Witness and Worship | An Outlast Document

Chapter Eleven ❖ A Crippling Blow

TW: hand gore. Pretty much an Outlast staple at this point.

And tissues. You'll probably need lots of tissues.

The door creaks open and a long, lithe silhouette stretches across the floor. I know that image will stick with me until my dying breath, even if that is only moments away.

"I know you're in here!" Trager calls.

My heart's pounding so hard I can hear it, my hands trembling as I push myself up on my knees and peer through the gap in the desk. The man paces around the room, long bone scissors held like a grisly extension of his arm. He didn't have them before, but I'm willing to bet they're the cause of some of the horrific mutilations I've seen. They'd cut me like a hot knife through butter, I think, shuddering.

"Don't bother trying to hide, buddy, I'll find you. The girl, too." Not if I have anything to say about it, you won't.

He disappears from view, seemingly leaving the room, and I press my forehead against the inside of the desk. A soft sigh passes my lips. Shit... I've gotta find Miles.

I peer out into the room again. I'll wait a few more minutes, just to be absolutely certain I'm safe. Miles can't have gotten far, not in the state Trager left him. Beaten up so badly he could hardly drag himself upright, and strapped to a wheelchair. Definitely can't have gone far.

I crouch back down, my boots scraping on the ground. Probably some poor guy's guts, but that's the least of my worries right now.

"Ah, there you are. Slippery shit, aren't you?"
"Shit!" I spin around so quickly my head smacks the underside of the desk. "Ow—dammit!"

As my hand goes to my head, Trager just smiles. At least, I think he does. His face is such a mess of scars and stitches that I honestly can't tell. He's stooping a little so he can see me, the remains of his greasy hair falling well past his shoulders.

"I've been waiting to be properly introduced to you," he says, sounding quite gracious for a man who just beat Miles to a pulp. "I thought it a little rude that you ran away while I was dealing with your friend—the one Martin's so bent on keeping around. He's a little gold mine, and so could you be. But you tell me why you're here, and we'll let you walk right on out. No harm done."

"I-I—" My eyes search the room behind him frantically, as if it'll help me at all. I can't possibly get past him, not without guaranteeing injuries like Miles' and, by the hideous way he said "so could you be", probably something much, much worse. "I just thought it would be fun. Like a dare. Sneaking into an old asylum, like in the ghost stories."

"You're not with Martin's witness?" Trager says, tilting his head slightly.

I shake my head, swallowing hard. "N-no, no. I'm here by myself—got kind of lost and ran into him downstairs. Never met him before. I don't even really know what he looks like."

He nods thoughtfully, still watching me. "You're lying."

"W-what? No, I'm not!" There's still a tiny shred of hope that somehow, I can still convince this man to leave me alone. That I'm not with Miles at all, that we're working separately, and maybe we can ambush him later.

"You're lying," Trager repeats, and I can almost hear a smile in his voice. "And you know what happens to people who lie to me? I'll give you a little hint—I'm tired of licking my own stamps."

There's a terrible moment as his words sink in. Images of someone's bloody mouth, screaming, as Trager cuts through their tongue like paper. Chunks of brutalized flesh spray the insides of my eyelids when I blink, and the scream turns to a horrible, gurgling yell, like the last violent dregs of a bath plug being pulled. My stomach churns.