Chapter 8
When Stiles opened his eyes, all he saw was white.
Blinking rapidly, he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He found himself lying on a cold floor, surrounded by nothing but stark white walls illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights. It was only seconds before an intense surge of panic tightened his chest as he struggled to figure out where he was. It held an aura of familiarity to it, but he couldn’t quite place it.
Footsteps echoed through the sterile space, jolting him into action. He propped himself up, his limbs trembling, and strained to see beyond the empty expanse. There was nothing.
Except the little girl.
She stood several yards away, her head tilted at an unnatural angle, and her eyes bore into him with a chilling intensity. The same eyes that had haunted him moments ago.
“Hey!” He was quick to push himself up all the way, stumbling to his feet on shaky legs. “Hey! What did you do to me?!” He yelled, anxiety building up in his chest.
The little girl gave no response, her eyes only narrowing into a glare. She didn’t move.
“I know you can hear me,” Stiles gritted his teeth, his fists clenched.. “Where am I?” His surroundings felt disturbingly familiar, triggering a sense of dread.
“Stilessss,” A voice whispered in his ears, causing the young man to whip around, eyes wide. There was no one behind him but he swore that he could feel the breath on his neck.
“What the fuck?” He whispered before once again turning his attention to the girl, “What the fuck?! Where am I! What did you do!” His frustration and fear boiled over, and he charged towards her.
Yet, no matter how hard he ran, the distance between them stayed the same.
“Stiles,” The voice sliced through the air, devoid of any warmth or humanity. Something gripped his shoulder with such force that Stiles's charge came to an abrupt halt, his body crashing to the ground.
A bloodcurdling scream erupted from his lips as terror consumed him. He scrambled backward, his trembling hand reaching up to claw at the ethereal grip, only to meet empty air. The pressure had been all too real, a haunting touch that seared into his senses.
“What’re you doing to me?” He whispered, looking up to meet the gaze of the little girl once more. He felt like a mess, his whole body trembling uncontrollably and his voice wavering with every word.
She tilted her head further, her empty gaze boring into him as a smirk pulled at her lips. Before he could say anything more, she turned on her heel and took off. Stiles nearly fell over himself as he pushed himself up, attempting to run after her.
It was apparent that he wasn’t thinking clearly, his mind consumed by the panic of whatever was haunting him and trying to escape wherever the little girl had brought him. Maybe that’s why he was unable to recognize his surroundings or even dwell on the familiarity.
“Stiles!” The voice practically screamed at him, momentarily distracting him before he barreled into an unknown obstacle. The impact reverberated through his body, rattling his bones as he staggered backward, disoriented and bewildered. Where the fuck had that come from?
His vision swam with disorienting blurs, but as his surroundings gradually came into focus, a chilling realization dawned upon him. He stood before the towering presence of the Nemeton—the ancient, gnarled tree he had stumbled upon once before, a harbinger of supernatural forces.
Stiles's breath hitched in his throat as he cautiously extended a hand towards the rough bark, the urge to run after the girl now gone from his mind as he was drawn in by the pull of the Nemeton. The second his fingers made contact, a shrill cry rang through his ears;
Please help me.
He pulled his hand back as if he had been burnt, his eyes wide as they stayed fixated on the tree stump before him. Did that come from the Nemeton? With a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, he tentatively pressed his palm against the weathered bark once again. Instantly, a surge of energy coursed through him, causing his body to convulse.
Help me!
Get me out of here!
Help me…please!
The cries for help reverberated through his mind, their intensity growing with each passing second. The voice was the same, yet the pleas overlapped one another, blending into a cacophony of despair and agony. Stiles recoiled, ripping his hand away from the tree yet it changed nothing. his torment continued. An intense, high-pitched screaming pierced his ears, intertwining with frantic whispers, spoken in a language he couldn't recognize.
“Stop!” Stiles' scream tore through the air, his voice strained with desperation and fear. The overwhelming mix of voices, pleas, and haunting whispers assaulted his senses and it seemed like there was no escape.
Unable to bear the torment any longer, he crumpled to his knees, his hands gripping his head as if trying to hold himself together. The weight of the voices pressed upon him, an unbearable burden that clawed at his mind and threatened to tear him apart from within.
