Fratricide

Peter awoke suddenly.
He'd been awoken from the sweet serenity of sleep many times before, whether it was from his neighbors' dogs barking, or from the shrill ringing of his digital alarm clock. This time, there was nothing, though, nothing at all.
Just silence.
Silence so deafening, in fact, that it had woken Peter without so much as a heads up that such a rude awakening would occur. It hadn't been an easy task for Peter to sleep; nightmares had tended to haunt him on many occasions. And so, it was particularly frustrating for a rare full night's sleep to be interrupted by whatever it was that had caused him to wake up.
And now he felt that something was off.
His plaid-patterned sheets shifted as he arose from the bed, drawing the navy curtains groggily. His gaze was met with a pale morning sky, with swirling clouds among a sea of gray. Subtle hints of frost lay in places on the sidewalk, their branching patterns scouring the ground. Glancing around, Peter ascertained from his alarm clock that it was 9:25 am on a Monday. Mid-morning was in full swing, and yet, everything felt quiet. Numb, even.
Peter trudged downstairs, his dressing gown wrapped around checked pajamas. Another thing he noted was that it seemed abnormally cold in the apartment. He found himself shivering a little as he made his way towards the lounge.
Normally, he'd have turned the metal handle to open the door to the lounge, but no such action would occur today, for the door stood ajar, an open invitation for him to join.
Peter was quite reasonably apprehensive.
"What the hell is going on..?" He muttered to himself as he edged backwards, towards the kitchen.
The kitchen was the best place to be, for he'd be able to arm himself to defend against an intruder, if there was one, that is. The more rational explanation here would be that he'd simply forgotten to close the lounge door when venturing back upstairs last night.
However, the knife block was empty.
Now Peter started to panic a little. He felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as he began to realize that whoever had broken in must have them.
He began to rummage through his drawers as quietly as possible, reasoning that whoever was in the house couldn't possibly have taken every potential weapon. He desperately moved aside graters and peelers, looking for at least something viable. The slow, rising panic was beginning to set in.
"Don't bother looking, You won't find anything useful." Came a raspy voice from the lounge.
Peter froze.
"Come and sit down. We have a lot to discuss, Peter." The voice spoke again.
Peter wanted to move, he really did. But his legs felt like concrete; stiff and immobile.
"Get...get out of my house..." He just about managed, the cadence of his voice wavering.
Peter heard a sigh, and then what sounded like footsteps approaching the kitchen.
Oh, god. Move! Move now!
He just couldn't; the fear of whoever it was approaching him was just too much for Peter to bear.
The owner of the raspy, imposing voice made itself visible in the kitchen doorway. Its' appearance was, for lack of a better word, strange.
The person in front of him was clothed in what looked to be a black trench coat, so dark that it seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Black pants and leather boots adorned the lower half of the body, while the coat obscured whatever may have been covering the top half. The figure's mouth was covered by a thick scarf, gray in color; and Peter wondered how this person was able to breathe with how tightly it seemed to be woven around, almost constricting the face.
Two piercing blue eyes peered out from the pale skin canvas of flesh, seemingly lacking any eyebrows. A large, floppy black hat adorned the head, casting a dark overhanging shadow on the face of the figure. All in all, it stood at what Peter thought to be around six feet; but it did not look physically imposing; looking somewhat lanky and skinny.
"Must I do everything for you, Peter?" Came the rasp again.
Peter once again tensed up, the morbid curiosity of looking at this man trading places with fear.
"Aren't you going to say anything?"
Finally, Peter mustered up the courage to speak. After all, whoever this was wasn't going to leave on their own.
"What do you want from me? Money? You won't be getting any, the police are on their way." He tried his best to sound imposing, hoping that whoever this was would leave. Although, come to think of it, that might just cause the intruder to force a hostage situation, even though Peter knew no police were coming. Not good.
He needn't have worried. The figure laughed softly, that rasp making it sound slightly pained.
"Police? Money? I'm afraid you don't understand, Peter. I just want to talk. I have no intention of hurting you."
Peter at this point was utterly confused. He had no idea what was going on.
"Talk about what? None of this makes sense, I don't know who you are, or anything about you!"
The trench coat-donned person offered a small nod.
"This is true. Perhaps it's easier to show you rather than explain."
Peter shook his head, outrage and skepticism at the situation temporarily overriding confusion.
