His time with Belladonna had been draining in every way possible, and by the time Mort returned with his leashed foxfire he was ready to collapse into nothing but a heap of bones and flesh. He might be a zombie, but at the moment Mort felt like an utter monster. And like every other time he couldn’t face reality, he indulged that disgusting escapist mentality he so loved and found something else to lose himself in.

In this case, sleep. In this case, the worst idea possible.

~ ~ ~

Why keep me hidden?

He awoke to his painted wooden ceiling, an odd crunching sound, an iron-y smell, and a distinct feeling of wrongness in the air. A distinct and familiar feeling. With the sound of creaking bones Mort sat up to find that something was occupying the space where the pigimp pen normally was. And that something was him.

Not him. Like him. It wore his visage, yes, but it was far larger, far more muscular, with sharpened canines like vampires and an entirely metallic right arm. The beast from his nightmarish descent during the open class of legal documents, recalled, but different somehow; its skin was patchwork, yes, but gray seemed to be more predominant than blue. It was crouched in the corner with a bloody grin turned down at the floor, remnants of his minipets strewn at its feet.

The crunching sound, Mort realized with a pang, was the sound of it breaking their bones.

He didn’t know how he got out of bed and into the hallway. It was a blur made from panicking and pure instinct, though he managed to snatch his glasses off the bedside stand in his haste. By the time the thing had lifted its head and made to move forward, the zomboil had rushed past the threshold with the door slamming behind him. For how long he ran, he wasn’t sure. The hallway seemed to stretch into forever, all the more in its emptiness. In passing Mort saw a sign for a new fieldtrip to someplace called Christmas Town – Jackdamn Amity for its choices of so-called fun outings. Was that where everyone was? He took a door that normally lead towards the quads and was met instead with a gruesome sight that twisted his innards.

The lab from Death’s Trial had been set up: glass-cased cages, machines that whirred, all organized in a room so white it hurt his eyes to look. But the one thing he could see was the pair of figures directly in the center: little Chuppi, a red pandant being slipped around her throat, and the Mort-thing in the place of the Hunter, wearing a white cloak that tore against its massive form. As if on cue, when he opened the door they both turned to look at him, the monster’s face contorted in a painful smile.

"Did you know? Halloween can and will never die."

“NO!”

It slipped from him involuntarily. He knew what would come next and tried to stop it, ran forward, reached out a hand knowing it would never get to her –

- Whiteness. Blank empty space like the outcome of his match with the Mort-thing in that class. But it wasn’t over.

Mort?

He blinked and the white went away, replaced by three faces peering at him with different levels of concern of curiosity: he was sitting in Taryn’s room with the chimera opposite him, Yin and Alex on either side.

“Still there? You blanked out,” Taryn said, gesturing to the tea cup that suddenly was in his hand, frowning a little. “Was it that bad?”

“W-Was what?”

“The tea.”

Mort stared down at the lemony brew, confused. He was sure he had already done the tea-time with the Honey Badgers, but . . . “No, no, m’okay with it,” he assured her, taking a sip. Lemon was far from his favorite, but things were too weird for him to care. “J-Just . . . Saw Chuppi d-die . . .”

As one the trio’s brows knitted. “We know,” Alex ventured, patting his shoulder. “You told us a minute ago about that.”

“A-About me killing her?”

“Uh, no?” The other zomboil gave him a strange look. “The hunter, remember? We were all there when she, you know . . .” He trailed off uneasily. Mort stared at him for a moment, wanting to assert that he had just seen this happen, but . . . Maybe it was just a minor haze-dream he’d experienced. Maybe the tea had set some shock off in his brain, making him hallucinate. Perplexed as he was, the idea of it being just a dream stuck, and he let the topic go.

As Yin continued his line of thought in the conversation – something about positions he was teaching Alex – a knock was heard on the door. Taryn excused herself to see who it was, but she never got to turn the knob: the second her hand touched it, a sliver blur speared through the door and straight through her, blood exploding from her body and onto them. She hung there with a look of blank surprise left on her face before she was unceremoniously flung off to the side, the floor turning as red as her skin beneath her.

Alex and Yin were immediately on their feet to combat the violent intruder, but Mort found himself rooted to the spot as the thing carved its way through the door. He wanted to shout for them to get out, escape, something, but his mouth would not form the words. Only horror filled his being as the two launched themselves at the creature, only to be quickly dealt with. A mix of brutal shocking grasps and pure force painted the walls with their innards, only their hands visible in the mess inches from each other.

The thing lumbered toward him next, a knowing look in its eyes as he prepared a charged punch for Mortimer as well. Why run from me? it asked with a maniacal grin.

Mort’s answer was to run again. He could not, would not face that thing, not when he was sure there were still others to warn, others to try and save. He was out of breath by the time he reached outside, the pumpkin sun burning his eyes for a few seconds as he caught his breath and leaned against the doorway. A splash of red and white was not far ahead and, in site of his growing exhaustion, he stumbled over.

“Bells, Gene, w-we should –“

“There you are!” the ghost said with a most disapproving pout. “You’re late, Mort. Belladonna and I have been waiting for almost twenty minutes.”

He stared, mouth slightly open. “Err . . .?”

Bella pulled out her notebook. “Remember, we said we were going to meet to discuss the steampunk affair? We went ahead and decided on some designs for ourselves . . .” She began to ruffle through the pages, but Mort wasn’t looking at them, or the ghouls. He was staring up at the monstrous figure of himself behind them, the smug look on his face poisonous to his soul. It knew something he didn’t.

