Prologue

The five guys hadn't known each other very long. They'd just began to act like a band, but they were new at it. Each one kept his thoughts to himself, and the group rarely spoke about anything other than the songs that they played. It was kind of hard to tell if they even really wanted to be in a band.

Marc Eric Terenzi had originally started the band after he had moved to Orlando from Natick, Massachusetts, pretty much where he had lived all his life. The 21-year-old Italian had dark hair, brown eyes, and bronze skin. He was about a normal height, 5'8'', so you couldn't say he was tall, dark, and handsome, though the latter two fit his description very well. Marc was like the manager, or dad, of the band. He also played the lead guitar and sang lead with an alto/tenor voice. Although he was known to be a people person, he was the most secluded of the guys.

Benjamin Frederick Bledsoe had met Marc one day, and they had discussed the idea of forming a band of guys who could sing, dance, and play instruments. The California-grown boy was rather tall, around 6'1'', and he was only 17. He had moved to Orlando with his parents and was finishing up his last year of school. His dark blonde hair and pretty blue eyes had landed him several parts in commercialing, but the band idea seemed like the perfect opportunity to make him famous. Having experience in playing the field, Ben became the bass guitarist, and his deep bass voice made him one of the leads in lots of the songs.

Michael Wayne Johnson ran into Marc at a party with his best friend, Patrick King. They had both been offered a chance to join the band, and they accepted. Michael was different from the others. He had a flair for his strange sense of fasion, which he didn't always have. He used to be a little bit preppier, but one day he had eaten a bad blue M&M and turned his whole world around. Some would call the 17-year-old a freak because of his blue hair and black fingernail polish, but he really didn't care; Michael knew he was a good guy deep down inside. Because he was the drummer, he wouldn't get as many chances to show off his talented baritone singing.

Patrick Bruce King, Jr., was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, tenor-voiced guitarist. His style was more on the expensive side, but he kept a rocker-type look on him at all times. He was rarely seen around anyone; he liked his privacy. Patrick's love for boats and the water usually sent him to the beach, which relaxed him through the tough spots about being in a band. Because the 19-year-old lived in Central Florida his whole life, he could become lost when he wanted, though sometimes his friend for 10 years, Michael, ended up thinking like him.

Michael Joshua Horn was the last one to join the band. Ben and him had met through a vocal coach. Even though Michael was what he was called by his whole life, his name soon became J, short for Josh so there was no confusion. The 5'5" pianist/ keyboardist had blonde, lightly curled hair and brown eyes. The 20-year-old had never dreamt of singing until recently, although he had an amazing high tenor voice. J had grew up in Orlando, but he had never met Patrick nor Michael 'til his instrumental and singing skills had landed him in the band.

The day that J received something was never expected to change their lives... or yours.

Chapter 1

J ran outside his house to the mailbox. The light, salty breeze cooled his body from the burning Florida sun as he reached into the small tin box. He pulled out a stack of envelopes and shielded his eyes to look at them. Most were bills from credit cards or house payments, but some of it was junk mail.

J went back into his home and threw the letters on the kitchen table. He opened a can of soda before sifting through the stuff. It was just as he had expected. Bills and junk had overflown his box again. As he chucked the trash into the can, one piece of mail caught his eye.

It was a small black envelope with dark red words that curled and twisted into points. The stamp had an evil-looking clown that bared razor-sharp teeth. J cautiously opened it.

Inside was a slip of paper, and J soon found out that attached to it was a small, square mirror. Under it was the red words again. It read," You are invited to join us!" After a quick inspection, the pianist found five black tickets.

***

His red T-shirt swayed in the breeze as he ran up the steps to Ben's parents' house. Quickly, he pounded on the door. As he breathed deeply from the run, the door opened and a familiar blue-eyed man stared down to where J stood. " Yeah?"

" It's me, J," he answered. " I've got some good news!"

Ben kept staring at him. " I know who you are, but what are you doing here?"

" I just said it. I've got some good news!"

Suddenly, Michael appeared in the doorway behind Ben. He lifted his hand in a short wave, but made no motion other than that. " Well, we've got some bad news."

The Califorian added," You aren't supposed to be here, but since you are, you might as well come in and hear what you're gonna hear no matter what."

Ben motioned for J to follow and headed down the hall. J stepped in the house, shut the door, and made his way to the room he had seen the others disappear into. When he walked through the doorway, J noticed Marc and Patrick who had sat in silence the whole time Ben had been gone.

Marc saw his short acquaintance. " What's he doing here?"

" What's the band doing without me? Do you guys not like me or something?" asked J.

" Or something," Marc commented.

" Whose gonna tell him?" asked Ben. " He's the one who's so into the band thing." Ben flopped onto the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

No one said anything for a while; they just sat there, staring at J. His eyes wandered to Ben on the couch, then to Michael who was sitting on a wood chair backwards, then to Marc who had risen from his place on the floor, and finally to Patrick on the loveseat, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. What was going on?

The Italian leaned up against the wall behind J. " I'll tell him," he mumbled.

Turning to face the voice, J questioned curiously," Tell me what?"

" Well, it's like this, kid."

"Kid?" thought J to himself.

" We've been thinkin'...well, I've been thinkin'. I explained it to the others, and they totally agree." Marc walked around the room as he talked. He finally stopped dead in front of his listener. " We're breaking up. Natural is no more."

" Breaking up?! What-what do you mean? We can't break up; I got these..."

