Work Text:
There is an exit sign above the factory’s industrial metal door.
The exit sign’s dimensions are approximately fifteen by thirty centimeters. The letters are 1.9 centimeters apart. All measurements follow official regulations for the intended sight line.
The bulbs behind the bold, sans-serif font are red and flicker sporadically due to several disgruntled poltergeists infesting the building.
The flickering intensifies. The rhythm pounds like the grueling, dogged beat of a drum played under artillery fire or a diseased heart. The bulbs whine and pop as the bright red starts to rot, turning some sickly shade of green.
The plastic cover squeals as an unseen force starts twisting it painfully on the wall until the screws pop like joints and it's forced upside-down. The sign fixes itself violently back into the wall. Dust and something warm and sticky shower the concrete floor, the tops of Edwin’s bare feet.
The phenomenon is exceptionally strange. The poltergeists have thus far have only tampered with machine equipment. Is this an intimidation tactic?
Edwin decides he should document the occurrence properly.
He goes to open his notebook but finds it missing.
His hand has also disappeared; severed at the wrist joint.
The exposed layers of muscle and meat are slick and wet and the green glow plays on the surface, a morbid study of light source and shadow.
The jagged white points of the ulna and radius stare out from the stump like cloudy, splintered pupils. The break is sloppy, the pain unbearable, and yet his addled mind blocks the worst from him – small mercies, he supposes.
How something without discernible teeth populating its hundreds of chittering mouths can bite and tear so savagely isn’t a thought Edwin doesn’t particularly wish to ponder at present. He is entirely more concerned with evading the Doll Spider and escaping.
Escape.
There is no escape.
There is no exit.
It is merely another taunt wrapped securely in thick, iron chains.
He has wasted too much time staring at the sign. Heavy footsteps fall on the stone floor behind him, inching closer and closer with an odd air of caution. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry because when has the Doll Spider ever given him the courtesy of an ambush, of silence, before ripping him apart.
Step.
The exit sign is inverted.
Step.
The exit sign is green and viscous.
Step.
The absurdity of an exit sign in Hell bubbles up in his throat and he makes a pathetic, whimpering noise.
Step.
Edwin needs to run. He needs to run but the exit (if it truly is an exit at all. He’s been fooled before) barred and locked and chained. He can’t run now. The footfalls are too close. At least next time he knows where to go. He can plan once he comes back. He’ll have both hands, then, and if he doesn’t maybe he can gnaw through the iron bit by bit, cycle by cycle, break his teeth and nails over and over and over and over again.
The footsteps stop. Hot breath tickles the hair on the back of his neck. There is only quiet.
Something lands on his shoulder. His entire being crawls under the light touch. Edwin suppresses an unbecoming sob. He waits for the inevitable pain; the meat of his back to be flayed and left flapping in the cruel mockery of wings while fingered mandibles dig around and rip out his spine.
Instead, the hand (which is, now that he’s thinking about it, far too large to belong to the Doll Spider) squeezes gently and the body attached swings gently around to face him.
“Edwin?”
Edwin opens his eyes. He isn’t sure when he closed them.
The first thing he sees is Charles. Charles washed out in the dim light of the factory’s cheap lighting. Shadows pool in the furrow of his brow, the lines of his mouth that’s lost its usual impish grin. This might be the first time Edwin’s seen him this concerned.
Charles perks up when he realizes Edwin’s paying attention but still looks apprehensive. “You ok, mate?” He asks, eyes darting back and forth like the bulbs behind the exit sign’s letters.
Edwin glances at the sign. The sign is no longer inverted. Dim red light highlights the individual hairs of Charles’ mess of curls, giving the illusion of brushstrokes. He traces the line of his shoulder and finds his lost hand returned to him, the knuckles white and straining against the black leather of his notebook.
Charles says his name again and Edwin snaps to attention. “Yes,” he says, far too quickly and far sharper than necessary. Guilt flares hot and strong in his stomach as Charles flinches, the comforting hand retreating back to worry the strap of his backpack.
“I apologize for the delay,” Edwin offers, because that’s the only sentence he’s able to conjure. The rest comes shakily: “The exit sign caught my attention. Look closely. The spacing between the letters is more than regulation dictates. The discrepancy distracted me momentarily. I am truly sorry for worrying you.”
“Right.” Charles sounds unconvinced but his expression slowly melts back to its usual pluck. He smiles. “Sure. No problem, then. Just making sure.”
“Thank you,” says Edwin, sincerely. To fill the awkward pause he straightens his intact spine and casts an evasive eye around the space, turning from the sign. Charles moves with him, standing at his shoulder. He watches Edwin carefully, like at any moment something might cause him to disappear again. “How did your solo investigation fare?”
“Found a secret door in the foreman’s office,” Charles chirps informatively. “One of the better secret doors I’ve seen. Innovative.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. The last drawer of the guy’s dinky filing cabinet is actually an entrance to a suspicious crawlspace, which I bet leads to an even more suspicious secret room. Or a lair. Been a while since we’ve gotten a good lair. Odds are the missing records are squirreled away somewhere back there.”
“I’m inclined to agree. Care to lead the way?”
Charles nods and starts walking, Edwin falling easily into step with him. The glow of the exit sign burns like a brand between Edwin’s shoulder blades as he tucks the notebook safely into his coat and disappears into the factory’s shrouded corridors.