There were no pleads this time. The zomboil immediately grasped both ghouls’ wrists and tugged them up and several steps back, fearful for their safety. “N-Need to go, danger –“

“The only person in danger here is you,” said Gene, passing a grin full of secrets to the witch which was returned most devilishly. “Hope you don’t mind lace~”

Their conversational attitude baffled him. How could they not see it was right there? He began to try and pull them further, looking for any route of escape, but the more he pulled, the more they seemed to resist, the more they seemed to not be moving.

”We have to get away,” he said emphatically, growling at their struggle. ”Get out, m-maybe to Forest, or find teachers, something!” He could not, would not, let them be harmed. Four friends had been enough for today.

And then, a eerie hiss. ”Where are you going, Mort?”

The hairs on the back of his neck rising, he turned to find that something was going on with the ghouls. Both stood like statues and were eyeing him in a most disturbing manner.

“Don’t you love me?” asked Gene, her hand turning into a claw whose fingers dug into him possessively.

“Don’t you love me?” whispered Bella, her eyes flashing a hungry blue as she pulled him closer.

It was then that Mort saw the taint – the Insanity that was turning their skin gray. “They’re innocent! What did you do to them?!” he cried at his monstrous self, aghast.

Nothing, it said simply, and smiled. This was all you.

And indeed to his horror he saw that the infection spread from their hands where he had grabbed them, and with a soft “no” let them go. The ghouls were not themselves now, but merely gray replicas that held their figures but not their souls. Blue eyes bore into him as they in unison approached; he mirrored their steps with stumbling ones of his own, his face white with fear.

“You said you weren’t going anywhere,” hissed the Bella-thing coldly, eyes narrowed. “You used us to feel better about yourself, but did you ever think about what you put us through to get your needs satisfied?”

“You let us think we had a chance,” snarled the Gene-thing, a matching claw morphed from her other hand. “You led us on and then let us down for some hussy who felt sorry for you.”

“I didn’t – “ But he had, essentially, hadn’t he? His mouth was as dry as sandpaper. “I’m sorry, I-I –“

But he was not allowed to finish as with a shriek the ghost leapt forward and sliced him with her claws. He staggered with a yelp as he felt clothes and flesh rent from his side, but he barely had time to look up before something small hit him in the chest with the force of a brick. Mort would have fallen on the ground winded, but the Gene-thing grabbed him by the collar, raising him off the ground. The Bella-Thing came and joined her, a glowing card in her fingers. His eyes widened as he struggled, but the grasp was like iron – the card blasted him again, this time in the chest, and he was mercifully let go to fall into a wheezing heap at their feet. Blood fell from his mouth as he strained his head upwards to their collective imperial gaze.

“You must go Home,” they said together, their voices no longer recognizeable.

End it, said the Mort-thing, its eyes alight with delight. Or they will.

A kick was thrown, tossing the boil on his side with a cry of pain, and two feet were planted on his body before he could get up. Deeper and deeper the pressure went until he was sure someone’s heel had punctured into a slit of his ribcage. “Gghhhh!”

End it.

As blood welled in his mouth, as he stared up at the things that were no longer his friends, Mort’s mind held only one fervent thought: I’m sorry.

Hands found the ladies’ feet, and with howl he let loose a massive charge of electricity, literally and figuratively shocking the replicas off him. He stumbled painfully to his feet as they recovered, glasses askew. The two lunged at him, but this time they were met with physical resistance in spite of his poor eyesight: blurs of color burned themselves into his retinas: the red of blood, the white of the innocence it stained, and the blue that delivered its punishment.

He did not know when the fighting had stopped. All things had blurred, color, time, sound, pain. He found himself clutching his arm where a severe amount of flesh had been burnt or torn off, and he could feel the air against other parts of his body where wounds had been delivered; he was barely able to stand, how much he shook. Not two feet from him were the corpses of his friends, in differing amounts of evisceration or showing signs of being shocked until their flesh had charred. Before his eyes they changed and hardened into stone, forever blankly staring at him with their accusing eyes.

And still the Mort-thing was there, grinning maniacally. This is the true you.

“No . . .” Mort’s legs gave out under him, and he fell prostrated to the ground, bloody hands shaking. ”N-No . . .”

All you do is cause pain and suffering to those close to you. The thing crept forward, metal arm whirring as it charged up. And now, you will go Home where you belong.

His head shot up to glare daggers at the fake. ”YOU MONSTER!” he shrieked before it became a bitter sob, a pound of a fist against the ground. “Th-They were innocent, y-you monster . . .”

Am I a monster? It tilted its head in amusement as it raised a fist. Funny. If I come from you, and I am the monster, then what does that make you?

And before the final blow could land, Mort woke up. Not in a cold sweat as some might, but cold nonetheless. He immediately jerked up into a sitting position, his hand glowing faintly as it charged lightning. He was not going to let this happen! It was here. It would be in that corner –

- but something else moved, far closer at the foot of his bed. With a snarl Mort let loose the electricity and was shocked to hear a high-pitched yelp in response. Switching the light on, Mort saw to his horror that it was not a nightmareish creature who had moved, but his own Lanna. His accuracy had been off, thank Sally, but one side of her fur looked singed. She gave him an utterly terrified look when he tried to approach, fleeing the second he made to get out of bed.

There was a pause in which he made absolutely sure that there was nothing left in his room. And then Mort tossed himself back on the pillow, curling up as he covered his face and swam in a sea of dark emotions, cursing his birth, his unlike, his everything.

Yet when he woke up later, it was to the sound of crunching, the smell of blood, and a distinctly wrong feeling in the air.