A/N: Alright, here's my first SuFin. It's horror. I sigh. But, hey, at least through my many, many Hetalia horror fics I'm filling my quota for my many, many ships. Yay...
So, yeah, here we go, another story inspired by the short films of Katy Towell.
Also, this story is somewhat told in Peter's (Sealand, of course) point of view and the narrator's. So, yeah.
Hope you find it readable and that people enjoy.
Disclaimer- I don't own anything by Hidekazu Himaruya or Katy Towell.
Hush, little baby, don't say a word,
Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird...
The heavy, dusty darkness was broken by the sudden light from a simple oil lantern. It was brought up, held near the face of a small boy. His skin was a healthy tan, obviously due to the outside play that boys his age would do, and his short blonde hair was a bit messy; luckily it was majorily hidden by the blue cap he wore. Sleepy blue eyes looked over the floor of the room, a basement actually, following the movement of the lantern until the light shined against the floor.
The floor that held two heavy stone coffins. On the one on the left, there was a childish scrawl of the word 'Papa', whereas the one on the right had 'Mama' along with a simple heart next to it. Finally, he sighed in a voice that held a British accent, "Goodnight.", before hefting up the lantern and walking up the stairs.
As he walked, he passed various pictures on the walls: all of them portraying himself with two men: both blonde, one stern and fierce with his eyes hidden behind simple glasses, the other happier, kinder, his and the boy's smiles lighting up the frames.
And then the boy got to the living room. The vicious claw-marks on the walls and the random streaks of blood across the ceiling and floors betrayed a horrible occurrence: a slaughter. But the boy merely looked around, setting the lantern down on the ground and wiping his hands off on his night-shirt. "Right then." He nodded to himself before going to the kitchen, grabbing a mop and a bucket once he was there.
Slowly, carefully, he began mopping up the blood and scuff-marks from the floor, occasionally using the mop to get the marks he wouldn't be able to reach on the ceilings and walls (thanks to strategically placed furniture).
There was a message hastily written on the floor in sticky crimson. It read: 'Dear God, help me! Please, if anyone is reading this, the Oxenstiernas are monst-', before it trailed off in thin red trails, as if the writer had been dragged off. The mop soon began to clean it away, the blonde child working hard to get the house back to a presentable state.
He had been working so hard that he hadn't realized the night had passed him by until the morning's light had begun to break in through the windows. "Mornin' already?" The child yawned, finishing up what he was doing before rushing upstairs. He grabbed the blue and white school-uniform he had pressed and cleaned the previous night and took a quick shower before putting it on. He rushed back downstairs, taking the mop and bucket back into the kitchen where he quickly made himself a quick lunch (a jam sandwich, an apple, and three cookies he had left from his last trip to the store), old hand-drawn pictures looking down at him from the walls: a puppy with that same hand-writing from the coffin 'For Mama -Peter 4', an ogre and a princess 'For Papa and Mama... I miss you -Peter 8' and others.
He then locked up, did a quick look around of the surrounding, desolate farmland, and then he began the long walk to school.
Once upon a time, in a small, dusty town in America's heartland, there was a boy by the name of Peter Oxenstierna. Peter was 10 and like most 10 year-olds he went to school, hated homework, and liked nothing more than a big bowl of vanilla ice cream while he watched his Saturday afternoon cartoons. With two eyes, two arms, and two legs, he always tripped over himself whenever he would run down the street too excited to watch his steps. He looked like most 10 year-olds too. In fact, nothing stood out about Peter at all.
Except that he lived on an old, decrepit, haunted farm.
Well... no. The Oxenstierna Farm wasn't really haunted. But it definitely was the type of place your mother always told you to never play around. There was just something... off about the place. Of course, there was no fancy car in the driveway, no animals or pets present, no flowers on the windowsills... No sign of animals anywhere.
But plenty of cobwebs.
And all around the house lay the dried, dead remains of a long-forgotten wheat-field. There were rumors of screams and shouts coming from the house at night, but most people laughed them off as tall-tales told to keep little ones in at night.
Peter didn't have any friends but, hey, that was fine by him. He had his parents to look after.
Peter, carrying the large, cumbersome lantern in his hands, walked down into the basement: shining the light onto the two stone coffins.