"No, I'm not going to play along with whatever this is. Get out of my house! I'm going to wait for the police to get here, so if you really don't want to do me any harm, leave."
The figure let out another sigh, and moved aside, as if to let him pass.
Surprised but still indignant, Peter began to walk past the threshold. However, this submission was short-lived, for as soon as he'd made it through the door, he felt a hand clutch his shoulder tightly. An icy chill spread throughout his body, and he shivered uncontrollably. Then, a blinding flash of light obscured everything.
When Peter's vision returned, he was no longer standing in his house. Instead, he stood in the middle of a road, and a familiar one at that.
"What the hell...?" He exclaimed to no one in particular.
He seemed to have somehow ended up out on the winding streets of his neighborhood, albeit with a difference. He was getting an undeniable sense of isolation and loneliness; everything was desolate and deserted. He might have even gone as far as to say that had he entered any of the many houses standing adjacent to the sidewalk, they would have been completely empty.
Peter spun around, his gaze darting all over the place, trying desperately to make sense of what was going on. He hadn't remembered going outside, and besides, he was still in his pajamas; there was no reason to have done so while he wasn't even dressed yet.
A raspy voice suddenly broke the silence.
"It's very important that you listen to me and do as I say; it'll only work against you if you don't."
Peter felt that icy chill again, wrapping his arms around his chest for warmth as he turned to face the figure again.
"Okay, cut the crap, seriously. You're messing with me somehow and I don't like it; either you tell me what you want or I'm not listening to a word you say."
The figure nodded and cleared its' throat.
"I want you to see what you need to see, that is all. Just follow me." The figure noticed Peter was about to protest, and so continued quickly.
"You've already seen what I can do to you; it's in your best interests to come of your own volition."
Peter thought about this for a second. He didn't believe in ghosts, but he couldn't deny that this was not normal. He decided that whatever or whoever this person was, they were capable of otherworldly things, and as such, it'd be a good idea to at least play along until he had an opportunity to slip away.
"Fine, I'll come with you. But why is it in my 'best interests'?" He scoffed.
The figure seemed to speak more jovially now, the rasp less obvious.
"Because one of us can still be saved, and I'm not passing that opportunity up."
The figure turned on its heel and began walking northbound.
Peter still had a mountain of questions, but something told him the figure wouldn't say anything more, judging by the way it had already started walking. He followed reluctantly, still confused as ever.
The sound of boots and feet on concrete were the only noises that could be heard in the eeriness of their early morning stroll. Peter followed the figure as it moved up pathways and through alleyways. His bare feet were freezing, and he felt every step; though he couldn't exactly go back home to fetch his shoes.
"Where exactly are we-"
He started to say before his gaze settled on the figure, who'd now stopped walking, its own eyes fixed on something nestled in the grass in front of them.
They had reached the expansive neighborhood park.
Peter approached the figure, trying to ignore the wetness of the grass on his feet. He frowned as he realized what it was that it was staring at.
it was a needle.
"What's a needle doing here? Damn teenagers, someone should clean that up!" He exclaimed frustratingly.
The figure spoke in what Peter could only describe as amusement.
"Yes, someone could really hurt themselves with a used needle."
Peter frowned again, looking at the creature with disdain.
"What's so funny?"
The figure waved a hand dismissively.
"It's nothing. I just thought you'd understand."
Suddenly, time seemed to slow down. Peter began to feel a colossal amount of vertigo as the world seemed to warp and shift around him.
He closed his eyes as his ears started to ring, snippets of voices echoing all around him.
"Not like him at all..."
"An overdose...?!"
"Maybe he had a dealer..."
Peter gasped, opening his eyes, the world finally shifting back to normal once more.
He looked around at the figure, then at the needle. The man was both confused and terrified, panic creeping into his mind.
"What just happened...?!"
The figure spoke in a condescending tone.
"What happened, Peter? You already know. You just refused to accept it."
Peter shook his head, his voice wavering as he tried to keep calm.
"I don't know what's going on, please, I'm telling you I don't know!"
The figure let out a sigh.
"Then I think we need to continue our walk."
Peter's eyes went wide.
"Y-you can't just not tell me anything! That's not normal! None of this is normal!"
The figure ignored him and turned to start walking again.
