#tw decay/rot

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 5: Revenge

(Trigger Warnings: talk of death/dying, implied murder, descriptions of rot/decay, pain/suffering, blood, broken bones, fatal injuries, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1  Day 2  Day 3  Day 4  Day 6 Day 7

Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza had never been too appealing of a place. Mare had held that opinion even when the restaurant was operating, before he’d died.

The place had changed—not for the better, obviously—after being closed and forgotten about for years.

Puddles were scattered about the black-and-white checkered floor, slowly but surely growing in size thanks to water that was still dripping from holes in the roof. Black mold gathered in the corners, crept up the walls around peeling paint. Rats scurried here and there, probably trying to decide whether or not Mare was human. The air was damp and fetid; if Mare had still been alive, he had no doubt that the stench of decay would’ve quickly worked its way into his clothes and hair.

All in all, the restaurant seemed to finally look the way it had always felt.

Mare drifted through the dining area for the hundredth time now, past the show stage (which had practically sunken into the floor). His footsteps made no sound. He didn’t even feel like he was moving. He paused just outside of Pirate’s Cove, waiting patiently. 

The Foxy animatronic eventually poked its head out through the purple, star-patterned curtains, looking at him with a glassy, bright yellow eye. Mare waved a hand towards himself before turning away. He could hear metal thudding and scraping against the floor as Foxy followed his lead.

Mare listened to booming thunder and drumming rain. He hummed in time with the storm outside as it tried its best to shake the abandoned restaurant. 

He’d been navigating this place for an eternity by now. He hated knowing every single nook and cranny by heart. He couldn’t even take comfort in the fact that he’d never been alone. The only people he had for company were in a constant state of agony and anger like he was. Even now, he could feel the anger radiating off of Foxy, who was only following him out of confusion.

But tonight wasn’t like all the other nights he’d been trapped here.

Because someone else—someone alive—had been trespassing and hiding out in the building for the past four nights. Mare knew who the aforementioned trespasser was, and he’d made it abundantly clear to the trespasser that he was being stalked, being hunted.

And the trespasser just kept coming back. Which, of course, prompted Mare to start experimenting with different tactics. He’d managed to form a plan, and so far his attempts had been successful.

As long as tonight followed the same script as the previous ones. . .

Mare led Foxy down a certain corridor; the one that led to the restaurant’s saferoom.

Three familiar animatronics—Freddy, Bonnie, Chica—lay on the floor, completely and utterly dismantled. Their limbs were twisted in unnatural positions, their rusted jaws hung open, their blank eyes stared at nothing.

Despite all this, somehow, you wouldn’t be able to see what was inside those robotic carcasses.

But Mare already knew. He didn’t need the animatronics to be opened up.

Even after all this time, the stains around the animatronics’ eyes, mouths, and joints—the areas where blood and mucus had leaked out through—still had yet to fade.

He stopped and stood before the carnage, waiting.

As soon as Foxy caught up to him, the saferoom’s door slammed against the wall.

A blur of movement rushed past Mare, and Foxy was suddenly writhing on the floor. A man stood above the animatronic, mercilessly beating it with what looked like a sledgehammer.

Foxy shuddered and convulsed, trying and failing to fight against its attacker.

In a matter of minutes, the animatronic was in pieces, just like the others. The man panted like a dog as he finally stopped his ambush. Mare stepped closer, glowering at him with all the hate he could muster.

This wasn’t a man; this was a vile, hideous, motherfucking waste of space parasite who’d killed innocent children because watching people suffer was the only source of joy in his pathetic life. Out of all the victims he’d taken, only one had been an adult: a night guard who had known that something wasn’t right with him, who watched him very carefully, who had managed to follow him into his little hideout and witness the atrocities he’d been committing.

And that night guard had gone by a name that Mare simply couldn’t remember anymore.

That night guard would’ve looked a lot like Mare, had Mare been healthy and breathing.

That night guard had died in the middle of trying to save that bastard’s victims.

The parasite sneered right back at him as he hurried into the saferoom, just as he had the previous nights. Mare lingered near Foxy, staring down at the mess the parasite had made.

He watched as what looked like a cloud of mist began wafting off of the animatronic. The cloud hovered in the air for a few seconds, then shrunk into a humanoid silhouette. And just like that, the spirit of a young, freckle-faced boy was standing before Mare, looking lost and frightened.

Muffled screams began echoing from the saferoom. Mare huffed a laugh as the boy’s expression grew more and more aware. Without needing to be instructed, the boy phased through the door. Mare was right behind him.  

The second Mare and the boy entered the saferoom, four more children—the ones who had previously been trapped inside the other animatronics—all converged into the room.

Just like him, their eyes resembled pools of ink. Just like him, their faces were semi-obscured by tear tracks, which resembled stationary wisps of curling smoke. Just like him, their skin appeared unsaturated and decayed. They each boasted different types of horrible injuries. Stab wounds, blunt-force trauma scars, discolored impressions of fingers encircling the skin of the throat. . .

They were all dead, having been killed in this very place all those years ago.

The children circled around the parasite like sharks in a frenzy, howling with rage, clawing at the parasite’s clothes and hair. The parasite’s face was contorted in panic, fear, and understanding.

Mare watched, feeling the schadenfreude that had become so familiar.

The parasite tried swinging his sledgehammer down onto the freckled boy’s head. There was no impact. No blood sprayed against the wall. The boy didn’t scream or fall to the floor. Instead, the boy gripped the sledgehammer’s head, wrenched it out of the parasite’s grasp, and swung it right back at him. The weapon collided into the parasite’s side with a solid crunch. 

The parasite cried out in pain and stumbled back. He tried to charge at Mare, but Mare’s only response was to herd him back into the center of the room. The freckled boy dropped the tool and joined his peers to give chase.

Now swaying and limping, the parasite sprinted in circles, fairly uselessly. The children kept intercepting him as he kept failing to hurt them. Obviously desperate, the parasite surged over to the corner, where a bulky yellow springlock suit was slumped against the wall. It was none other than Spring Bonnie: the same rabbit-looking mascot that the parasite had used for his disguise.

Mare knew for a fact that he had every single fucking right to hate that thing. But he also couldn’t deny that, even if it hadn’t been part of the parasite’s signature, it still would’ve just looked. . .wrong. The smile its face had been designed with looked eerie, more obsessive than genuinely happy.

The suit was a monster all on its own, but the parasite had made it even worse.

The parasite knelt before Spring Bonnie, hastily shoving its head off of its neck, opening it up around its joints. He managed to close it up around himself, then picked up the rabbit’s head and positioned it over his own like the mask it was. He stood there, breathing heavily as he stared at the ghosts he’d created.

Mare paused, then glanced at each of the children in turn. Despite the hollow murk of their eyes, it was clear that they were frightened. They were remembering how the parasite had donned this exact costume when he’d lured them to their deaths.

Not only that, but they were all obviously trying hard to be brave. They continued snarling and shouting at the parasite, but their voices wavered. Their trauma was still present, and that caused a dull ache to resonate through Mare’s empty chest.

And as if it couldn’t get any worse, a scratchy, ear-splitting sound was suddenly filling the room, bouncing off the walls. It took Mare a few seconds to realize that the parasite was fucking laughing at the children.

He started to lunge at the parasite, but a small blur suddenly rushed past him. His heightened anger was replaced by surprise as he watched a dark-haired girl pounce and shove at the parasite with everything she had.

Had she been alive, her attack likely wouldn’t have been successful. But death, in all its irony, could make you deceptively strong, no matter what age or condition you’d been in before the end.

