just for you."
Your small, trembling fingers reached out from the safety of your tucked knees, touching the cold, smooth metal. The key on the side was shaped like a brass clover, cool and solid against your thumb. As the house groaned under another heavy buffet of wind, you squeezed your eyes shut and turned it.
Click. Whir. Click.
The internal mechanism was stiff at first, complaining with the heavy, metallic sigh of a toy that had been waiting a very long time in a dark shop window. But as the brass gears caught, a melody began to bleed out from the perforations in the lidโa slow, sweet one of Pop Goes the Weasel that left the faint smellโrather inexplicably of spun strawberry sugar and fresh wood shavings. With every rotation, the frantic pounding of the storm outside seemed to recede, pushed back by the rhythmic, chime-like notes.
And then, with a cheerful, metallic pop, the lid flew open.
He didn't burst forth with the jarring, aggressive snap of the cheap jacks sold on the London street corners. He rose gracefully on a thick, canvas-covered coil that swayed with a gentle, hypnotic rhythm. Up close, he was magnificent. His shaggy tresses of red wool yarn fell over a face painted a soft, clean white, dominated by a wide, welcoming red-painted smile that lacked even a hint of malice. His nose was a perfect, swirly cone of primary reds and butter-yellows, pointing directly down at you with an inquisitive tilt.
"Hello," a voice seemed to chime within the space behind your eyes, perfectly matching the cadence of the calliope music. "Are we hiding from the growling clouds? How terribly boring. Let's build a proper tent instead."
In that exact moment, the cramped, dusty dark beneath your bed began to expand. The heavy mahogany legs of the bedframe stretched upward, melting into towering poles of red-and-white canvas. The smell of rain and old carpet dissolved, replaced by the crisp, sweet air of an infinite midway. The blue-paper lions on the box stepped off the tin, their geometric manes rustling like dried parchment as they shook themselves and sat down like giant, loyal hounds at the border of your blankets.
Jack too had grown, leaning down over you, though it was by no means intimidating. His feathery, rainbow-striped shoulders rustled as he tilted his head. He didn't have the rigid, unyielding structure of wood; he felt pliable, soft, and entirely dedicated to the child who had turned his key. When the next clap of thunder shook the foundation of the house, he didn't let you flinch. He reached out with his long, striped cloth arms, wrapping them completely around your small frame, pulling you close.
He was a shield made of color and cotton. Hiding your face in his bright feathers, you couldn't hear the rain anymore. You couldn't feel the cold draft of the storm. He had built a fortress out of a nursery game, and as long as his music box kept its winding, you were the safe, undisputed sovereign of his grand parade.
The memory fractured with a sharp, brittle sound, like ice cracking under a heavy boot.
The vibrant red hair and the smell of strawberry sugar vanished into a suffocating cloud of soot, pulling you back to the cold, deserted brick courtyard of the London side street. Your fingers twitched against the empty air, still feeling the phantom shape of a brass clover key that had long since rusted shut.
Swallowing back the painful tightness which had settled in the back of your throat, you dug your nails into the palms of your hands. It hurt, but it was grounding. A stinging needle-like pain, but drawing a fresh breath, it diminished. You needed the distraction of it right now. Maybe Bumby was right, memory truly was more of a curse than a blessing at some times.
Nurse Witless was already heading towards her home, you trailed a bit behind her. If she knew where your music box had ended up, you would find out.
Pinterest for the Header
@cozy-menagerie and @cursed-carmine for the wonderful dividers!!
Sorry if this one is a bit odd, Iโve gotten really into Creepypastas lately and really wanted to work on one!
Hope everyone has a great weekend!!
Happy Summerween!! <3 <3