What had happened to them, this sweet, harmless couple, had happened so long ago that Peter could hardly remember. You see, Berwald Oxenstierna and Tino Väinämöinen had immigrated to America from Sweden. Tino's brothers had always had nothing but good things to say about the lives they had found in America, so Berwald agreed to save up what little they had for boat tickets. On the boat over, they had encountered a young, scared but scruffy stowaway who had fled from some awful orphanage. That stowaway had been a two year old Peter.
Tino had always been known to have a heart as big and warm as the sun so he asked Berwald if they could take the child, who had instantly taken to calling Tino 'Mama' (much to Berwald's delight and Tino's chagrin), along with them. Berwald had always wanted a family and saw this as the perfect opportunity so he said yes.
The boat eventually arrived in America and after a long train ride, the small family had arrived in what they hoped would be their new hometown. They bought a small, run-down house: agreeing to fix it up as they went, and the land around it which Berwald soon turned into a wheat field.
Soon after, the tall Swede had found a small, white dog rummaging in their trash. He really was such a big softy, despite his hulking stature and frowning face; he took the small thing in.
Their family: Peter's fondest memories included that of Papa working in the fields while he and Mama sat on the porch, the dog dubbed Hanatamago running and jumping around them. And Mama would play simple hand-games with him, singing various Finnish folk songs. However, the one that he and Peter liked most was the English song that he had picked up on the way there: a simple song about a mockingbird. Peter would always remember it as his Mama's Lullaby.
Yes, for Peter those were the days of true joy and happiness. His Papa and Mama obviously in love, if the kisses and embraces they shared when they thought he wasn't around were any indication, and they would make sure to share that love with him. He was so happy.
He wished that they could stay that way forever.
Peter barely remembered that in the middle of one night, Tino swept him up from bed and carried his still sleepy form into the basement. He wrapped him up in a thick blanket along with their small dog Hanatamago and told the both of them to stay quiet. Peter remembered that his Mama sounded scared as he closed the door... and it scared him too as he grabbed Hanatamago and held her close. And then there were those horrible noises.
Growls and hisses echoed all throughout the house, accompanied by gunshots and the sounds of a blunt object cracking into someone's head. There was also the shouts of Berwald and Tino as they fought against something... something that wasn't human. But finally, with a bloodcurdling scream, one final gunshot, and the shattering of a window...
Everything went quiet.
Peter's heart started beating faster than it ever had before when the door to the basement opened. However, much to his relief the voice that called down was warm, loving, familiar. "Peter?" Tino panted out, "Are you alright?"
"Mama!" Peter picked up Hanatamago and rushed up the stairs. However, he stopped just a few steps below his parents.
"Oh, thank goodness!" Tino sighed in relief, his clothes torn and his skin hosting various bleeding lacerations. Despite how bad he looked, it was nothing compared to Berwald: his throat ripped out and blood dripping from his mouth.
"Sh'uld get... st'rted on the d'r..." Berwald rasped out before running a sticky, red hand through Peter's hair before slumping back up the stairs.
"Papa?" Peter blinked before he found himself hefted up into Tino's dripping arms,
"Let's get you back to bed."
Peter didn't remember much else, just that everything was different afterwards. His Mama stopped getting up in the morning to make the yummy breakfasts he always did... And Papa didn't go out to check on the crops. Mama soon started complaining about headaches so awful that they would make him cry. Peter hated seeing his Mama cry and tried to see what he could do to make him feel better. He tried making his Mama's favorite food (they came out horrible, but he was a child so what could be expected), he tried cleaning up... He finally tried singing.
He only knew one song by heart though: the one that his Mama always sang to him about mockingbirds and diamond rings. It seemed to work. Peter's Mama would give a sad, tired smile and send him off to go play. One time after Peter finished singing, Tino told him to go take a nap... But to leave Hanatamago with him. Peter, thinking that his Mama wanted some time with the small white dog, followed the simple request.
He would never see Hanatamago again after that. But Mama did come out of the room that night: mouth filled with sharp teeth dripping crimson.
After a while it seemed that Peter's parents would sleep all day and only get up at night. They would often disappear for hours at a time. Then they always made sure to come back just before dawn: their mouths stained red and dripping, the same sanguine liquid holding fast to their hands and clothes.
Whenever Peter would try to ask where they went, Mama would always reassure him that they were just hungry and went out to get something to eat.
Yet, the changes got worse and worse: their skin growing pale and burning at the slightest exposure to the sun, Papa's hair growing thin and pale, Mama's hair falling out all-together. He would often see Papa taking heavy stone bricks into the basement and, whenever Peter would ask what he was building and if he could help, Berwald would simply ruffle his hair and go on about his business. The last night that Peter remembered where things could be called 'normal' was when, just before they went out to find food, Tino crawled into his room and tucked him into bed before singing in a voice that was filled with hisses and growls, "Husssh... little baby... Don't... Don't sssay... A word. Mama's going to buy you a... a..."
"Mockingbird." Peter offered, eyes heavy with sleep. "A mockingbird..." He quickly drifted off, feeling the lukewarm lips of his Mama on his forehead before he was gone.
After that, Peter's parents didn't talk anymore. Their nails grew out into claws and their eyes grew dark and hungry. It was when Peter went to bed one night, expecting his Mama to sing him to sleep and never hearing his voice, that Peter knew that they were never going to get better.
That was years ago; now Peter's parents were more animal than human. They hissed and growled like angry, feral cats and kept to the shadows. Animals that had taken his Mama and Papa's skin. They still seemed to love each other though; they were never apart, so that kept Peter a bit at peace, they would never be lonely.
"You guys may look funny now," Peter gently spoke to the two bodies hanging from the ceiling, "You don't talk much, and you never go outside or help me get ready for school..." The creature that was once Berwald hissed at a rat that was getting too close to Peter, his mouth filled all around with needle-sharp teeth. "But..." The ten year-old cleared his throat, trying his best to be confident, "You're still my parents... Even if you smell like rotting meat."
So Peter went about his days as normally as a 10 year-old boy could. He went to school, did his homework, brought home his report cards decorated with golden stars in everything from arithmetic to reading.
"Here are my grades for the month!" Peter announced to the two creatures who had just left their coffins for the night, "It was a really hard month, but I tried my best!" The two creatures merely crawled about the ceiling, waiting for a good time to go out.
However, as shiny and impressive as the reports were, his parents didn't really know what they were anymore.
Before his parents stopped talking, Tino had made a phone-call to his brother Lukas who was living in New York. After a heated conversation finally ending in yelling that made Peter cringe into his favorite chair at the dining table, Mama hung up the phone and told Peter that every month his Uncle Lukas would pay for the bills and that if Peter should ever need anything he should call him at once.
But Peter didn't want to bother his uncle: he wanted to show his parents that he could take care of them and himself. So he had picked up a simple paper-route in town and earned a bit of spending money with that. Whatever he had left from grocery shopping and school supplies, he would buy a small cup of ice cream and save it for the weekend. The shopkeeper would always tell him to say hello to his parents for her, and he did...
"Mrs. Hedevary told me to say hi." Peter told his parents as he sat in the basement, doing his homework by lantern light. The monster formerly known as Tino blinked at him and continued to clean his claws.
...Even though they mostly chose to ignore him and go about their business.
And, yes, there were days when it was harder to pretend though. It just really, really hurt. Peter would see all of the other parents come to school with their kids, or take them to the parks and it made his heart feel like it would break in two.
Those times, Peter would go home and walk down into the basement with his trusty lantern. He would lay down on top of the cold coffin that held his Mama and imagine that the sweet, kind man was holding him and singing that comforting song about the mockingbirds.
And he would feel better. He would get up, go up the stairs, turn off the lantern and start cleaning up the blood his parents left the night before and then go to bed: hoping that Mama would stop by before they went to go get dinner.
It wasn't fair that Peter had to live this way. But then again, the world of fiction is often cruel to children.
One night, some high school punks from the next town over had heard about the stories of the Oxenstierna Farm. After they had gotten all boozed up and wild, they decided to ride out in their shiny black motorcycles that roared like thunder and burn it down.
That is, after they had tossed it up a bit: they had to show their girlfriends that they were 'tough'.
Peter awoke with a jolt upon hearing the motorcycle engines. Grabbing his cap, he peeked his head out of the window and tried to see what was causing all the noise. It was three men with their girlfriends: a blonde Frenchman with is British girlfriend du jour, a young Spaniard with wavy chocolate hair trying to appease the fiery Italian girl on his bike, and the albino youth from Eastern Germany who was trying to convince the shy Canadian girl with him to go into the house.
Peter immediately rushed down to the basement. He was scared; he never thought anyone like them would come out here to his peaceful little farm. He curled up between the two coffins when the intruders began shattering glass, kicking over furniture, and breaking holes in the walls.
"This place isn't haunted!" The albino named Gilbert cackled, kicking over a chair. Francis, the French youth, agreed,
"If anything, it's a dump!"
"Hey!" The Italian girl stomped right over to the Spanish male, "Antonio, you useless bastardo! You better not have dragged me out here and not have anything to show for it!"
Antonio gulped, "Uh... Well, I – Oh look!" He noticed the door to the basement, "We haven't checked down there yet; there's sure to be something good in there!"
"No..." Peter whimpered upon hearing that, panicking as he looked around the basement.
Peter's heart was racing, not for his own sake: but for his parents'. They were still asleep in their cold, stone beds. They wouldn't be up for a while: until midnight they were just bunches of dusty bones. He quickly looked through the shadows to try and find a weapon, his eyes finally landing on Papa's old pickax.
The punks were at the top of the stairs now. Peter tightened his hold on the pickax and told himself...
"I'm brave..." Peter narrowed his eyes, whispering, "I'm brave! The bravest 10 year-old ever! And no one's hurting my Mama and Papa while I'm here."
And then the punks were there.
"Look what we have here," Sneered Gilbert, "A little pipsqueak who wandered out of bed, kesese..." His eyes full of determination, Peter settled his feet into the ground and demanded,
"Get out of my house."
"Or what?" The albino huffed, "You're going to swing your little pickax at us?" They all laughed at that, Peter clenching his teeth and demanding again,
"Get out of my house or you're dead!" Gilbert, obviously not threatened, began walking towards Peter, determined to get him out of the way. Peter hefted the pickax with all his might, the tool quite heavy, and managed to graze Gilbert across the face and knock out one of his teeth.
"Zut alors..." Francis whispered as Gilbert tried to get his bearings straight. He wiped the fresh blood from his cheek, looking at the proof of the child's attack.
"You little... SHIT!" He howled, storming forward before Peter could muster up the strength to swing the pickax again. Before the small boy knew it, he had been hefted up into the German's arms, lifted high into the air, and flung into the thick basement wall.
Peter was still seeing stars when Gilbert stalked towards him, fury in his red eyes. The Canadian girl quickly grabbed his arm, shouting for him to stop. The others agreed, wanting to leave before they got caught. Finally, Gilbert agreed: kicking some dust onto the still dazed boy. Spitting out blood, he led the others out of the basement.
But they would never stand a chance.
The basement quaked and rumbled, a savage snarling bubbling up from inside the coffins. And then, as if with the force of dynamite, the coffins shattered: the two beasts which they contained exploding forth: black eyes fierce and fangs dripping saliva. They tried to run... but these monsters were faster.
"WHAT THE HELL?" Gilbert shouted, not believing his eyes. But the creatures were there as clear as day. The one once-known as Berwald surged forth, grabbing Antonio and Francis: tearing into the Spaniard's throat before stabbing his claws into Francis's stomach and ripping out his steaming entrails.
The British and Italian girls immediately tried to bolt, but the former Tino quickly moved across the floor and blocked the way to the door. He hissed before seizing the blonde's throat and squeezing until there was a tell-tale snap; her eyes popping out of her sockets, the Italian's head being ripped off of her shoulders: crimson spraying all over his face and shoulders.
And then there was Gilbert. The albino found himself being stared down by the two monsters and, before he could even think of an action, Berwald grabbed his arms and Tino his legs: each pulling until he was effectively torn in two: his pulsing organs falling to the floor in a torrent of red.
They then turned towards the timid Canadian girl who was petrified in one spot in the center of the floor. She hadn't screamed, or made any sound at all. Her amethyst eyes were wide, her breathing picking up as Tino crawled over and stared her down: the expression on his monstrous, pale face all too clear:
She slowly nodded, slowly making her way up the stairs and out of the house: not caring that she didn't have a ride but only wanting to get away from that place with her life.
By the time they were done, there was blood and flesh everywhere. As Peter struggled to breathe with the pain in his body numbing over his body, all he could think was: "How am I going to get all of this cleaned up before school tomorrow?"
But now it was getting hard to see. The edges of his vision were black and blurry. In fact, the longer he lay there, it seemed like the pain was going away...