The metallic parts of the parasite’s disguise crashed and groaned as he hit the floor, toppling over like a slow avalanche. The girl loomed over him, punching and kicking and shrieking at him with absolutely no mercy. Almost immediately, he started screaming, convulsing. 

Mare tilted his head at this. He drew closer and discovered that blood was seeping through Spring Bonnie, slowly but surely mixing into the rancid puddle the parasite had been shoved into. Then, a muffled cacophony of flesh being punctured and torn, of bones snapping finally made itself known to him, though the sounds were nearly drowned out by the girl’s war-cry.

This encouraged the other children, who rushed over to surround the parasite.

Mare remembered overhearing the pre-recorded messages one of his co-workers had been required to listen to. He remembered the very explicit safety instructions that came with wearing one of the suits Freddy Fazbear’s was (in)famous for; if any of the springlocks inside were dampened—hell, even just nudged out of place—they would disengage. And if they disengaged, then the wearer would suddenly be completely vulnerable to the suit’s internal exoskeleton. And at that point, it would’ve been more appropriate to stop calling the suit a suit and start calling it an iron maiden.

Although the children were incapable of being physically struck, and although the parasite didn’t have time to even try to struggle against them, Mare’s instincts were in overdrive. Mare maneuvered himself around the children and grabbed the parasite’s arms in a vice-like grip, holding them at an angle that would not only cause the parasite more pain, but made it impossible for the parasite to attempt self-defense.

The children kept at their attacks for. . .Mare actually wasn’t sure for how long. Minutes had always had a bad habit of dragging on when he was alive, and time moved even slower after he’d died. But he didn’t mind; the children had been waiting far too long for something like this to happen. He wasn’t about to make them stop. They’d stop when they were good and ready.

For the first time in years, Mare felt himself relax. He smiled at the scene before him with a sort of joy that would’ve been unconventional had it not been justified.

To put it simply, he was proud of the children. He’d never seen himself as a fatherly type, but he’d spent the vast majority of his afterlife trying to guide and comfort them. And now? They were getting the justice they deserved all by themselves.

Sooner or later, the children eventually began to calm down. They stopped screaming, stopped the ambush altogether, though you could tell that it was as begrudgingly as it was out of exhaustion.

Mare watched as the children moved away from the parasite, then turned his head to stare into the parasite’s eyes. Even with the children’s escalation, it would be a long, long, long time before he actually died. It would be slow and agonizing. And he deserved every single bit of it.

He also wasn’t worth any more of Mare’s time. So, Mare roughly released the parasite from his hold and delivered one more kick to the side of his head.

He left the parasite in a wailing, twitching, worthless heap.

But he only made it halfway across the room before stumbling to his knees.

The children all gasped and quickly approached him, trying to help him right himself.

Since the day he’d died, Mare had felt nothing but numbness and cold, which was occasionally accompanied by dull pain. Right now, however, the aches he’d never quite adjusted to were slowly dissipating. He felt lighter, warmer, and. . .

Tired.

Not even while he’d been bleeding out had Mare ever felt so tired.

Mare glanced around at the children, and his mouth fell open in surprise.

Each of them seemed to be glimmering. Their skin transitioned from sickly gray to the natural shades they’d been born with. Their wounds vanished, one by one. Their dark, oily tear tracks evaporated into the air as their eyes softly shifted to colors other than black. Mare didn’t need to look at himself to know that his form was changing in a similar manner. For a split-second, he could’ve sworn that he’d felt a heartbeat rushing through him.

In no time at all, the children each looked healthy enough to be alive again.

But they weren’t. Mare knew they weren’t, and they did, too.

Even after the miraculous healing process, the children were still translucent. Except now. . .light seemed to be fluttering around them, as though candles had been embedded into their cores.

They were fading in and out of view, becoming harder to see with each passing second.

The children’s expressions were all an odd mix of confusion and relief. Mare beamed at them, knowing that they wouldn’t need him to explain. Slowly but surely, the children smiled back.

Up until now, they’d only ever known death. Mare didn’t expect them to have an idea of what would come after they’d been forced to remain for so long; not when he had no idea what was in store for himself. But whatever it was, his instincts made it clear that it was good.

Mare barely had any strength left, but he held onto it. He had to if he wanted to see the kids off.

He waited silently, patiently as each of the children vanished into thin air.

After a few moments, only one was left: the dark-haired girl. The one who had been the first to attack the parasite.

Her face was joyful, but still uncertain. She kept looking around him to glare at the parasite. She was making a valiant effort to stay. She knew she didn’t need to, Mare could tell, but she just couldn’t help but be anxious.

Mare knew that anxiety inside-out. He knew it hadn’t felt the same to him as it had to her, but he understood. And that was just enough.  

Mare gently patted her shoulder. “You’ve got to get some rest now,” he said, as she craned her neck to face him. “It’s time to move on.”

She blinked, then let out a small sigh and nodded. She closed her eyes and hugged his arm tightly—Mare could still feel her embrace after she disappeared.

That was it. Everything was finally over.

Foreign light began creeping around the edges of Mare’s vision. . .The room started spinning, but it didn’t make him nauseous. . .All he felt was an indescribable, wonderful sense of contentment as he quickly and painlessly went blind. . .

And then. . .

. . .He was gone.

@that-bat  @sammys-magical-au

[iilmunchkiin]

"Rotting"

Post that started this: Link

[rottendust]

Graveyard in Paris, last year

[araekniarchive]

Warsan Shire, Excuses For Why We Failed At Love

Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

Yōko Ogawa, The Memory Police

Kathleen Ryan, Bad Grapes (detail)

Osamu Dazai, The Setting Sun

Chuck Palahniuk, Survivor

Laurie Halse Anderson, Wintergirls

Armitav Ghosh, Gun Island

[necro-acid]

typical dancing with death

[pestilencegremlin]

"Your lust for power will be your downfall.

Every day, you will feel yourself rotting away, never to be given the mercy of death's embrace."

[palatteflags]

Rotting/Decay/Hope based Rotgender moodboard with the name Dandy~ ^^ This is the main flag I saw, if you wanted something different, please ask! for @hopefulomens :) Hope you like how this turned out!

Want one? Send an ask! -mod Jay

[jakey-beefed-it]

My cat, Frisbee, is dying.

He's been losing weight for a while now. At first it was a good thing, we thought- he was a big chonker of a tubby boy, and we figured switching him from unregulated kibble whenever he felt like it to set meal times of wet food, plus running up and down the stairs of his new house after he moved to Toronto with me, was making a difference. Certainly it did, but he continued to lose weight beyond his goal of 12 pounds, and began vomiting copious amounts of bile every couple of nights.

We took him in to the vet and confirmed he was a little underweight at 10.3 pounds, and with his list of symptoms the vet was hopeful that it was either feline diabetes or hyperthyroidism, both of which are treatable. Unfortunately, his white blood cell count came back outrageously high such that he almost certainly has gastrointestinal lymphoma. Which is apparently not uncommon in middle-aged cats (he's nearly ten).

They could confirm it with an exploratory surgery, but his health is obviously suffering already and there's no guarantee he'd survive the very expensive surgery. Much less the subsequent very expensive chemotherapy which would only buy him another six months to two years, on average.

Even if I had the money for the drastic options, I don't think I'd go for it- just putting the poor guy through all that when he can't understand why we're doing it. But I don't have the money anyway, so it makes it a little easier to accept that the best thing I can do for him now is make him comfortable and happy for as long as I can.

He's got, probably, a few weeks to a few months. Possibly a little more if he responds well to anti-inflammatories and can digest a bit more of his food a bit better. That much we can do for him.

