***

DAVID HASN'T DONE much, but inspect every article of furniture in Hadley's room with a thoroughness most people would find in doctors or surgeons. Hadley would've been more worried about it, if he wasn't so sure that this wasn't his room.

Magic is real. Monsters are real. But this isn't his room, even if it looks like it.

"Where are we?" he asks, not expecting an answer. He rubs the heel of his shoe on the carpeted floor. "Is any of this real?"

David slams a drawer. It doesn't make a sound. "What do you think?"

"I think this place is wrong," says Hadley. He gets up from the bed, noiselessly. But he knows that his bed creaks at the slightest hint of movement. This bed doesn't.

"What's so wrong about it?" David asks, running his hand over the walls of Hadley's not-room.

This place, whatever it is, is too sharp. Noiseless. Too clear, too stark in its contrasts between light and shadow, lighting too dramatic to be real. Real life is blurred edges, soft shadows and dim fluorescent lights. Real life isn't a Caravaggio painting.

"I don't know," says Hadley. He kicks the bed. There's no sound of impact. "This isn't real, is it?"

"In a way, it is," says David. "You ever heard of limbo?"

Hadley lets out a snort. "How low can you go? That sort of thing?"

"No, but that would've been more fun," says David, smiling. He puts a hand to one of the walls. "Limbo as in: a state of uncertainty. The space between dreams and reality. That sort of thing. You never read fantasy books?"

Hadley has a brief vision of himself, being twelve and standing in front of his mother, being forced to watch his Harry Potter books burn in the fireplace in the foyer. He can't remember what he'd been punished for, but he remembers the crackling of the pages as they went up in flames, the way the covers darkened and darkened until he couldn't tell which book was which, and his mother, right in front of him, as impassive and cold as ever.

"No," Hadley says. "I don't recall ever reading books with magic in them, no."

"Sad life you must've had," says David.

"Right," says Hadley. He frowns at David. "What are you trying to do?"

David rubs a circular spot on the wall with his right hand. His eyes are screwed shut. "I'm trying to find the source."

"The source of what, exactly?"

"Oh, now you're asking questions. Let me concentrate, please."

Hadley lets him concentrate. When he looks away from David, he hears something—like the splitting of wood. A clear crack.

"What the hell?" he says, turning to look at David, whose eyes are still screwed shut.

The paint on the wall that David touches has started to flake off. David doesn't move his hand away. Rather, he presses harder into the wall. The wall makes another sound—a crack—before Hadley sees something.

Fissures that grow in the wall under the heel of David's palm, and they stretch out, slowly, like vines. Something seeps out of them, something viscous and black and Hadley watches it slide out with morbid curiosity. It oozes out of the cracks in the wall and drips out onto the floor, onto David's right hand. It moves like it's breathing.

Hadley holds up a hand to touch it.

"Don't," David says, swatting away Hadley's hand.

"Why not?"

David takes off his own hand from the wall. "Because I said so."

"That's a stupid answer."

"And that's a stupid question," retorts David. He flicks his right hand, shaking off the black slime that coats it. "God, that's nasty."

"What is that?" Hadley asks, staring at the black oozing out of the ever growing gaps in the not-wall of his not-room. "Alien goo?"

"No," David says. He furrows his brow. "I don't know what it is. And I don't think it's important—a distraction, maybe? Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. The source isn't here."

David walks over to the door, not offering any explanations. Hadley knows better than to ask for one, but he can't help himself.

"So the source is outside of this room?" he asks.

David turns the handle, and with what sounds like hesitation, says, "Yes."

He steps out of the room. Hadley throws one last look at the cracked wall that by now, looks like a network of black and shiny veins stretched over a canvas.

He's not sure if he's imagining things, or if the wall is actually pulsing.

It pulses again.

Hadley leaves the room without another glance back.

The corridor beyond isn't any different from the corridor in real life—beige walls, carpeted floor, eerily empty. The only difference is that the staircase isn't supposed to be on the opposite end of the hallway, and Hadley realizes belatedly what's so off about this place.

"Everything here is opposite," he says. "Left is right and—"

"Right is left," David finishes for him. "I know. Freaky, right?"

"That's one way to put it," Hadley says. "Christ. This is incredible."

David traces the wall with his hand, and looks off towards the staircase. "I think we should go that way."

David walks away again. Hadley follows him again.

"So you mentioned your friends not being here," Hadley says. "Where are they?"

"They got us in," says David, running his hand on the wall as he walks, "and they'll keep us in until we get out."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"You don't need to," says David. "You just need to stay close."

