𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊

𝐬𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐡

"𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙮.

𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙖 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙞𝙣 𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙮.

𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙮.

𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜."

Michael's joints clicked as he paced the familiar linoleum floors under him, his flashlight sweeping across the dark play structures as he passed. They weren't really his joints that whirred and clicked as he walked, but no one else really needed to know that. No one else really needed to know about the thing existing inside of him.

It was like having a shadow on his back twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. At first he had to fight the urge to keep turning around, checking behind him for a presence that wasn't there. The eyes he constantly felt on his body—the visceral knowledge that something knew him more intimately than he would ever know himself—it was all coming from within him.

This used to keep him up at night. But not anymore.

It has a name but Michael liked to argue that it lost all sense of identity the moment it burrowed into his skin. Now it was the thing, the pest, the parasite. He dreaded the day that it became something more. Something he could no longer deny the existence of.

Michael was frightened by your talk of whispers. His blood ran cold the moment he found you in that basement, hand outstretched toward the door that no one else was supposed to know about.

The thing inside of him whispered to him constantly, but that was different. It told him to do things that he wasn't supposed to do. To kill people in empty parking lots, to steal things from the gift shop, to go behind that stupid door.

The day you wandered into his life was the first day that it stopped. There was something about you that rendered it dead silent. And no one really needed to know this, but that was the reason he began following you.

Michael hadn't meant to scare you—he still worries that he might've frightened you at first. But you were all smiles and lollipops and milkshakes and birthday parties so it was really hard to tell if you were even aware of his presence to begin with. 

Sweet. Sugar. Candy. Where is Candy?

The thing inside of him is stupid. It knows your name, but it insists on calling you all these other things instead. Of all the artificial intelligences to bind themselves to his body, he got the broken one. Of course.

Where is Candy? It asked him once more. It was the first time it had spoken all week. Michael refused to acknowledge it as a general principle, but it was getting harder and harder to disagree with it when it became obvious that all it wanted to talk about was you. It was the one thing they had in common.

And this made it overwhelmingly easy to kill that guy. Ross Fletcher, or so said the ID that he fished out of his grimy back pocket.

"Candy's gone," Michael grumbled, painting the back wall with a steady beam of yellow light. The ID had been taken care of along with everything else he had on him (a half-empty lighter, a worn out leather wallet, and an empty carton of cigarettes) but he could still feel the warm plastic, tacky with blood, warping under his hand.

"𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙮.