who let the hag out? / felicity, post bb.

Freezing and aching from the cold walk through the mists, a part of me doesn't want to walk away from the generator after she sputters to life with a creak and a groan. I press my palms together, rubbing them against each other over the warmth coming from the exhaust pipe. It splutters with ugly, dark smoke, but I have a feeling it's just residual from whatever blaze sent this place up in smoke and left it the pile of ashes it stands as now.

I could stay here. Hole up.

The generator kicked on the light though, and across the room stand a collection of porcelain dolls, staring me down with glassy eyes. I know they're just toys, and maybe it's because Mom never really instilled liking them into me as a child, but they raise the hairs on the back of my neck. It's like they're guarding that ladder they stand under, little toy solders on watch for the rest of eternity.

The dolls and I have a long stare down before I mutter "fuck you guys," and stomp up the ladder. I don't overthink it when one of them suddenly falls from the shelf, her face shattering on the wooden floor. I don't think about it at all.

Two very bad things happen in quick succession.

The first can mean one of two things, neither of which particularly stirs excitement. There's the sound of something clattering, and I wince as it's followed by a heavy thud. Either I've been followed and should be preparing for someone to jump me from the shadows, or someone else stumbled in a back exit. Neither option appeals, frankly. They were probably lured in through a back exit by the goddamn homing generator I just set off like a lighthouse. I gotta get out of this place.

Weighing the more alive of two nightmares, I slip away from the rotten corpse in the attic. Chipped blue nail digging into my palm, reopening crescent moons I dug there earlier, I tip-toe across the soot coved floor towards the back room. Swallowing, I pull the dart gun that had come to me earlier, drifting through the trees attached to a silver parachute.

I'll admit, the first thing I see kind of disquiets.

Not in a bad way. If anything, I lower the dart gun a little when I part the door, wincing as it squeaks on rusted hinges. The creature on the other side of the threshold looked like something out of one of the comic books I tried to lift from the magazine section at the corner stores when I was a kid. One eye, tiny shoulders hunched in as if to cower. It makes this odd, surprised sound before ducking towards the object of all my worst nightmares.

"Couldn't use the front door?" I manage to choke out.

I brush my finger against the trigger.