"They were still eating pizza when you transported me to another fucking dimension. How did they—"

"I didn't need them," David says. He walks a little further ahead, till his back faces Hadley. "I needed their energy."

Hadley doesn't know what to say to that. They keep walking, and walking, and walking. The staircase doesn't get any closer. Hadley doesn't get tired. It's like the corridor keeps stretching and stretching, determined to keep them as far away from the staircase as possible.

David doesn't say a word. Hadley assumes this must be normal in limbo—never-ending hallways and creepy lighting and feeling like the world has shifted off its axis—so he doesn't say a word.

Something incredible happens.

The hallway actually snaps back. Or something. Hadley doesn't know. His head feels like it could burst.

He smells it before he sees it. The stench of rotting meat, something sickly and something sweet, somehow familiar.

Then, he sees it.

Two corpses on the floor of the hallway. Bloated flesh. Putrid stench. Maggots crawling all throughout their bodies.

His parents.

The walls aren't walls, the house isn't a house and the bodies of his parents on the floor aren't bodies. Hadley isn't here. He isn't here. He was never here and he will never be here.

"James," says David. "Get a grip. This isn't real."

Hadley wants to scream but whatever sound he can make dies in his throat. His mother's body is twisted and contorted in the most inhuman way and his father—he's not even sure if the slab of meat on the floor is his father anymore. Bile rises in Hadley's throat and for some dreamscape all this sure as hell feels real.

"Get me out," he says. He sags against the wall. "Get me out of here."

David grasps his arm. "Look."

Hadley looks. He looks past the dead bodies of his parents and past the hallway and he sees a little boy.

Not just any little boy.

"Oh god," says David, voice barely a whisper. "Is that you?"

It is. It's James Bishop Hadley at the age of seven, smaller, younger, frightened. His eyes are glassy, like he's not actually looking at anything. Vague, distant. A ghost.

"What the hell?" says Hadley. He shakes his arm free of David's grasp. He takes a step forward.

This isn't real.

Little boy James takes a step back. Hadley feels like he could throw up.

"Come find me," says James, his voice hollow, a husk. It reverberates through the walls like an echo and settles into Hadley's bones.

James turns on his heel and disappears down the hallway. Hadley follows, neatly sidestepping his parents' corpses—and even in their deadness, they seem wrong, wrong, this whole place is wrong—and chases after himself.

This whole thing feels like a joke.

The corridor leads down to the dining room and Hadley now knows for sure that this house is wrong because this isn't where the dining room is supposed to be, it's right past the staircase not the hallway, and everything is the same but it isn't.

This isn't real, he tells himself. This isn't real and your mother is alive and your father is alive and this isn't real.

The dining room is just like the rest of the house. It's darker, but not in any real way Hadley can notice, but in a way that gets under his skin. Like it might fall apart at any second. It's cold, too. Hadley's breath comes out in white wisps of clouds. There is no warm chandelier light, like in real life. It's all fluorescent and white, making harsher shadows out of soft shade. Theater lighting, dramatic lighting, fake.

He looks around for James. There's no one here, except him. Overhead, the light flickers uncertainly.

Hadley realizes David isn't anywhere to be seen.

"David?" Hadley says, and in some corner of his mind, he's aware that this is the first time he's said David's name out loud. It's a stupid detail to be focusing on at such a bad time, but it helps, for some reason. A real fact in an unreal place. "Are you here?"

"He's not here. But I am."

Hadley finds James sitting at the head of the table, short legs dangling from the chair he sits on. His chin rests in his palm as he looks at Hadley. This could be an allegory, some part of Hadley thinks. The past regarding the present.

"Aren't you going to ask who I am?" James asks, smiling in the cruel way that only children could. Hadley doesn't recall ever smiling like that.

"I don't have to ask," answers Hadley. "You're me."

"I'm not," says James. "I'm James. You're Hadley. I'm what you could've been."

"Do I look like I give a shit?"

James purses his childish mouth in disapproval. It unnerves Hadley, this face-to-face interaction with a seven-year-old version of himself.

"Did I grow up to become so uncouth?" says James, tilting his head. "How unfortunate."

"Are you going to say anything of any interest any time soon?" says Hadley, "or do I stop paying attention?"

"Aren't you intrigued by this place? By me?" James narrows his eyes at Hadley. "Doesn't this make you afraid, James?"

"I thought I was Hadley."

"Oh, but we're both the same." James cups his chin in his palm. "But you are tired of all this cryptic speaking. Take a seat. I won't kill you." He smiles with his teeth, and with a childish intonation, says, "Promise."

