What Wicked Lurks Within (Avengers x Reader)

Chapter 8

Sam looked at his team as if he were seeing them for the first time. Everyone was unusually explosive, threatening to combust at the slightest of faults. He had had enough. "Alright, I am going to leave because this conversation is clearly going nowhere. If and when y'all are ready to talk like sane people, call my name. It's a small place, where could I possibly go?" He scoffed as he headed for the stairs.

The house was creating chaos. It was creating unrest. It was working against those that lived. The house was dividing and conquering.

A maudlin melody floated in the air to the effect of outstretched arms -  beckoning, calling. Sam froze at the top of the stairs, peeking into the corridor. The song confused him beyond all comprehension, it also made something primal in him blare all alarms.

The tune was enchanting, like a siren's, and just as deadly. Sam's mind launched into overdrive. He cautiously followed the sound. 'Who is singing?' It had to be either you or Natasha, the voice was female, and he knew for a fact it was not you. He had heard you sing and let's just say, it tended to repel rather than attract.

Sam wasn't entirely sure Natasha could sing, however, one thing he had learnt in his time as an Avenger was to never make assumptions about Natasha Romanoff. Until very recently, he did not know she could take someone's life by etching a centimetre long cut on their throat. The singing woman could very well be Natasha -  except he had just seen her in the hall downstairs.

The trail of sound led Sam to his very own door. Unless Natasha had teleportation abilities, the person inside was beyond a doubt, an outsider. He could hear his blood swirling in his ears. With a cold and equally as damp hand, he pushed the door open. The sight that lay before him was like nothing he had ever seen.

It was quite literally, nothing. The horribly beautiful song was still there, a warning to burst is his eardrums, despite no visible source. Sam was smarter than to call out 'hello' in an empty room that screamed ill-omened. He was smarter than to stay in that Godforsaken room for another moment. He turned around, fully intending to leave, when he saw it. The thing...the man?

It did resemble a man, however faintly. A black silhouette, vertically stretched to atrocious proportions. It was dreadfully two-dimensional, like paper. A black cut out of a severely  disproportionate man -  only ominously animate. It stood at the door, vaguely swinging, lurking in the shadows.

There was no way Sam was going anywhere near it. He bit his lip, scanning the room for another potential exit. Out of nowhere, he had an overwhelming urge to leap out of the window. It required physical resistance to not comply. He shook his head, clearing his mind. The tormenting euphony was driving him insane.

Sam noticed his reflection in the mirror. The man staring back was terrified, bulbous beads of sweat decorated his face, his jaw quivered ceaselessly. His vision blurred momentarily when he recognized that his reflection was not the only one the mirror was showing. There was someone else in the room; there was someone behind him.

Heavens knew just how much Sam willed to look away, yet he did not. He could not. Behind him, in the mirror, a woman sat on the floor, arms pressed to her sides and palms slightly touching the ground. Her floor length gown was spread around her in a circle and the umbrella sleeves bloomed at the bottom - everything about her was positively regal - from the neck down.

The woman's face was twisted in agony. Her mouth was open in a blood curdling scream, her chest heaved. Her frantic eyes a stared into Sam's but what truly caused bile to rise up in his throat what the fact that her open mouth did not elicit a scream. It elicited a song - it elicited the song.

Sam wheeled around, regardless of every fibre of his existence forbidding him to, and came across an empty room. Turning back to the mirror, the woman was right where she was, wailing. For but a moment, the incoherent melody was interrupted by a word. Sam could have sworn she sung his name! The song was no longer vaguely beckoning - it was now beckoning him in particular.

He backed away but no, behind him was the door and with it the shadow. Thus he moved sideways, unknowingly closer to the window. There was movement, not on his part, the darkness had moved. Not the darkness - Sam's stomach churned - the shadow. It was walking, rather awkwardly, as if it had seen a human do it and was attempting its best imitation. Instinctively, he backed away but the thing neared relentlessly.

Sam's heel hit the frame of the French window and he had to stop. The assiduous euphony continued its torment as he stared at the abysmal void that formed the man. Goosebumps rose on his skin; an unshakable sensation of impending doom loomed large. "You are not real." He had meant the words, an infinitesimal ray of hope to wake up from some incredibly vivid nightmare still flickering inside.

"Within the walls of this house, only we are real." The things spoke. It spoke and the sound was worse than the melody echoing around. Sam turned his back, his heartbeat erratic, threatening to either burst or give up entirely. A scream escaped his throat and he had to clamp his mouth shut with his own hand. Fresh air licked his face. He had tried to open the window yesterday and failed - but it was open now. Welcoming.

The woman in the mirror endured with her emotive tune which now, to Sam, was very resembling to the ringing of a knell. He sighed, which came out as a broken whimper. "Make it stop. Please." Had he asked the shadow apparition? Maybe. He had asked whatever was listening. The number was a lot more than he could ever anticipate. "Make it stop yourself." Came a woman's voice. Not the one who was singing, someone else. Something else.

"Jump." Rose urged. Earnestly, Sam wanted to. The thought was his and yet it bore a tint of unfamiliarity. As though something had cloaked itself as his reasoning and was now dictating his actions. He faltered at the edge - something inside him was fighting, disobeying his own prudence. "Sam?" Bucky slowly called out, so as not to startle. "Sam, step back, you're gonna fall."

Sam could barely hear someone call his name over the consuming melody. Something inside him was fighting and losing. He was going to jump. Tony's eyes met yours and a silent conversation took place. Adhering to the plan formed therein, you looped your right arm over Sam's torso, Tony looped his left and the two of you pulled with all your might.

Admist the pandemonium, Natasha noticed an anomaly that made her stomach twist. "Steve." She gasped, "Your head..." Uncertain of what she was hinting at, Steve indeterminately touched the bandage wrapped around his temples. His fingers came back red and moist. The wound had opened up on its own. The house could not nuture, it could not heal.

Tony, Sam and yourself fell back against the solid floor. Sam immediately sat up. Around him he could see his team, not those horrid creatures, yet the feeling of home was far away. The fact he considered to be paramount was that the infesting tune had ceased. He would have gladly taken his life had it not. "I don't like this place very much." That was an understatement, he thoroughly hated it. Bucky blandly regarded his friend, "Is that why you were jumping out the window?"

"Don't worry about that." Clint interjected, "We leave as soon as we are done with Wanda's funeral." Sam sighed in relief. The Avengers were going to vacate the damned house irrespective of whether or not he shared with them what he had experienced. He decided not to - if the outcome was going to be alike nonetheless, he chose not to scar them. He would bear burden for his entire life if he had to. "That's good. Let's... Let's do that."

-

The night was ripe, as was Sam's sleep. He could not fall asleep though, for every time his blink lasted longer than a second, the face of the wailing woman would appear in the darkness and his eyes shot back open. He twisted and turned, hoping to find a position comfortable enough to activate his slumber.

The clock in the hall chimed at the strike of an hour. 'One, two, three...' Sam instinctively counted, 'eleven, twelve. Sleep, Sam!' He reprimanded himself when the clock chimed again. 'Thirteen.' He listened in rapt attention. Had he truly heard the strike of the thirteenth hour? The clock did not chime again. It did not matter really, Sam was not in the mood for any more sounds. He had heard enough for a lifetime. He put a pillow over his head and went back to trying to fall asleep.

If he had not however, if he were listening still, he would hear the footsteps. Footsteps that walked down the stairs and out the door. They walked along the perimeter, until they reached their destination - behind the house.