But he couldn't feel his fingers anymore.
He tasted the viscous, copper taste of blood in his mouth.
Mama and Papa crept over and watched him for a long while. Peter felt so bad: he hadn't been able to protect the house like he had promised.
"I'm sorry..." Peter rasped out, blood speckling his lips, "I know that I shouldn't have woken you two from your sleep. And that I was supposed to keep the house tidy... I'm so sorry... But I tried my best..." His left eye drifted closed, "I brought home the best grades I could... and I didn't bring any bad attention... So please... Please..." His last words were in the form of a tired whisper, "Don't... hate... me..."
Still, Mama and Papa didn't move. They didn't even touch the bodies they had ripped apart so savagely. Peter just guessed that they weren't hungry this time. He really didn't mind, everything was getting dark now and it was just nice to feel them with him.
He heard a gentle hiss and felt a strange, yet familiar source of warmth come near him. And, from some unseen force, he heard his Mama singing the mockingbird song.
"Hush, little baby, don't say a word,
Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird...If that mockingbird won't sing,
Mama's going to buy you adiamond ring...If that diamond ring turns brass,
Mama's going to buy you a looking glass..."
Peter sighed, his right eye closing as he let the feeling of warmth wash over him. He could have sworn that he felt his Mama kiss him on the forehead and it felt... tingly. Kind of stung a little. But it was an action so filled with love that Peter felt like he could have cried.
Eventually his parents left his side. Peter wouldn't see it, but Berwald took Tino's hand and the two of them walked up to the house. In the back of his mind, Peter realized that it would be morning right about now. He was scared for his Mama and Papa. But, something in his heart told him it would be okay. So his Mama and Papa slowly walked into the sunlight, disappearing in clouds of fine ash.
A small smile graced Peter's lips. Everything was going to be okay...
"Näkemiin (Good night)..."
Blue eyes opened in the darkness, Peter drowsily sitting up in the dark, dusty attic. He gave a childishly loud yawn, showing off two fangs in his mouth that didn't used to be there before wiping the sleep from his eyes. Looking around, he saw that the basement had been cleaned and all of the flesh and organs had been gathered up into a series of organized buckets. He chuckled, "Thanks Mama. Thanks Papa."
He carried the buckets upstairs, one by one, into the kitchen. Once there, he washed his hands and prepared some toast and jam with tea. Peter sat down, and was about to take a bite of the toast.
However, it just didn't smell right.
So, pushing the bread and tea away, he brought one of the buckets up onto the table and took out a heart. Wide blue eyes inspected the organ for a few moments before he licked at it. "Mm!" He beamed, licking his lips and ripping at the organ with his sharp teeth.
While he was eating, the phone rang. Peter took the heart with him and answered the phone, eyes lighting up when he heard the voice of his uncle. "Good morning! … Um, well, Mama and Papa aren't here anymore. … No, they're not sleeping, they're just not... here. … Yeah... Yeah... Live with you and Matthias in New York? I..." He swallowed the rest of the heart and gnawed at his fingernail, "Well, I suppose... Right then, you'll be here in two weeks. See you then."
A few years later found a group of high school students in New York's famed Central Park, tossing around a ball. A wayward toss sent it rolling into the sidewalk. "Oh no..." A young Lithuanian sighed before his shorter, Latvian friend reassured,
"I've got it." The dark blonde rushed after the ball, hoping that it wouldn't go into the street. Luckily, it was stopped by a boot-clad foot. "Hm?" The Latvian looked up and saw the slim body of a teenager dressed in black; their head obscured by a dark umbrella. Odd, because it was a perfect, shining day out.
"This yours?" The new teen said, his voice betraying a British accent. The Latvian shook himself out of his daze before nodding,
"Um, yeah. Could I have it back? My friends are waiting for me and-"
The stranger quickly kicked the ball up, balancing it on his foot before bouncing it once, twice, and then bouncing it up into his free hand.
"Can I play?"
"Sure!" The Latvian youth whole-heartedly agreed, impressed by the other's skills, "Oh, my name is Raivis by the way." The youth clad in black tilted his umbrella back a bit, revealing a palish face with short blonde hair hidden by a blue cap. His blue eyes sparkled as he smiled, sharp white teeth shining,
"The name's Peter."
A/N: And that... is... that. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Please leave a review with your thoughts or questions! Until next time!