Hadley sits at the opposite end of the table. "I thought you were supposed to be innocent."

"You? Innocent? Don't make me laugh. We were never innocent."

"You make it sound like I had a terrible past."

"We did. Have you forgotten mother dearest?"

Hadley snaps his head back up. "I haven't," says Hadley. "It's not like she robbed me of my childhood."

"Then, why am I here?"

Hadley stands up. "You aren't. Because you're not real. None of this is."

James leans back in his chair. His mouth is twisted with scorn. "Still denying everything even when you're trusting strangers with your life? Mother did kill some part of us, didn't she?"

Hadley puts his hand down on the table and looks at it instead of at James, at himself. "She has nothing to do with this."

"She has everything to do with this."

"She didn't make me," says Hadley, struggling to keep his voice even.

"But she did!" says James, with a childish gleefulness that terrifies Hadley. "She did, she did, she did! It's why you don't know what you're doing! It's why you're trusting a boy who you don't even know! A roomful of strangers, Hadley, and you trust every single one of them! What does that say about you? What does Mother say? Don't ask any stupid questions, Hadley! She made us everything we are!"

When Hadley looks up, he sees that James has climbed on top of the table. He's standing right in front Hadley, sneering down at him. Hadley only notices now that James is wearing his old school uniform—white shirt, black tie, black trousers. He looks like a little emperor.

"Don't you see, James?" says James. "You're being blind. You trust too much for someone who doesn't have much of it." He squats, bringing himself to eye level with Hadley. "You want to break the curse, instead of asking who put it on you the first place." Even when James speaks right to Hadley's face, there's no air coming out of his mouth.

"Get out of my face," says Hadley.

James, in response, puts both of his hands onto Hadley's cheeks. His hands aren't warm, but they aren't cold either. In fact, they're nothing. Hadley can't feel James's hands on his face even when he knows they're there.

"I'm not going anywhere," says James, bringing his face closer to Hadley's, "till you die."

"And I am not," says Hadley, gripping both of James's wrists, "going to fucking die."

James smiles again. His eyes glitter in the dark. "We'll see, James. Let's see how far we can stretch you till you snap, right?"

Hadley pushes James, watches him topple onto his back on the table. He doesn't make a sound when he falls.

"James?"

Hadley turns his head at the mention of his name.

It's David.

"Did I miss anything?" David asks, looking around the room.

When Hadley turns to look at James again, he finds that the younger incarnation of him is gone.

He looks at David, opens his mouth to say something, and hesitates.

Trusting strangers with your life?

"You didn't miss a thing," Hadley says. "Room was empty when I got here."

"Really? Where'd little-kid-you go?" David traces a hand on the wall, in the same searching manner as before.

"Disappeared, I guess," Hadley says, with a shrug.

David lets out a hum of agreement. He keeps rubbing the wall, like he's petting it.

"You know," David says, "it's strange. Most other places, other people's limbo or whatever, they have this—this aura. Some feeling, some warmth or cold or whatever, but yours?" He lets out a whistle. "James, I'm getting nothing."

"It's Hadley."

David throws him a glance. "What?"

"You can call me Hadley," says Hadley, impulsively.

"What's wrong with James?" David asks. His fingertips lightly graze the wall again.

"Nothing's wrong with it. It's just—" Hadley thinks of himself, of the little boy he was sneering back at him— "it's better, I think."

"Keep our relationship strictly professional, eh?" David says. It isn't dark enough to hid David's wink. "Or do you want to come off as macho? Insisting on your own last name and everything?"

"I just think Hadley sounds better."

"Oh, yeah, definitely. Now, like I was saying about your whole limbo aura thing, I think—" David's voice halts abruptly. The perpetual half-smile falls from his face. His eyes are wide, like saucers. "Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph."

When Hadley follows David's gaze, his stomach plummets.

Philippa stands at the far end of the room. She's wearing her tennis outfit, the white polo shirt and the white shorts. Her hair is all tied up, showing off her neck. Her gory mess of a throat. The wound in her neck is such a dark and deep red that it's almost black.

"Brother," she says. The cut on her neck moves when she does. She sounds everything like Philippa; she sounds nothing like her. "How I've missed you."

This feels like a nightmare.

"David," Hadley says. "Get me out."

"I haven't even finished—"

"Like my new look?" Philippa asks, raising a hand to her throat. She steps forward. "We can get matching ones, like how mother used to get us matching outfits when we were younger, remember?"