"Stop it! Stop it! Stopitstopitstopitstopitstopit!" Stiles' screamed until his voice was raw, continuing on in harsh, hoarse cries. His fingernails dug into his scalp, his body wracked with tremors as he sought some semblance of control amidst the maddening chaos.
Suddenly, everything went silent and the only thing to be heard were his gasping sobs. At some point, his words became discernible and the only thing that he could do was cry. He made no effort to move, remaining in his crumbled position. His heart was drumming impossibly hard in his chest and his face was slick with tears and sweat.
“Stiles?” He squeezed his eyes closed harder, despite the voice being much softer and less haunting than the one that had called his name earlier. “Stiles?” A hand grabbed his shoulder again, earning a violent full body flinch from him. He looked up, panic overtaking him immensely only to be met with the soft eyes of Lydia Martin.
“Lydia?” He croaked, blinking the tears from his eyes as he found himself no longer a prisoner of the white room. Much to his surprise, he was back in his room in Beacon Hills. It was dark out, moonlight peeking through the gaps of his blinds and illuminating his room in small stripes.
“Are you okay?” She brought a hand to his face, “You’re crying.” She stroked under his eyes, looking at him in concern.
“I-” He took in a deep breath, his brow furrowing. “The Nemeton?” That couldn’t have been a dream. The voices were so real, his ears were still ringing.
“The Nemeton?” She repeated, “What about it?”
He stayed silent, looking around his room. There was no way that was all in his head. The White Room, the Nemeton, the little girl. The thought of everything ran a shiver down his spine.
“I think I’m losing my mind.” He whispered.
“What?” She moved her hand from his face to his back, rubbing small circles around his spine. “Why do you think that?”
“I can’t-” He cut himself off as his voice cracked, “I don’t know what’s real and what’s not.”
“I’m real,” Lydia said softly, leaning closer to him.
“You are?” Stiles bit his lip, anticipating her response.
“Of course I am,” She whispered, “If I was real, would I be able to do this?” She questioned, pulling him towards her as she pushed her lips against his in a soft kiss.
His eyes closed as he fell deeper into the kiss, finding salvation in the physical touch as he became a little more grounded into reality. It was all just a dream. It was all just a dream. It was all just a- The mantra in his head cut off as Lydia’s hands moved from his back to his neck, however her touches were no longer tender.
“Lydia,” Stiles broke their kiss with a gasp, “What’re you doing?” His voice panicked as her hands gripped his neck, growing tighter with each passing second. “Lydia, stop!”
He looked up, her face still closed except now, her green eyes no longer held the same softness as they had only moments ago. They were now blank, devoid of emotion in the same way that the little girl’s had been in the white room. “Lydia,” He gasped out as he pushed against her. “Please,” His voice was hoarse as she continued to tighten her grip, cutting off his airway. No matter how hard he tried to pull her hands off of him, it was to no avail. She was choking him.
He looked around the room, searching for something, anything that could possibly help him. Instead, however, his eyes fell on his bedroom door. It was cracked open, the moonlight catching the face of the little girl as she stared at him once more, witnessing his peril. He reached a shaky hand out, as if extending one final plea for help as dark spots began to claim his vision.
Just as he began to succumb to his fate, the pressure on his neck was gone and Stiles was left gasping for air. He clawed at his neck, his chest heaving as he looked around. He was in survival mode, his panic on full blast as he recalled what he just experienced.
What was happening to him?
He was no longer in his bedroom, instead he was now sitting inside of his Jeep and it was pitch black. As he became a little more grounded with his surroundings, his senses were overwhelmed by the smoke emitting from the busted hood of his car. “What the fuck?” His voice was breathy, a painful reminder of his assault.
Stiles pushed open his door, stumbling out of his Jeep and taking in the sight before him. His car was smashed against a tree, causing the hood to practically be folded in half and a large crack was across the windshield. He blinked in confusion, realization setting in as he recognized the scene.
This is exactly what his Jeep looked like when he crashed during the Lunar Eclipse only months ago. In his panic and urgency to save his father, he had lost control of his car during the intense storm and had knocked himself unconscious before he could even shield himself from the impact of his car accident.
He was in the middle of the Beacon Hills Preserve.
