Of Journalists and Knives. [ Johnny C. x Reader ]

"Seven: Part One."

The room that reveals itself before you is, somehow, cluttered and empty all at once. Curiously, there seems to be no one to have opened the door for you, as it bangs against the wall unhindered. You have no real desire to walk in this house. After all, what about a run-down, trashy shack brought anything but negatives to mind? If not for the absence of syringes and other drug-related paraphernalia in any of its four corners, you might be inclined to call it a crackden.

Although, a clean-ish crackden wouldn't be the most bizarre thing you've encountered in your life so far. If you walk in just for a tweaker to be the thing that takes you out after fraternizing with a violent criminal for a whole winter, you're going to be pissed about it. Still, it would be kind of a fitting way to go out. Something about irony, something-something.

Your better judgement fucks off to another part of your brain for long enough for you to take a step inside. You're looking around the "living" room (called as such in your mind because you see several dead things lying around, it's a funny joke, so funny you don't laugh) when a gust of wind practically threatens to knock the whole place over. Why are you here, again? The space isn't large enough that you have any reason to doubt you've seen all there really is to see. An abandoned property isn't that interesting, not enough to stick around any longer than this. Even so, something begins to set in after a bit longer. All of those dead things don't quite look as if they'd wandered in through gaps in the siding and decided to lie down for a permanent nap. No, they do appear to have been killed, and somewhat recently, at that. Are they posed, even? A closer look at an unfortunate possum's corpse seems to tell you that your suspicions were not misguided. It's an art project for psychopaths. Neat. You decide that you've seen enough here. If some future serial killer is using an old house for things like this, that's not your problem to deal with. Maybe you'll be super courteous later and leave an anonymous tip, since it does seem some pets might have ended up here. All that really matters is that you aren't here whenever they get back.

The extent to which the floor creaks makes it sound as if it should just cave in altogether. With how everything else is looking, you're surprised it hasn't. Just before you reach the door, a sense of unease settles into your gut. Now, you would have thought that you would have been feeling that for a while now, but your standards for what's truly horrifying are a bit higher than they used to be. Some rigor mortis'd animal corpses in a weird shack are apparently not bad enough to warrant feeling much more than a twinge of revulsion.

You don't look behind you, because you're almost certain that if there is something there you're not going to like it, and run.

Or, you would have, if you'd managed to make it another step.

It's right then that someone grabs the collar of your jacket. You are thrown into an instant panic as you scream, preparing to fight for your life. How could someone sneak up on you? The floor practically screams if so much as a penny drops on it. A little like you, actually, because you sure did scream at an octave you were pretty sure only dogs could hear just then.

You can't seem to turn around or do much of anything, even though you want to. Come on, where's the fighting spirit you had when that man approached you on the street? You thought you were done being so cowardly, but you're frozen. Even your screaming ceases, leaving only the sound of your heartbeat in your head.

A remark in a pleased tone comes from behind you.

"You found me."