"You're not my sister," says Hadley. "David, get us out, now."

"Oh, but I will be, soon enough," says Philippa. She walks faster towards Hadley, now. A lock of her hair comes free and sticks to the cut in her neck. "It's either you or them, James. Wouldn't you rather it be you than your sister? Than me?"

David says something, but it sounds distant to Hadley's ears. There is only Hadley and Philippa who isn't Philippa, Hadley and the bloodied mess of his sister's throat, Hadley and—

"Brother, brother, brother," Philippa says. "What have you started?"

The wound on her neck stretches, and stretches with every word, spilling blood onto her shirt, which Hadley recognizes now. It's a shirt he bought for her—100 % cotton, cost a fortune—and now it's soaked in her blood, crimson when it catches the light, black when it doesn't.

This is a fucking nightmare.

"David, get me out," says Hadley, walking backwards, trying to put distance between him and the thing that isn't his sister. His breath doesn't manage to make its way out of his throat—he feels like he could choke on air.

David hasn't moved from where he stands, hand on the wall. "I just need a second to—"

Philippa stops in her tracks. She looks right into Hadley's eyes. She sticks a finger into the wound of her throat. Another finger. It makes a sickening squelch of a noise when she moves them around.

Hadley can't take his eyes off. He feels queasy, but he can't stop watching Philippa prise open the slit in her neck, pulling it wide open, spilling out blood onto the floor. She doesn't stop looking at Hadley.

"Get me out," he says, so quietly he's not sure if anyone can hear him. "Please."

David isn't anywhere. It's only him. Him and Philippa. She pulls something out of the cavern of her throat. She dangles it in between her fingers.

It's a pendant, something blue, something—

David's pendant. The one he gave to Hadley. Protection in a necklace.

"Don't," she gasps out, "trust anyone."

How strange to think that less than an hour ago, he'd been mooning over a girl, he'd been in a room full of people who'd joked and laughed and teased him. And now he's here, staring at his sister's bloody hand, looking at the void carved in her neck.

Reality is such a dream.

He takes a step towards Philippa.

Something collides into his back, knocking him off his feet, knocking the air out of his lungs. He lands face first, cheek slamming into the floor. For a wild and terrifying moment, he thinks he's going to die.

Only, he's not. He's still alive. When he tries to look up, he sees that Philippa's disappeared.

It's David that's barreled into him. His knees press against Hadley's spine.

"What were you doing!?" David is screaming, voice loud enough to make Hadley wince. "I'm trying to save your life and you—"

Hadley rolls onto his side, throwing David off his back and onto the floor.

"Where's Philippa?" Hadley says. He scrambles to his feet. "I'm not leaving without her. Where is she!?"

"She's not here!" David picks himself up from the floor and grabs Hadley's arm

"She was right here!"

"Listen, this was a bad idea, we have to leave, now, immediately—"

Hadley grabs David's collar, David who's too afraid to do anything. "We aren't going anywhere without Philippa, you hear me? She's here—"

Thump.

"Listen, she isn't here," David says, voice infuriatingly calm. "But we are."

Thump.

"You hear that?" he says, a new spark of anger in his voice. "Something's coming, for both of us, and if we don't leave now whatever happened to your sister isn't going to be a damn dream anymore."

Thump.

David lets out a breath. "We have to get out."

Thump.

Hadley loosens his grip on David's collar.

Thump.

Hadley looks at David, really looks—lips slightly parted, eyes widened, the slightest of a crease between his brows—and lets out a syllable of a laugh.

Thump.

"Hadley," says David, so gently he might as well be breathing it. "You trust me, right?"

Thump.

"No," Hadley says, except it comes out as a "Yes."

Thump.

He takes David's hand in his own—something warm, something concrete, something real—and shuts his eyes.

Thump.

"Okay," he says. He squeezes David's hand. "Get us out of here."

***

a/n: 

ooooo somethings fishy!!!! mystery!!! im so good at writing wow!!! 

tell me what u think of james the child because he's going to be a recurring character. the more u hate him the more i love u

dedicate 2 the amazing alex aka @colormefaded what a champ!!!!! seriously!!! such an incredible friend couldnt have asked for better!!!!

also if u see any errors or stilted dialogue or words that dont make any sense ignore them!!!! my life, much like this book, is a mess!!!

also shoutout 2 @astronomizes for beta-reading this chapter again (just assume that everychapter after this is a shoutout to her)

and shoutout to like the 5 readers who consistently read this... love u

as usual, thank u for reading, yada yada goodnight my dudes