Stiles blinked a few times, confusion clouding his thoughts. Seriously, what the fuck was happening to him? “I really am losing my mind,” He repeated his words from earlier, rubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes. It was apparent that he was stuck…somewhere. The scenery around him has continued to change again and again, first the White Room, then his bedroom, and now, the Preserve.
He shuddered at the thought of Lydia, bringing his hand up once more to his neck and he could still feel the ghost of her fingers around it. Part of him wanted to believe that this was all a dream but everything that he had experienced so far had just seemed so real and if he really was about to die, he would have woken up by now.
Right?
A flurry of movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, distracting him from his thoughts as he quickly turned. Once again, standing several yards away from him, stood the little brown-haired girl, her gaze blank and unwavering.
Instead of yelling at her, Stiles kept her gaze, the two staring in silence for what felt like an eternity before she turned on her heel, taking off into the distance.
“Wait!” The urgency in his voice was no longer angry, now it just held an intense desperation, “Please! Don’t leave me!” He took off after her. She appeared in every place he had been, maybe if he caught up to her, he could figure a way out. “Come back!”
If he had a clearer mind, maybe he would have remembered the dangers that lurked in the Beacon Hills Preserve. Maybe he would have remembered to watch where he stepped, that the woods plagued many obstacles, both supernatural and human.
A bone chilling shriek filled his ears and he was so overcome with pain that it took him a moment to realize that he was the one screaming. His stride was abruptly halted and his upper body slammed hard into the ground, however the pain from that impact didn’t hit as he was practically paralyzed by the agony in his left foot. His breaths were shallow as he choked on his own cries, his hands shaking violently as he took in the state of his foot, the skin practically ripped apart where it was penetrated by the steel bite of the bear trap.
This couldn’t be a dream, the pain was so so real and he couldn’t possibly be imaging the blood coating his skin. His vision was swimming, black dots coating his view but something in the back of his mind was keeping him up. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was fear, but something was telling him that if he passed out, he wouldn’t like the consequences.
Stiles bit back bile as he tried to focus on his foot, but the combination of his daze and his tears was making it incredibly difficult. “C’mon, c’mon,” His words were slurred and again, it took his brain a second to register that he was the one speaking.
He’s managed to disable a bear trap once before, what did he do? He squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to get a clear thought. His head lulled and he felt himself starting to fall forward, his body twitching as it began to give in to the pain.
Before he could fully succumb to the darkness, however, a strong hand gripped his shoulder and yanked him backwards, a harsh voice spitting in his ear;
“Stiles!”
He jolted, his eyes flying open as he whipped his head around, only to find nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Again. He yelled in frustration, whether it was at the situation or whatever it was that was haunting him. “Fuck!” He screamed loudly, slamming his fists against the ground. Fueled once more by fear and his newfound anger, the fog in Stiles’ head cleared at least enough for him to remember how to disarm the bear trap.
“The lever,” He muttered to himself, “Find the lever.” With his hands still shaking, he felt around the bear trap, biting back a whimper as his fingers brushed against the marred skin on his ankle. He felt the circular metal of the lever on the side of the bear trap and he found himself holding his breath as he cranked it backward, squeezing his eyes shut as he anticipated the worst.
A loud creak was heard and suddenly the pressure in his foot was gone.
He gasped, falling backwards onto the grass behind him, splayed out against the ground. He stared up at the pitch black sky, tears falling down the sides of his face as he panted. His heart was racing in his chest, for what felt like the thousandth time and he was so hopped up on the adrenaline rush of being freed that the pain in his foot has yet to truly catch up with him.
Maybe if he just laid here, for just a bit…
A grotesque howl broke him from his exhausted trance, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up at the sound. He propped himself up on his elbows, his head turning from side to side as he tried to locate where it was coming from but before he could figure it out, it was followed by an equally disturbing growl.
“Fuck.”
He pushed himself into a sitting position, careful not to jostle his leg too much. A game plan was definitely needed, as Stiles has dealt with enough werewolves to understand when he needs to get the fuck out and if that growl was any indication, he needed to get the fuck out of here now. He pulled his leg towards him, a small cry of pain breaking through his lips as he examined the state of his foot.
The skin on his ankle was torn beyond recognition and he was sure that if he had a better source of light, he’d be able to see the ripped tendons and possibly the fractured bone. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He whispered frantically, biting hard on his lip. There was no way he’d be able to run like this.