Peter toyed with the idea of leaving right there and then, but he was genuinely afraid now. He was disturbed by what he'd heard, and he couldn't shake off the feeling that he knew more than he thought. But how could this be possible? This had to be some sort of dream or hallucination; he'd never once tried drugs like that, had he?
Thinking about it was causing the anxiety in Peter's mind to take over, and so he shoved what he'd just experienced to the back of his mind. It seemed to work, at least for now.
He needed answers at some point soon, though, and this figure was the only way he'd get any, even if this did turn out to be another one of his nightmares.
And so on they went, an unfaltering figure leading the way westward, a fearful and cold Peter in tow.
The twenty-five-year-old was fighting off the urge to run as he trudged behind the figure. He knew it'd be fruitless; the way it had touched him back in the house had proven that deviation was not a good idea.
They continued west, past the moderately sized lake that spanned that part of the neighborhood, a long wooden fence covering the perimeter.
The figure took a sharp left turn, towards one of the houses. This one seemed odd in color; whitewashed with what seemed to be a red cross painted on the door.
The door swung open as the figure reached it, inviting them inside.
Peter nervously followed the figure as it made its way inside, and immediately regretted it. The door swung closed behind them violently with the sound of a lock clicking, telling him they were both trapped inside. The stench of what smelled like a mix of ethanol and blood reached his nostrils, causing him to feel nauseated.
"Did you do that?!" He asked the figure, pulling on the door handle in a panicked but fruitless attempt to open it.
"No, you did that."
Peter looked at his guide in utter perplexion.
"What are you talking about?!"
The figure seemed to be tired of Peter's questions, as its next reply was very curt.
"You aren't going to learn anything by questioning me."
Peter fell silent.
Learn what? What could that even mean? Peter was utterly baffled at this point; there was so much he didn't understand. And that made him afraid. But he couldn't leave. The door had made sure of that. Still, Peter knew that something had to come of this, and so he pulled himself together, dispelling the panic again somewhat. He was going to see this through to whatever conclusion it took him to.
With newfound confidence, even if it was just to quell his nerves, he nodded in acknowledgment.
"Okay, let's go."
They trudged through the house, and it was immediately apparent that this was not just a domestic property. They seemed to walk through room after room; kitchens, bathrooms, lounges, all becoming filthier and filthier as they passed each one.
Finally, they came to a set of stairs that looked out of place in a household environment. It was made of steel, with bright yellow anti-slip covers, and had a similarly metallic handrail that seemed more suitable in an office building or similar than in a house.
The figure didn't hesitate, ascending the stairs, boots clunking on the metal as it went. The cold had become something of a familiarity for Peter at this stage, and so the chill of the metal on his bare feet wasn't as much of a shock as he followed his guide.
They climbed the stairs for what seemed like hours, and Peter began to think about what had happened earlier. Now that he wasn't panicking as much, he could truly try to make sense of the situation. A thought came to him, and he started to remember; he had taken drugs before, but only on rare occasions, and he'd always had his brother present to take care of him. He'd never become addicted, no, of course not, and besides, it'd been a long time ago. He'd still been a teenager.
He staggered back, suddenly, another surge of vertigo hitting him. He clutched the railing as he fell to his knees; closing his eyes as the voices echoed once again.
"Go on, just try it this once..."
"Trust me, it's good."
"Alright...but you better not take any while I'm high..."
Peter was mercifully spared of any more voices, getting to his feet gingerly. His head was hurting and he felt an increasing sense of dread as he forced himself to continue walking. He then noticed that the figure had been waiting for him.
"Why didn't you help me?! I could have fallen and broken my neck!" He said, outraged that the figure had just stood there and let him suffer.
The figure chuckled. "There's no way you could have done that."
Peter was now convinced that this figure was hellbent on tormenting him, and so he ignored its' apparent disregard for his life. He imagined that getting frustrated was what it wanted. But something nagged at him. After his second occurrence with the voices, hearing the figure speak felt almost familiar to him.
They continued their ascent up the stairwell until they finally reached a doorway, painted similarly to the front door of the building, with a red cross adorning it.
As they walked through, the stench that Peter had smelled since entering the building grew very intense, and it seemed that this room was the source.
Looking around while holding his sleeve over his nose, Peter could see that the room looked to be a dilapidated hospital room, with blue walls covered in mold and paint flaking off in clusters. The only source of light was a flickering fluorescent tube in the ceiling.
Peter's heart stopped when he moved his gaze to the center of the room.