I'm going to spoil him rotten for whatever time we have left. I already spoiled him with constant cuddles and affection and treats, but now instead of an overlarge handful of treats once a day, he's getting it two or three times a day. And mealtimes are off; he meows and runs to his bowl, he gets food. Why not- it will make him happy and it might make him a little stronger. His weight certainly isn't an issue.

He's been a dear friend these past nearly ten years, there for me with his head bonks and trilling purrs and grooming my beard for me like I was a fellow cat in good times and bad. He's the best cat I've ever had, and nothing can ever replace him. But there's nothing left for me to do but to make him as happy and comfortable as I can for as long as I can, until it becomes clear that he's suffering, at which point I can grant him a painless passing with me at his side.

I'm. Not doing well, emotionally, but that's to be expected. I love this little guy more than is remotely reasonable and I'm going to miss him like a vital organ when he's gone. But until then, yeah. He gets spoiled. He deserves it.

Pictured here in better health, a floofy chonker nonpareil.

[lvminisciel]

dance macabre

let us have this dance of macabre!

strums of lullaby accompany our steps

spectators of all kinds eagerly waiting in silence 

people of all race, of all ages

humans and fae alike, mingling into one

isn't this what you always long for, my dearest?

rub away your tears, if you would

look above, my dear!

look how the ceilings crumbled, 

forging a path upon the starry skies

under the sea of stars shall we waltz with grace

one step forward, two steps back

a tango everyone desires

now then, don your brightest smiles!

as we are the prima donna of this palace 

knightly boots replacing glass slippers

briars and thorns, prettier than roses

mere infatuations and lust desist,

only loyalty alone shall exist

hush now, dear

do not loathe me amidst parada

cease your sadness at once

bury your soul deep within one’s eyes

never let those speckles of aurora

be tarnished by the mere sight of carcass 

for I have bestowed you the honor

of taking my hand for this dance

moving in front ochos,

I whisper to you eternal happiness

a promise that’ll never go unkept

holier than the eternal slumber

oh, if only the crowd would cheer!

rather than rotting beneath our feet 

but fret not, my dear 

as we have a long night ahead of us!

[qpacinho]

The First

Tw: Graphic depiction of the aftermath of suicide, child abandonment/neglect, and a child discovering a decaying corpse. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

This is a first draft. Just a bit of backstory, because it feels a little weird for Pac to end up at an orphange just because of a divorce. I sent snippets to my husband while writing this and it devastated him. So genuinely be warned!

-

Pac had been just a kid, hardly five when the world first tried to kill him. When everything came crashing down for the first time into a personal apocalypse, it had been Tuesday.

"Mae?" He'd asked when he'd woken up. A nightmare about her absence had been fresh on his mind. His mother had grown more distant since the divorce. She'd started working. Pac was alone most of the time. It was fine, because every night she still kissed his head and tucked him in to the single bed in their tiny house. It wasn't much, but everything was theirs. Even if her "I love you, Paccy"s had gotten strangely cold.

"Mamae?" He called, into the emptiness. Nothing greeted him but the buzzing of flies. How did so many flies get inside? Mom wasn't in bed. He couldn't ask. Pac had to wonder if his nightmare was real. He was too young to know better. He was too young to understand the weight and gravity of what was actually happening. But the situation gave him a correct, yet simpler, reaction. A sniffle. Hot saline pooling at his waterline. Tears gently falling in that way it did so easily when you experienced every emotion for the first time. Fear, loneliness, and confusion.

"Mamae!" He yells. He expects her to come running, but she doesn't. The End has begun. The real goodbye never came. Pac stumbles out of bed. He abandons the warm yellow sheets and walks around the wall into the tiny kitchen. Their old house had a bigger one.

Sometimes tragedy is little. Sometimes tragedy is big. Sometimes tragedy is both, at the same time. A simple understanding of a bigger horror. Pac’s mom was still inside the house... and things Pac couldn't comprehend had made a home in her. Something squirms in her neck. It is surrounded by soft serrated flesh and flakey crimson.

"Mamae? Tu-tudo bem?" He asks, voice shaking just as much as his trembling hands. Something was wrong with his mom because she didn't respond. She just laid on the floor, head in front of the fridge and feet near his. The window above her head cast rays of yellow sun in. A pool of dried something next to him. Something squirmed around in it. Pac didn't want to see what it was.

Pac crouched down beside his mom. He gently shook her foot. She didn't respond. He shook harder, his breathing picking up just as it had started to settle. She didn't move. Warm tears spilled down his cheeks as he realized how cold his mom was. "Mamae, please," he begged.

Was she sick? Was her neck not supposed to be like that? Were the squirming things in her flesh doing something to her? The color had drained out of her normally glowing and warm skin. Her dark complexion took on an ashy look. But Pac was five and he didn't know what that meant.

How could he, when she was the one meant to teach him things?

Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she was really sick and really asleep. Maybe... Pac feels dizzy as shaking her leg makes her torso shift and her neck stretches open more. The buzzing feels distant but so present that all Pac wants to do is run. One of the things falls out of her neck. Pac falls on his butt and scrambles back. It writhes on the floor with him. A mirror of his confusion and heartbreak.

Pac wants to hug her. He wants to pet her hair and tell her she'll feel better soon. She always did that for him. He wants to put bandaids on her neck and kiss it better. He wants to...

Pac launches forward and grabs onto both legs of her pajama pants. He shakes them as violently as he can. They're both too stiff and too loose. They feel like they flop more the harder he shakes.

The tears turn into violent, body shaking sobs. He curls in on himself. His hands scramble for purchase in his hair. His stomach lunches with the way his body is wrecked by his emotions. The flies are too loud. He himself is too loud. The sun shining through the window above her was too loud.

It was all too much.

And his throat is in agony by the time anyone shows up. Time is a blur and so are the neighbors. He's picked up off the floor and held tighter than he ever has been. "Keep your eyes closed," they whisper gently. "You're doing so good, Pac. You're gonna be okay."

The morning air is crisp in his burning lungs. He doesn't open his eyes, still. He wasn't told to. He isn’t told to for a while. It's the priest that finally does. The adults almost laugh about it. He's wrapped in mom's quilt. Tucked into a corner of the neighbor's much bigger front porch. On a tiny plastic chair. It was his chair when he visited them. It was... familiar.

The Father, who's name Pac always forgets because his mother never bothered to remember either, is on his knees beside Pac. He's taking a smaller hand in his much bigger one. It's Pac’s hand. The priest feels warm. He has a look on his face that Pac wants to trust, but he feels like a broken plate. He's worried he'll be yelled at for something. He flinches away and the priest looks... upset. Not mad, but...

Pac would later come to understand, looking at his broken body in a prison mirror, that the priest had been devastated.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 7: Lyric Inspired

(Trigger Warnings: descriptions of fear/panic, claustrophobia, implied abduction, mentions of pain/suffering, death, blood, torn flesh, eye-loss, descriptions of decay/rot, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

(A few months ago, I was able to pre-order a signed copy of Nate’s newest album, Scrap Heap; it should be here any day now! And in honor of such a heavy addition to my collection, I created a brand new NateEgo. You can find more information about him here.)

Day 1  Day 2  Day 3  Day 4  Day 5  Day 6

___

Goosebumps prickled over [REDACTED]’s arms at the sound of dull, heavy footsteps proceeding down the corridor behind him. He knew he had to keep moving, but his heart sank once he realized that he’d reached a corner of the maze. A dead-end.

The only way out was to turn around and go back the way he’d come. But he couldn’t do that.

Because a large, metallic hand was suddenly grasping at the threshold he’d just passed. A familiar figure loomed in the entryway.

This animatronic had been following [REDACTED] throughout the maze for almost ten minutes now. [REDACTED] knew that he probably should’ve expected this—he was in a haunted house, after all—but he figured that the animatronic should’ve stopped pursuing him at some point. Hell, he’d already passed a few other animatronics during his visit, but none of them had tried to do what this one was doing.

Wasn’t this particular one supposed to be on a stage somewhere else in the building? 

[REDACTED] stared up, up, up at the glowing red eyes that probably should’ve started burning a hole into his head by now. The animatronic wasn’t talking or singing like it had been earlier. It was completely silent, just leering down at him with that maniacal, hungry grin.

The animatronic took a step forward. [REDACTED], acting on instinct, took a step back.

He was forced to keep backing away until he hit the wall behind him.

The animatronic slowly came closer and closer. It almost appeared to be getting even bigger and taller than it already was.

___

S̷C̸R̵A̷P̵ ̸H̶E̶A̴P̷!̵

Mechanical engineering didn’t always make for glamorous work. The jobs in that field paid well, sure, and taking the necessary courses in college to get such a degree meant you might be able to participate in the odd round of robot combat or two.

Even so, being a technician didn’t guarantee you a spot at some classified robotics laboratory. More often than not, your best bet would be to start out at a place like Ransom Recycling, and while the work done in such a place was indeed important, it didn’t change the fact that it was literally a junkyard.

Your current job hasn’t been as exciting as you’d hoped, but you know better than to complain. A dirty, boring job is still better than no job at all. Besides, there’s always the occasion that you get to work with things more interesting than the usual scrap.

Like tonight, for instance.

You stroll down the dirt n’ gravel path, pushing a large, empty industrial cart along. You scan the hills of scrap, taking time to look over the rubble carefully. You see remains of several cars—some were still intact but had obviously decayed over time, and some were smashed in a way that suggested their drivers may or may not have found licenses inside cereal boxes. You see corroded hubcaps, broken metal rods, and too many unrecognizable cubes (the form trash took on when it was put through the compactor on the west side of the yard) to count.

The junkyard’s latest client had come not from a dealership, but an entertainment service. Just a couple weeks ago, a local haunted house—Panic Plaza, to be specific—had been forced to close its doors. You had read news articles about this, but you just can’t remember the exact reason for the building’s shutdown. Panic had been a hotspot for thrillseekers around town, and the fact that it’d been open for more months than just October attested to that.

And while Panic had employed several people to dress in grotesque costumes in order to frighten their visitors, its real strength had come from a series of animatronics.

Animatronics that, wouldn’t you know it, had been dropped off at the junkyard earlier this week. Why they’d been brought here instead of being sold off to a similar business, you have no idea. The representative from Panic hadn’t said much about them; hell, he’d only stuck around long enough to discuss the delivery with your bosses. Maybe the animatronics had malfunctioned in a way that Panic somehow just couldn’t recover from?

Whatever the case, the bosses had made it clear that they wanted at least one animatronic to be salvaged before they returned (they’d just left to haul some repaired cars the next town over).

Now, if they’d only made it clear where said animatronics had been placed in the yard. . .

Your foot suddenly strikes something hard, something that catches around your ankle. You don’t even have time to register the pain before you lose your grip on the cart and go sprawling down. You hit the ground with a thud, and after catching your breath, you turn over to sit on your haunches and glare at the offending object.

Your frustration quickly transitions into anxiety as you realize that the offending object is in the shape of a human arm. One that just so happens to be lying close to something that’s shaped like a human head. . .

You gape like a fish as you hurriedly get back to your feet. Thankfully, before you can really start panicking, you notice how a dim ray from the setting sun shines against the arm and head in a way that is very clearly metallic. They still stand out against the coppery grime that surrounds them, but they definitely haven’t experienced the horrible decomposition that unattended human corpses are infamous for.

Right, you think, trying to stop shaking. We just received a bunch of broken-down robots. That’s all this thing is.

You calm down, but not completely. The fact that the head and arm are positioned in a way that suggests their owner has been crushed and is desperately trying to crawl out of the pile isn’t what you’d call assuring.

I̷ ̴r̵o̵t̶ ̸a̶w̴a̴y̸,̸ ̸a̷n̴d̵ ̵I̷ ̵l̴o̷o̵k̶ ̴d̴e̵a̷t̶h̵ ̶i̴n̷ ̷t̴h̵e̶ ̶f̴a̸c̸e̸

I̴ ̷s̴t̴a̶r̴t̷ ̴t̵o̴ ̷w̸i̴t̵h̶e̵r̸,̷ ̴a̴n̷d̶ ̵I̵’̵m̵ ̶t̴r̶u̸l̵y̷ ̴a̴f̸r̴a̷i̴d̸

You place your hand over the head, just to make sure it’s smooth, cold and hard instead of oozing, soft and decayed. Now that curiosity has overridden your fear, you grasp either side of the head and give it a tug. It does budge, but only by a couple inches. You grab the arm around its wrist and pull again, being a bit harsher this time. The screech of metal scraping against metal crashes against your ears.

You pause, frowning at how you’ve only made a bit more progress. You spend  a minute or two pushing chunks of scrap away from the head, managing to reveal a metal neck and shoulders, but the rest of the robot is well and truly stuck.

You pace around the pile and eventually come upon a long, flat piece of metal that has been bent near one end. You pick it up and slide it in between the robot’s back and the rest of the junk on top of it. You leverage it, pulling it to and fro. The ensuing chorus of scraping is less than pleasant, but you can see that this new method is working. Slowly but surely, inch by inch, the robot is coaxed out into the open.

Finally, you’re able to grab hold of the robot’s waist and pull it free. Or, attempt to, at least. It’s out, but it’s also heavy as hell. You can only hold it for a moment before you’re forced to drop it.

You turn it over on its back, then straighten up to finally get a better look. You recognize the animatronic and instinctively brace yourself for it to start belting a morbid verse.

This is Scaredy, Panic’s official mascot.

The animatronic is missing one of his arms, as well as both of his legs. His remaining forearm, neck and head share a silvery-white finish. A black bowtie is attached to his throat, where a person’s collar bones would’ve met. The casing on his torso alternates between black and blue in a way that looks like a vest being worn over a separate shirt; though it’s all one piece, certain areas are slightly raised, having been carefully designed in order to sell the illusion of Scaredy wearing clothes. Some kind of 3D printing process, maybe?

Plastic on top of Scaredy’s head seems to have been given the same treatment—it matches his blue “shirt” and resembles short hair, to the point where it looks like an undercut with side-swept bangs.

You focus on the animatronic’s face and can’t help but freeze.

A long, thin, straight opening runs down the center of Scaredy’s mug, which is comprised of six segmented plates that all fit together perfectly. Hell, they almost seem to be floating. The crevices between each of these plates offers a small glimpse of wires and frames here and there. His mouth has been crafted as a perpetual, wide-open smile, like the robot is in the middle of laughing or singing.

The expression would’ve looked innocent enough, but not if the several teeth lining Scaredy’s maw have anything to say about it. Said teeth are all long and sharp, catching the light like actual blades—you have no doubt that, if you were to brush your hand against them, blood would easily be drawn. There’s a bright red circle on either side of the animatronic’s jaw. It reminds you of the rosy cheeks that would’ve usually been seen on a clown, but somehow, it doesn’t take away from his design.

The teeth would’ve looked threatening enough, but apparently whoever had constructed this thing had given a resounding Fuck it, I can do better! Because you feel a legitimate chill run down your spine as you gaze into Scaredy’s eyes.

A pair of red pinprick-pupils stare up at you from black-as-oil orbs. Eyebrows can be found above them (since when did a robot even need eyebrows?), the same color as the robot’s hair and narrowed in a way that makes it feel like the animatronic is judging you—no, sizing you up. His grin makes that feeling even more prominent.

Worse still, his eyes are glowing. The illumination is dim, but it’s still there.

You hold a hand over Scaredy’s face, waving it from side to side. His eyes don’t follow your movement. The glow remains, but that’s it.

He’s not alive, you remind yourself, shaking your head. He’s a machine—one that’s not even in working order. Get a hold of yourself!

You know this has to be the case. Scaredy hasn’t moved at all, hasn’t made any noise. He’s definitely seen better days. He’d clearly been here for a good while. And if he was still functional, then why would he have ended up at the junkyard in the first place?

A̷ ̷g̵r̴e̵a̷t̶e̴r̶ ̵p̸u̶r̶p̴o̴s̸e̶ ̶l̵e̵f̵t̷ ̶m̷e̶ ̸a̵l̶l̴ ̸n̸o̴t̶ ̴t̶h̴e̵ ̴s̸a̶m̸e̸

M̴y̸ ̸t̸i̵m̵e̵ ̶i̷s̴ ̷r̴u̸n̴n̴i̷n̴g̶ ̸o̶u̵t̵,̸ ̷b̸u̵t̵ ̷y̶o̸u̸ ̷c̴o̷u̷l̸d̴ ̴n̶e̵v̴e̴r̵ ̷f̸o̵r̶g̸e̵t̴ ̷m̶y̵ ̸n̷a̴m̷e̶

You continue searching through the heap until you recover a stray, artificial left arm, which matches Scaredy’s right arm perfectly. The next ten minutes are taken up by even more digging. During this venture, you happen upon more abandoned, dismantled robots; no doubt they’re Panic’s other attractions. 

They’re all just as dirty and ruined as would be expected. But you can’t salvage them all at once, and Scaredy already has your attention. These other ones will have to wait.

 Apparently it’s your lucky day, because you manage to discover two mechanical legs; first the right one, then the left. Both are black and end in what honestly looks like a pair of blue combat boots. You hold the legs close to the empty sockets at the bottom of the animatronic’s torso just to be sure they belong to him.

That’s it. You’ve officially found all the pieces of this neglected, unnerving animatronic.

Using all your strength, you load Scaredy into the cart and wheel it around, beginning your trek back to the maintenance warehouse.

The animatronic is in a position that forces him to stare at the sky, but the way his eyes glow does a great job at making you feel like he’s watching you whenever you look away from him.

___

The animatronic towered over [REDACTED]. It didn’t take up the entirety of the space here, but it would’ve been impossible for him to slip past it without brushing against it.

[REDACTED] been in a group when he’d first entered the building—and obviously, they’d all been separated from one another. Something in his gut insisted that that wasn’t supposed to have happened. In fact, it almost felt like he was the only person in the maze now. He knew that couldn’t be right. . .but he couldn’t hear any other footsteps nearby. He couldn’t hear the voices of any other visitors. Pre-recorded screams and whispers were echoing throughout the maze via intercom, but that was it.

Why? Had he wandered into a restricted area somehow? Was that why the animatronic had been stalking after him?

The animatronic slowly turned its head from side to side, though its eyes never left [REDACTED]. But other than that, it was standing perfectly still. It almost gave [REDACTED] the impression that the animatronic was listening for something.

Like it was wondering if the two of them were truly alone, too. . .

[REDACTED] wasn’t at the point of hyperventilation, but his anxiety made his lungs feel heavy. He was trying to keep his breathing slow and even, but it just seemed so loud.

[REDACTED] swallowed the lump in his throat, then lightly shook his head.

The animatronic wasn’t an actual threat. It couldn’t have been—if that was the case, then this place would’ve been investigated and subsequently shut down a long time ago.

He shifted in place, planning to sidle past the animatronic.

The animatronic’s arm was a blur. He’d only realized it was moving after it’d slammed into him.

Spots flashed in [REDACTED]’s vision. The air was immediately knocked out of him. He crumpled against the wall, sliding into a heap on the floor. Pain bloomed throughout his chest. His instincts told him that nothing had been broken, but he automatically knew that his ribs had nearly bent when the animatronic struck him.

[REDACTED] shakily tried to pick himself up, but a pair of large, cold hands materialized around him. One arm snaked around his waist to clutch at his stomach; [REDACTED] could feel a set of digits dig into his skin through his shirt. The other harshly grasped the back of his neck as though he was a misbehaving kitten.

All the while a strange, unnatural hissing crept into [REDACTED]’s ears from somewhere directly behind him.

___

W̴e̷ ̸w̷i̷l̴l̴ ̸n̷o̶t̸ ̴b̴e̵ ̷s̴p̸a̷r̵e̷d̶,̶ ̸w̸e̵ ̷w̵i̴l̴l̸ ̶n̸o̸t̵ ̶b̵e̷ ̴s̷a̸v̵e̵d̷

S̵o̸ ̸t̵a̷k̶e̷ ̴t̵h̵i̷s̸ ̴t̵o̷ ̵y̶o̸u̸r̸ ̵g̷r̷a̵v̴e̶ ̴w̷h̷e̶n̵ ̶y̷o̷u̵’̷r̸e̸ ̴j̶u̷s̴t̷ ̷a̸ ̵k̷i̶d̷ w̵h̶o̴ ̴l̷o̵s̸t̸ ̶t̷h̵e̷i̴r̴ w̷a̵y̵

Panels suspended from the ceiling flicker, humming and buzzing as they bathe everything below them in bright, artificial light. Roller tool cabinets are sequestered in the corners. Six large, steel worktables have been lined up in two rows of three at the center, with a generous amount of space between each of them. Three of the four walls are almost entirely covered by pegboards—the hooks lining said pegboards support a variety of different tools and mechanical parts. The fourth wall is taken up by a garage door, which is currently open and allowing the fading sunlight to peek in.

You push the collection cart through that same garage door, pausing to type a code into the keypad on the wall beside it. The huge door rumbles as it lowers itself to the ground. The soles of your shoes squeak against the interlocking rubber mats that cover the warehouse’s floor. You wheel the cart over to the nearest worktable, then take Scaredy by his shoulders and drag him on top of it. His arm hangs limply over the edge, his fingers brushing against the floor.

You pause, then walk to that desk in the corner of the warehouse, which is currently covered in papers. Those papers are blueprints and specs outlining the designs and functions of the robots that have been dropped off here. You flip through them, searching for the ones on Scaredy.

Your sibling had worked at Panic Plaza while it’d been open; you can recognize many of the animatronics from the trips you’d taken to pick them up after hours.

A precious few were similar to Scaredy, but most of the robots had been vaguely shaped like animals, with claws, fangs, and puckered, snarling snouts. Some had boasted matted, tangled fur while others had rubbery scales. According to the blueprints, however, those robots were pretty simple: their endoskeletons looked almost like those wooden, poseable figurines that were used for art reference. Their monstrous appearances, while surprisingly elaborate, had been nothing more than costumes.

Finally, you find what you need and bring it over to your table, setting the papers down by Scaredy’s head.

You examine the ends of Scaredy’s severed limbs. . .well, the damage around his connecting joints isn’t too bad. You lift Scaredy’s left arm and peer into the area where it’s obviously supposed to connect to his shoulder. You see a group of rectangular caps positioned in a circle. The interior of Scaredy’s shoulder matches this perfectly.

Those things are specialized magnets. Scaredy’s already been here for a couple days, and the scrap that had been heaped on top of him would’ve definitely soaked up some heat when the sun was out. The changes in temperature must be why the magnets in his joints lost their strength. You check the blueprints, then poke at the short cables that are hanging out around the magnets. These must be here as a precaution; to help the arm move without pulling the magnets away from each other.

You set the arm down next to Scaredy, then cross the room to push one of the roller cabinets closer. You open it up and search through its drawers. Looks like you’ve got some spares to work with.

The next few moments see you removing the ruined magnets and replacing them with some brand new ones. You clean up the ends of the cables, then carefully hold the arm close to Scaredy’s shoulder. The magnets immediately snap together with a series of loud clicks, which would’ve delivered quite a painful pinch if you hadn’t been keeping your fingers out of the way.

You take hold of the cables and, one at a time, guide them about inside the shoulder until you feel them securely catch onto something. You then lift Scaredy’s forearm and slowly maneuver it this way and that. The arm remains snugly in place, but the parts aren’t grinding against one another. That’s good.

As you get to work repeating the process with Scaredy’s legs, memories begin flooding your head.

You’d been a paying customer at Panic once or twice. You’ve seen the haunted house for yourself, seen how each of the attractions had their own unique way of frightening guests. Scaredy’s schtick had been singing, and it had been surprisingly effective. 

That’s actually why your sibling ended up getting a job over there: they’d helped write the songs that were recorded for Scaredy to perform. Aforementioned songs were played on an intercom throughout the building so customers could always hear him, no matter where they were.

Now, you wouldn’t blame anyone for doing a double-take upon hearing that, because seriously? People got freaked out. . .over singing, of all things?

However, to say something like that would be to ignore just how much of an edgelord your sibling really was. You couldn’t remember Scaredy’s songs word-for-word, but you definitely remembered how they sounded like GWAR and Creature Feature had created a lovechild. Scaredy sang about twisted stuff all the time: murder, torture, general insanity. . .

He’d even been programmed to threaten customers in the intervals between his songs. (You were still kind of surprised that Panic’s owners had drawn the line at swearing.)

T̷o̴o̸ ̴d̸a̵m̷n̶ ̷l̴o̵n̶g̴ ̷t̸h̷a̶t̷ ̶I̴’̷v̸e̵ ̸r̴o̵a̷m̶e̵d̵ ̶t̴h̸e̶s̶e̸ ̶h̵a̵l̷l̶s̴ B̶u̴t̸ ̵s̴o̸o̴n̵ ̵y̷o̷u̸’̷l̴l̸ ̶j̷o̷i̶n̴ ̷u̵s̶ ̸f̷o̵r̸ ̶a̴ ̷b̴i̷t̶e̶ ̵a̴n̴d̴ ̷y̶o̶u̸ ̷c̴a̸n̶ ̸l̴i̵v̶e̴ ̴w̵i̷t̵h̷i̷n̶ ̵t̴h̴e̶s̴e̷ w̸a̷l̵l̶s̵

Time passes, and look at that! Scaredy is whole again.

You’ve made good progress, but holy shit, this guy is huge! How the hell did you not notice that before? You saw how his head was bigger than that of a human’s, but still!

You scan the animatronic’s blueprints—eight-foot-three? Who decided that was necessary? Then again, it has been quite a while since you last saw him. And in any case, perspective is just really weird.

Scaredy’s back and neck are supported by the table, but he’s clearly taking up every inch of space; if you try to move him forward to accommodate his lower half, then his neck will probably hang over the end and leave his head to touch the interlocking mats. Like his arms, Scaredy’s legs are draped across the floor in an awkward way. Had he been a flesh-and-blood person, his current position would’ve promised terrible future back problems.

The animatronic is still, unsurprisingly, filthy. So, you take a can of Acetone from the cabinet, then find a clean rag in one of the storage tubs and begin the long task of wiping down Scaredy’s front. It seems his metal hasn’t started rusting yet.

In just a couple moments, Scaredy’s finish is practically gleaming against the lights above. The silvery-white could easily be compared to cake makeup or deathly pale skin, and either way, he looks appropriately creepy. The dark blue and black of his clothes and hair help to compliment it. And his dark, piercing eyes really pull the look together. He really looks like he could still be functioning. . .

But he isn’t, because you’ve still got work to do. You decide to start opening him up now; if you can’t see any issues on the outside, then they’ve got to be on the inside. You glance back at the animatronic’s blueprints. There should be some small buttons around his face and arms. They can disengage some parts of his casing.

You peer down at his face and can’t stop yourself from shuddering at his grin. You gingerly hook a finger between two of Scaredy’s teeth and pull his lower jaw down, further opening the animatronic’s mouth to reveal a small device inside. It’s a custom-built fog machine. You remember how, when he was still active, it always looked like smoke was pouring from his jaws whenever he talked or sang. That, and the way his teeth would gnash together like some unhinged cartoon character, had added a definite coolness factor to his intimidation.

The slits between Scaredy’s faceplates culminate into a hole that bares an uncanny resemblance to the nasal septum of a human skull. When you discover a small button inside, you start giggling. Scaredy is supposed to be all unnerving. . .and one of his features is booping his nose? You shake your head happily. Whoever designed him knew exactly what they were doing.

You then carefully reach down, keeping your hand well away from Scaredy’s jaws, to tap at the newly-discovered button.

KA-PSSSSSSSSsssssss!

Though you’d barely put any pressure behind your touch, the faceplates pop open so violently that the animatronic’s entire head jerks back, as though he’s been struck.

Your laughter quickly transforms into a startled shout as you rip your hand away and back up a good few paces. A few long seconds dragged by as you warily stare at Scaredy. When he fails to spontaneously combust, you hesitantly move closer to continue the examination.

. . .So that’s what the prints meant when they said not all his systems are electricity-dependent. . .

That’s probably why his eyes are still lit-up after all the time he’s been out of commission.  

Scaredy’s faceplates are folded back on hinges, surrounding the head in a way that  almost resembles the petals of a flower. . .or the remnants of someone’s face having exploded from the inside out, but with a lot less viscera.

The interior of the animatronic’s head shines with dark gray metal. His expression can’t really be called an expression anymore. His teeth have been arranged to form a smile, and his eyes are still glowing brightly. But without his face plates, Scaredy just looks like he’s blankly gawking at whatever is in front of him. A nest of thick wires has been organized into rows and layers that vary in length around his eyes and mouth.

Galvanized cables: some of the strongest materials you can work with. There must be even more inside the rest of his body—if the rest of his systems are as complex and unique as you think they are, then they’d need as much support as possible for him to move around and keep his balance.

You had taken a Human Anat & Phys course in back college. You remember a particular diagram, one that displayed different parts of the body without any skin. Now that you think about it, Scaredy’s wiring looks shockingly similar to human facial muscles, excepting the lack of eyelids and lips.

You press the nose button again, flinching at how Scaredy’s faceplates snap back into place as quickly as they’d opened. Following the blueprint’s guidance, you push the black button on Scaredy’s plastic bowtie.

Hssssssssssss.

Right above it, a rectangular segment on Scaredy’s throat slides open.

As you’d suspected, more galvanized cables are coiled about, making the animatronic almost look like he has more than one esophagus (which, logically speaking, would put his harmonization module in the role of his vocal cords). 

The module in question is in the shape of a tube, covered in rows of small buttons and dials. It’s connected to cables at bottom and top, but there’s an empty socket in the center of the controls. Which means it can either be charged along with the rest of Scaredy’s body, or just charge independently.

You retreat to the back of the room and wheel over a small, compact, multi-adaptive generator. You’re confident that it won’t fry Scaredy’s systems when it’s hooked up to them. The generator rumbles to life as you turn it on, and after some cautious examination, you take hold of one of the extending cords and plug it into the socket. The module gives a small, muffled hum at first. You figure it’ll need some time to warm up, so you return your focus to the specs to find out which button does what.

It turns out you were very wrong about that, because out of nowhere, the animatronic starts screeching.

You jump at least a foot in the air as it drills into your ears, reminding you of that type of TV static that’s always unnecessarily loud (this is even louder. To the point where you’re sure it can be heard all across the junkyard). Not only that, but Scaredy’s recorded voice is there, clearly trying to fight its way up through the shriek, which results in a garbled mess that sounds like nothing you’ve ever heard before.

Your hands fly to the module, pressing every button and turning every dial in a panicked attempt to make the distress call stop.

You manage to lower the volume. Still shaken up, you look back and forth between the specs and the animatronic. Chunks of dialogue start popping up through the static. It takes a couple minutes of trial and error, but eventually, you find the right combination.

The static subsides, and after about ten seconds of blissful silence. . .

“NE-EXT VICTIM!”

Although your heart is still hammering in your chest, you smirk. That was Scaredy’s signature catchphrase. The animatronic’s voice has a slight echo to it—it’s scratchy around the edges, but not so much that his singing would’ve been jeopardized. His tone is snide, as though he knows things about whomever he’s speaking to despite it being impossible for him to know aforementioned things.

W̶e̴’̷l̴l̸ ̷o̴n̶l̸y̵ ̷w̸i̶t̴h̷e̷r̷ ̷a̶w̷a̵y̵,̶ ̴w̵e̷’̵r̸e̸ ̶g̷o̸n̶n̷a̴ ̷f̷a̷l̶l̶ ̶t̸o̷ ̷d̵e̴c̶a̵y̵ ̶I̶ ̵a̶l̷w̵a̶y̴s̷ ̵c̶o̷m̶e̸ ̷b̵a̴c̶k̷,̷ ̵y̴o̷u̵’̵l̵l̵ ̴n̷e̴v̷e̵r̶ ̷s̴e̷e̴ ̵t̷h̵e̵ ̸l̶a̸s̵t̶ ̶o̷f̴ ̴m̶e̵

Tiny lights begin blinking on the harmonization module. You toggle with it some more, but apparently Scaredy’s musical-performance mode isn’t functional right now. (Not that you mind. You need to focus, and Scaredy’s songs are. . .distracting, to say the least.) The animatronic can still speak, but that’s a bit easier to deal with.

At the press of another button, Scaredy lets out a sardonic cackle.

“Well, well, we-ell! What we have here—more adrenaline-junkies, huh? It’s been way-ay too long since I’ve had an au-audience to murder!”

Considering how the rest of Scaredy’s body is still without power, his jaw isn’t moving up and down as he talks. You aren’t sure whether that makes the animatronic’s words more or less creepy. You decide that you might as well go through the rest of Scaredy’s audio. That way you can take note of any hiccups before you start working on the animatronic’s other systems.

“Trying to escape? Well, you’d b-better do it fast; listening to my music comes with a high risk of your brains spla-a-attering on the walls!”

Panic Plaza’s building had been designed as sort of a maze; every section had more than one entrance or exit, so customers couldn’t really predict what order they’d be visiting each of the attractions in. And that wasn’t even mentioning how the sections were treated like escape rooms. Customers would have to solve certain puzzles in order to advance towards the end, and the length of their visit depended on what they did and how they did it.

From your experience, Scaredy’s section had been littered with hidden tools for guests to use. Scaredy would pace around his stage as he performed; he’d lunge at those who strayed too close, but to your knowledge, that was all he did besides singing and taunting.

“Can you believe how sharp this mic st-tand is? I think I’ll make a shish-kabob out of you with it!”

“You need to get away from this thing.”

You find yourself pausing. You think you’d just barely heard. . .something after Scaredy’s line. But you can’t be sure. Are your ears playing tricks on you?

You turn one of the dials, listening more carefully than before.

“You can knock-k-k on that door all you want. . .but the button to open it is on my guitar! Come up onsta-age and press it! I DARE you!”

“You’re in serious danger.”

Your mouth drops open in a silent gasp. There’s definitely another voice piping up in time with Scaredy’s words. The new voice is weak and raspy; you really have to concentrate in order to hear it.

“Where will you go if you stick around with me for too long? EVERYWHERE. You’ll go EV-EVERYWHERE. ”

“What happened to me. . .wasn’t an accident.”

Was this part of Scaredy’s programming? You supposed it would be a clever mechanic, but you can’t remember hearing anything like this back at Panic. And why would you? Not only have you not visited that place for such a long time, but Scaredy’s music had always been so loud. Anxious that you might have done something wrong, you turn the generator off and remove its cord from the module’s socket.

“They knew what happened.”

Scaredy is no longer speaking. But that doesn’t seem to stop the other voice. And now that you don’t have to dissect its words through Scaredy’s lines, you realize just how miserable it sounds. You obviously can’t see the other voice’s owner, but just by listening to them, you can instantly tell that they’re exhausted, that they’re sickly, that they’re in terrible pain.

You unconsciously rest your hand against Scaredy’s face. . .and something suddenly gives way beneath your palm. A chorus of metallic clicking suddenly sounds off from what could only be further inside the animatronic.

Vvvrrrrmmm-sssssssshhhhhhhh.

You turn your head just in time to see a rectangular panel on Scaredy’s stomach slowly start sliding open. You blink, then peer down at the animatronic’s face. It takes you a few seconds to realize that the bright red circle on Scaredy’s right cheek is actually a button of its own.

How could you have missed either of those things earlier?

You look at the specs, and they. . .don’t say anything about a cheek-button or a stomach hatch? Why?

“They saw it for themselves, but they didn’t do anything about it.”

The words hang in the air. The other voice suddenly seems much louder and clearer than it was before. In  fact, it almost seems to be echoing. . .from inside Scaredy’s stomach.

W̷e̴’̴r̸e̴ ̷j̵u̵s̵t̶ ̷a̵ ̶h̵u̵s̶k̴ ̴o̸f̴ ̶o̷u̸r̴ ̵n̶a̴m̷e̴s̵,̶ ̵a̶ ̷r̷o̵t̵t̷i̶n̶g̴ ̸p̴i̸l̸e̵ ̷o̶f̷ ̶p̴a̵i̸n̶ ̶I̴’̷l̷l̷ ̴s̴e̵t̷ ̶y̵o̶u̷r̵ ̵w̶o̴r̴l̸d̵ ̸o̸n̴ ̶f̴i̴r̷e̷ ̴a̴n̴d̷ ̴s̶e̸n̸d̶ ̸y̸o̴u̴ ̶s̷t̶r̸a̵i̴g̶h̵t̸ ̶t̵o̵ ̴t̶h̷e̸ ̵s̸c̴r̶a̶-̶a̶-̴a̷-̴a̴p̷ ̴h̸e̸a̵p̵!̴

You fish a small flashlight from the cabinet and turn it on. You spend the next moment staring at the animatronic, listening for the other voice, trying and failing to make yourself move. Eventually, you creep over to the middle of the table. You aim the beam over Scaredy and peer down into his stomach. You’re shocked to discover that the animatronic’s interior is hollow. You can see Scaredy’s inner systems—his wiring and endoskeleton—but they’re being held in place by metal frames.

Due to Scaredy’s size, his stomach seems to offer enough space for a person to fit inside, so long as they kept their knees to their chest. Not comfortably, but plausibly.