Once more he squeezed his eyes shut, rocking back and forth slightly. This was it. He was going to die here, in the middle of the Beacon Hills Preserve when he didn’t even know how he got here in the first place!
A small thud rustled the leaves only a few feet away from him and Stiles couldn’t help but cry out softly, resigning himself to his fate. A part of him figured that it would be a werewolf that would take him out, but he didn’t think that it would be in this way.
As moments went by and no claws were digging into his flesh, Stiles hesitantly opened his eyes, looking in the direction of the thud. Sitting in the leaves was not a werewolf waiting to tear him to shreds, but a small crossbow, notched with an arrow that was illuminated by the moonlight.
He let out a weary sigh, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion as his eyes flickered from the crossbow to other sections of the wood. Where did that come from? Unfortunately, he didn’t really get time to dwell on the origin of the weapon, as another breathy howl filled his ears and this time, it was much closer.
Stiles jolted into action, practically throwing himself towards the crossbow and awkwardly scooting backwards against the ground with one foot until his back slammed against the base of a tree. He held the crossbow protectively against his chest, breathing hard as he scanned the area in front of him. At that moment, it didn’t matter where the crossbow came from. The only thing that mattered was that he had a chance at salvation. He had protection.
With trembling hands, he held the crossbow out in front of him, holding his index finger against the trigger. Was he really going to do this? That question was repeating in his head. The Nogitsune turned him into a killer against his will, if he pulled the trigger now, that would make him a killer on his own accord. He didn’t know if Scott would be able to forgive him for this one.
A loud growl coming from the trees around him caused a chill to run down his spine and almost made him accidentally press down on the trigger. It was now or never, he didn’t have time for an ethical debate with himself when the werewolf had most likely already had him in its clutches. Scott was just going to have to hear him out.
A low snarl and the sound of a breaking branch right in front of him snapped Stiles into action and he quickly pushed down on the trigger, a swift swoosh breaking through the air as the arrow was released. Despite his lack of experience, the arrow met its target however Stiles didn’t celebrate.
Instead, he could only stare in horror.
Falling to his knees before him was Scott McCall, looking at him with blank eyes and an unwavering gaze. His hands were pressed to his neck, where the arrow from the crossbow was protruding out from and blood was trickling down from his mouth. Behind him, a few feet away, stood the little girl, once again watching his despair.
“No.” Stiles shook his head, his lip wavering. “Nononono, no!” He kept screaming the same word over and over again, bringing his hands up to pull his hair, desperately trying to drown out the sounds of his best friend choking on his own blood.
Through Stiles’ labored breath, the once cool air is replaced by the stale feeling of an air conditioner and he felt like he could pass out once again as the scenery around him changed once more. No longer was he in the Beacon Hills Preserve, now he was standing inside a quaint little living room, a big box tv sitting on the floor in front of him.
His eyes widened considerably, his chest tightening as he frantically scanned himself only to find no physical evidence of his previous injuries. Stiles was completely fine, his clothes once again cleaned and his foot no longer marred by a bear trap. Most importantly, Scott was not bleeding out before him.
Still, his heart hammered in his chest as his mind replayed the previous events.
“We have to get it, so when we get to the United States, no accent.” He looked up at the sound of a young voice, watching as a boy walked into the living room, a girl following closely behind.
Not just any girl, however, it was the same little girl that had basically been taunting him.
“You!” He seethed, stepping forward only for the girl to pass him, paying him no mind.
“My English is good. I already have no accent.” She responded to the boy and despite her words, the accent was very clearly there.
“What the…” He trailed off, “Hey!” He tried once more, but it was to no avail. It was as if he was invisible.
“Of course!” An older man stepped into the room, smiling at the two children as he held an array of goods in his hands. “I forget I have put it in the special place. For extra safe keeping.” He walked across the room, pulling a false panel from the wall to secure his bounty.
Stiles stayed put, the whiplash of the emotional and physical rollercoaster he had been forced into taking quite the toll of him. Sweat accumulated above his eyebrow and he had yet to get his heart rate in control and every time he closed his eyes, he could see faint pictures of what happened with both Lydia and Scott.