There was a rusty gurney rich with grime, and on top of it was a person. They looked malnourished, with visible bones beneath their pale skin, particularly in the ribcage area. The person's hair was long and black, full of dirt clumps and grease. When peter glanced towards their arms, he found that there was a lot of what looked to be small puncture marks all over them; almost as if made with a needle...
...Peter breathed heavily; he did not want to be here.
"Please, don't make me go any further." He whispered to the figure beside him.
The body on the gurney seemed to stir at this, and Peter held his breath; the seconds ticking by at a snail's pace as he fought to keep from screaming.
"Peter..." It spoke as it sat up, looking straight at him.
The man's heart stopped as he stared back at the face of the person. The face was gaunt and the eyes sunken and bloodshot, and as they opened their mouth to speak again, Peter could see the flies inside gorging themselves on the rotten gums where teeth should have been.
"Peter...is that you...?" It rasped.
It...it couldn't be.
He looked to the figure for some sort of confirmation; but to his surprise and dismay, his guide had vanished.
His throat felt dry. That voice. It sounded so much like...
"...Nathan," Peter said as he walked forward, towards the man on the gurney.
He ignored the ringing in his ear as he reached Nathan, hands clutching the skinny ones of the other man.
The room was starting to spin once again, this time with more than just a set of voices. In his blurred vision, the gaunt, corpse-like man in front of him morphed into a youthful one, black hair becoming healthy and short, face becoming glowing and full of life; smiling back at him with blue eyes that weren't dead. Two different versions of the same man were displayed to him like an overlay; swirling and twisting, with one rotted and withered and the other cheerful and carefree.
He could hear the incessant buzzing of the flies all around him, the rotten stench filling him to the brim with nausea. He was beginning to understand now. Looking at the person in front of him made it all come back; he couldn't hide any longer.
Peter broke down.
"Nathan, I'm so sorry...I didn't want it to happen! Oh god, please forgive me, I'm so sorry!" He cried out as the room began to spin faster and faster, becoming a whirlpool around him as he stared into the man's eyes, tears streaming from his face...
...And then everything went black.
Peter awoke groggily. He could feel the carpet under his body, and so he knew he wasn't in that room anymore.
He rose to his feet, holding his head in pain. It ached.
"Jesus Christ..." He muttered.
Then, immediately, what he'd just experienced came rushing back. He began to sob, slumping against the wall as tears blurred his vision.
He then felt a presence next to him and gazed up.
It was the figure from before.
They both stayed idle for a while as Peter sobbed; grateful for the company while he grieved.
Then, a still sniffling Peter broke the silence. He knew he'd recognized the figure's voice.
"I caused all this, and yet you helped me...why?"
"As I said, I can still save you. "
The figure pointed across from where Peter was sitting, at the other end of the room.
Peter followed the figure's outstretched arm to a bed. No, his bed. He then realized that, in his grieving, he'd not looked around to see where he was. This was his room, the one he'd woken up in all that time ago.
And someone was in it.
Peter was weathered and fatigued; he'd gone through so much, and yet he could tell it wasn't quite over.
He tentatively walked to his bed, and pulled back the duvet.
A bottle of pills fell from the bed and onto the floor; dislodged by the movement.
Peter looked at the person who lay in his bed in horror, face ashen at the sight.
It was him.
He was looking at his own lifeless body, lying in bed; eyes closed. The body's lips were blue, and it looked almost peaceful.
He staggered back, unable to fathom it.
"I...I don't understand...I'm not dead..."
The figure placed a hand on his shoulder again. The icy chill he'd felt before had gone, strangely.
"You were always dead, Peter. You needed to face what you couldn't in life, to truly repent. I couldn't allow you to fail, not for a mistake."
Finally, Peter understood it all.
He turned to face the figure, the first semblance of a smile forming.
"Thank you, Nathan."
Nathan nodded, his hand gesturing for Peter to take it.
Peter grasped his brother's hand, feeling a weight finally lifted from his shoulders.
A blinding white light began to spill through the room's window, engulfing the two as it consumed everything around it. Brighter and brighter it got until the whole room was filled with it.
And then, it began to fade, leaving as quickly as it had entered. The two men had vanished, leaving the room empty once again, save for the cadaver left slumped in the bed.
Category:ZugZuwang
Category:Weird
Category:Ghosts