But why? You expected to find some kind of engine or calibrating device. Why would a singing animatronic need what can only be described as a storage tank?

“They didn’t even try to get me out. Even though they were covering their tracks, they still just left me in here.”

Well, the answer is technically right in front of you. On one hand, it’s impossible for you to know what has happened inside Scaredy. And on the other hand, you’re desperately trying to convince yourself that the reddish-brown stains covering Scaredy’s interior are only rust.

But you can’t exactly ignore the other things you’ve found in Scaredy’s stomach.

The stench that’s working itself into the air is metallic, but it’s also. . .moldy. Fleshy. It’s not as strong as it would’ve been while fresh, but it’s definitely still there.

Your hand is trembling, but the flashlight somehow isn’t distorting what you’re looking at.

Scraps of fabric are caught between gears and prongs—and those scraps are covered in dark stains. Tendons are criss-crossing up the walls like roots. Strands of torn, discolored, mummified skin are practically melded into metal, along with clumps of matted black hair. Your vision lands on something that looks like a withered grape. It’s cloudy and veiny and—

An eyeball. It’s a human eyeball that has flattened and liquified with decay.

This is the point where your muscles finally start to disengage. The flashlight falls from your hand to clatter on the floor. You stumble back, not stopping until you collide with the wall behind you. You cling to that wall, as if it’s somehow going to help you get further away from the animatronic.

Your stomach has always twisted at the thought of what would happen if someone got their hand caught in a garbage disposal. You never thought you’d have to actively avoid thinking about what it would be like for one’s entire body to be caught in a garbage disposal.

But it looks like Scaredy makes for a pretty good example of that, huh?

You hadn’t eaten much earlier today, but you still can’t stop yourself from retching. You head is swimming, your throat is closing in, you have no idea why this is happening—

“You shouldn’t have taken me away from the others,” the voice inside Scaredy whispers fearfully. “It’s not fair that I get away from the pile and they don’t. They’re going to look for me. They’re going to take me back. . !”

___

The floor suddenly disappeared from under him. [REDACTED] reflexively started floundering for purchase, but the animatronic’s grip didn’t falter in the slightest. It barely had to make any effort in order to lift [REDACTED] up.

For a brief few seconds, [REDACTED] was simply being held in a parallel position.

And then, air was rushing past him as he was quickly moved backwards. He felt his shoes collide with something solid, and his legs were instantly forced to buckle as the animatronic continued shoving him back.

[REDACTED] heartbeat rang in his ears. Now acting on pure instinct, he began writhing against the animatronic. He frantically punched and kicked, barely even feeling the dull pain that came with striking something made of metal.

“Hey! S-stop!” [REDACTED] cried. “Let me go! Let me GO!”

The animatronic didn’t respond. Why would it have?

The room was a blur as [REDACTED] craned his neck, trying desperately to look at his attacker as if that would do anything to help. The animatronic’s blood-red, glowing, unmoving eyes were still fixated on him. Despite its expression, there was absolutely no emotion in those eyes.

Somehow, that only made this worse.

[REDACTED] also managed to catch something he definitely hadn’t seen before—a section of the animatronic’s stomach was gone. A gaping cavity had appeared in its place.

The animatronic was steadily forcing him into that cavity.

[REDACTED] didn’t stop fighting, didn’t stop screaming. His throat quickly grew raw, but he could barely hear himself over the sound of his own pulse.

His sides grated against the edges of the animatronic’s torso. His body was involuntarily contorting, constantly being forced to shift.

In what felt like no time at all, [REDACTED] felt his back collide with the same area his shoes had first touched. He was crammed into a seated position with only his head and arms outside the animatronic. [REDACTED] braced his hands against the animatronic’s exterior, trying desperately to pry himself out.

The animatronic reacted to this via connecting its palm to his forehead and violently pushing him back. [REDACTED]’s head slammed against the wall inside the animatronic. His skull throbbed. Everything was spinning.

Before [REDACTED] could even try to reach out again, a large, rectangular shape slid into place before him, quickly cutting off his view of the room outside and turning his new holding cell pitch-black.

The next seconds dragged by in a painful way, feeling like hours apiece.

Despite his panic, [REDACTED] could only sit in silence.

This animatronic—this thing that wasn’t even sentient—had just hunted him down and stuffed him into its stomach. There probably wasn’t anything outside the animatronic to suggest that [REDACTED] had ever been there in the first place.

He vaguely felt rhythmic motion around and beneath him; the animatronic was moving, seemingly unaffected by the new weight it was carrying.

Why had this happened? How had this happened? Had the animatronic done this before—done this to other visitors? Was this supposed to be some fucked-up part of the experience. . .or was the animatronic malfunctioning somehow?

That was the thing to finally snap [REDACTED] back into reality.

The animatronic may have been enormous, but its stomach was cramped, tight. [REDACTED] could just barely fit inside; there was simply no room for him to kick. But that didn’t stop him from squirming as much as possible, as aggressively as possible.

“HELP ME! HELP ME!” [REDACTED] screamed. “SOMEONE TURN THIS THING OFF! GET ME OUT OF HERE! PLEASE JUST LET ME OUT!”

The chamber shook and rattled around him, but the animatronic didn’t pause its movements.

Outside, [REDACTED] could hear the muffled sounds of screaming.

He knew it had to be part of the maze’s special effects.

And, although his instincts were begging him to deny it, [REDACTED] also knew that his own voice blended in with those screams perfectly. . .

___

I̸ ̶a̶l̸w̴a̸y̶s̷ ̴c̶o̵m̶e̵ ̴b̴a̴c̸k̶,̶ ̸y̷o̴u̵’̴r̸e̷ ̷n̶e̶v̵e̵r̷ ̷g̸e̴t̴t̸i̵n̵g̵ ̷r̸i̵d̸ ̴o̷f̷ ̶m̷e̸ ̵I̸’̸l̶l̷ ̸s̶e̸t̶ ̸y̷o̷u̵r̴ ̷w̵o̵r̸l̷d̷ ̶o̶n̶ ̶f̶i̴r̵e̵ ̶a̵n̸d̵ ̵s̸e̷n̵d̷ ̴y̴o̸u̶ ̷s̸t̶r̴a̷i̶g̷h̸t̵ ̶t̸o̸ ̷t̶h̷e̵ ̴ ̵S̴C̶R̸A̷P̶ ̷H̸E̶A̴P̶!̴ ̷S̴t̷r̶a̸i̵g̸h̴t̶ ̴t̷o̵ ̴t̴h̵e̶ ̸s̴c̵r̶a̶p̴ ̵h̸e̸a̷p̶!̷ ̶S̷t̴r̴a̴i̴g̴h̸t̷ ̸t̸o̷ ̵t̷h̷e̵ ̴s̶c̴r̷a̶p̷ ̶h̶e̵a̸p̶!̸

@that-bat   @sammys-magical-au   @ineedallofthehugs @captainrose35  @yancy1nancy  @sw33tst4rs @echoing-night  @dungeon-dragons-dragons @pumpking1sheepy  @whumpitywhumpwhump

[charliemxwll209]

F 👍

Michael after scooping

Tw: gore, rotting bodies, blood

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[sofiaflorina2021]

Dying, decaying, decomposition and rotting.

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[necro-acid]

I told a bit about her earlier in one of my posts

it's ShitRed again, but it's some stuff with her that I imagined in my head while listening to lifetime achievement award by lemon demon.

basically, these are concepts for animatic with this song with Shitred that if ever comes to light from under my hand, it will become the EIGHTH WONDER OF THE WORLD (never)

[pestilencegremlin]

Finalizing designs for this wack ass comic

So here's the big bad, The Rot King