“This is your pick, yes?” The man held out a box towards the little girl, causing her face to light up. It was quite the change from the emotionless expression she had previously adorned in Stiles’ torment. The teenage boy caught sight of the box, his brow wrinkling in wonder as he read “THE DICK VAN DYKE SHOW: SEASONS 1-5”
The little girl nodded eagerly, tapping the season 2 box, “Season two, episode twenty-one.”
He watched as the father set up the tv, the two kids wiggling to get closer to the screen. It was evident that this was a little family, but their connection to Stiles was beyond him. There was no real air of familiarity towards them, besides the little girl, however he had yet to figure out why she was involved.
“Shenanigan is like a problem but more silly than scary,” The girl said in English, her accent still incredibly thick. It was obvious she was searching for the right words to say, “But can be a little scary.”
The little boy looked thoughtfully at his sister, “Like a mischief?” Stiles’ ears perked slightly at the word, memories of his childhood nickname igniting.
“Yes,” The girl nodded, “Like a mischief?” Just as the words left her mouth, a loud high pitch whine garnered the attention of everyone and they had no moment to prepare before a bomb tore through the ceiling, landing in the corner of the room.
A loud explosion shook the building and on instinct, Stiles dove to protect the kids, despite both the fact that they couldn’t see them and that the little girl had been responsible for his torture.
“Mama!” She screamed as the three of them were blasted across the room, cutting them off from the parents. Both her and Stiles were staring in shock at the gaping hole that had been broken open in the middle of the living room, the children’s parents lost to the destruction.
In a quick movement, the little boy grasps his sister’s wrist and yanks her under the bed, just as another bomb falls through. Stiles is quick to scramble under as well, the three kids choking on the dust as they stared in horror at the black missile ticking away in front of them.
His eyes were wide, fear and panic once again having the teenage boy in its clutches. He felt helpless, both because he had no idea how to get out of this and because he was unable to comfort the two kids, who were both whispering frantically in a language he was helpless to understand.
Stiles was also startled to realize that the little girl’s appearance now mirrored the version that was plaguing him, dirt streaking both her forehead and the red blouse she was wearing.
He was now hyperventilating, a panic attack threatening to consume him as he continued to watch the blinking red light of the missile. It was only inevitable that it would go off and then what then? Would he actually die? Or would his scenery change once again, trapping him in another nightmare world? The Dick Van Dyke Show continued to play in the background, providing a soundtrack for his episode.
“Stiles,” A hand gripped his shoulder once more, nails digging into his skin and shaking him away from his panic. He turned his head, tears blurring his vision only to find the little girl staring at him. Once more, her eyes were blank and her gaze was unwavering, her hand unmoving. “Stiles!” She said again, her voice holding a bite that hadn’t existed when she was talking to her family.
“Stiles!” He woke up with a start, the hands gripping his shoulders providing a less than happy wakening.
“Woah, woah! It’s just me, dude!” He blinked rapidly, meeting the concerned eyes of one Scott McCall. The teenage boy was looking at him intensely, both hands on his shoulders, kneeling on the bed beside him. “I’ve been trying to wake you up for like five minutes, you scared the shit out of me!”
Stiles quickly sat up, shaking Scott’s hands off of him in order to wrap his own arms around himself. What the hell had just happened? When did he go to sleep? What had he been doing before that?
“Stiles?” Scott’s voice was softer, “Dude, are you okay? You’re crying.”
He looked up at his best friend, bringing one of his hands up to his face only to find that he was, in fact, crying. “Oh,” He mumbled, “I’m fine.”
“Dude, are you-”
“I’m fine,” Stiles shook his head, his tone now backed with more finality. Despite his initial panic upon awakening, his head was clearer now. He was fine. Fine, fine, fine. “Just slept too hard.”
Scott stared at him for a moment, and it was clear that he didn’t believe him. “You know you can tell me if something is wrong right?”
Stiles scoffed, “Drop it, Scott.” He moved to push the covers off of his body.
“I’m being serious, I-”
At the boy’s insistence, something shifted in Stiles’ mind and he turned his gaze onto his best friend, his eyes blank and his stare unwavering. “Should have just dropped it, Scott,” He said, his voice monotone. “Should have just dropped it.” Before Scott could react, Stiles leaned forward, pressing his palm against his forehead.