Patrick suddenly began to speak. " Didn't you hear Marc?" He jabbed a finger in Marc's direction. " Natural's through. We just aren't connecting. You know that feeling you have about your brother or sister or whatever you have..." Patrick paused for an answer from J.

" I'm an only child."

" Well, pretend you do."

" I can't!"

" You've watched TV if your normal, so picture a family with more than one kid. The Brady Bunch for example. You know how Greg and, I don't know, pick one, have that thing. Well, we don't have that thing! No one really feels it. Do you follow?"

J shook his head, but answered," Yes?!"

Ben shook his head in response. He flicked the penny that he was messing with at the wall and watched it bounce off before he said anything. " You don't. Let me try to explain it to you." He sat up. " Do you know that feeling that you have when you take a test that you studied for, and when it comes back, you find a big, fat F on it, and you just hate... no, loathe that teacher? You know-really deep down? Well, that's how we feel about each other."

" Except for me and Michael. Come on, we're best buds. We gotta like each other," Patrick added.

J stood there stunned. He was so shocked that he almost fell over. " What? I like you guys? How can you hate each other? Especially me! I'm fun to be around."

Michael pointed at him. " There's no 'how can' to it. We just do. Especially you! That kind of comment is just the reason why."

" It was all fun in the beginning. But face the facts, Josh; it's just too hard," Marc concluded, emphasizing Josh with hate. " It's all work and no play."

" But..."

" We don't know anything about each other!" Ben eyeballed Patrick before adding," Except for Patrick and Michael. They're best buds. They just have to."

J laughed and sat down on the couch by Ben. He wrapped his arm around the bassist." Of course we know tons about each other! I know so much about the rest of you guys that..."

Ben shoved J off. " What's my last name?"

" Uhhh..."

" That's exactly what I thought. Just proves the point even more."

The guys sat there silently, letting J soak in the information. He couldn't let them break up. He wanted them to be a band... friends. The tickets had to work.

" What if I could change this all around?" J asked with exceptional happiness.

Michael rubbed his temples as he answered," How?"

Patrick mumbled," That would take a miracle."

" I got some free tickets in the mail, and we can all go and spend bonding time together. It'll be fun," J said proudly.

" Nobody wants to bond..." Marc growled.

Ben finished the sentence. "...We wanna blow Natural."

J was about to give up. " Just give me one chance. What do you gotta lose?"

Patrick said," Decency."

Marc added," Sanity."

Ben responded," Dignity."

Michael finished," Precious time."

Chapter 2

The little Toyota rattled along at sixty miles per hour down the deserted, endless stretches of gray concrete. The grass near the road swished in the wind as the jeep sped past. Every now and then a squeak could be heard from the brakes.

Inside, rock music blasted from the speakers, but no sounds other than that could be heard; the five acquaintances sat in speechless silence. Michael was at the wheel because it was his vehicle, bobbing his head to the music and tapping the beat on the steering wheel. Patrick was in the seat beside him, staring at a map, tring to decode it. Ben sat behind the front passenger seat; he was ripping a Gameboy apart and salvaging pieces. J was behind the driver, looking at a theme park guide. Marc was wedged in the middle with his CD player and Gameboy; the music blasted out of the headphones, and if it was anyone besides the Italian, they would be deaf.

Patrick flipped the map upside down and stared at it, confused. " Hey, Greg!" Patrick yelled over the head-banging rock. " Where are we going exactly!? I know you said a theme park outside of Orlando, but which way!? I just assumed that it was this way!" Patrick slapped the map with the back of his hand. " It's not listed!"

J shook his head and tried to yell over the music. Finally, Patrick got tired of his short companion trying to tell him, but failing at it miserably. The blonde reached over and turned the music off. Michael saw him and slapped his friend's hand. " Don't touch my radio!"

" Okay, Patrick, I was trying to tell you that my name's not Greg! It's J, and if you don't like that, Prettyboy, you can call me Your Majesty."

" Hey! I didn't ask you what your name was, Shortcakes! I asked you where we were going!"

J held up the pamphlet. " Does anyone in this group listen, or are all of you deaf or just plain stupid? I said Terrorland!"

Marc pulled off one of the speakers covering his ear. " How are you supposed to bond at a place called Terrorland? It gives me the chills just thinking about it." Everyone was amazed that he had heard the name.

Ben stopped taking the screen apart and pointed a screwdriver in J's direction. " Where have I heard that before? It's a place that you only dream of..."

" ... And dreams come true in that place! Wow, how did you know their slogan?" J asked cheerfully. He pointed at the bottom of the pamphlet. " You been there or something? Is it fun?"

" I hear that song everynight when I go to sleep. And the weird thing is that I know for a fact that I've never heard about it before. I thought it was just my imagination dreaming up that theme park." Ben suddenly grew pale, thinking about his nightmares.

The Toyota soon reached a giant spider statue that read," Terrorland: 5 miles." Michael laughed to himelf. " Man, this is gonna be so wicked!"

Other comments flew about the jeep until one that was negative arose. Marc stated seriously," Guys? I don't know if you know this about me or not, but I'm the type of guy who'll try anything once. But I don't think this is the best idea."

" What? You chicken?" Patrick clucked at Marc.

Marc leaned forward to look at the other guitarist. " Watch it, Blondie, or one day you might wake up with a fat lip." Patrick huffed as Marc continued. " I just got this feeling. It's hard to describe. I feel like I've heard or read about that place before."

" A dream, too?" J interrogated curiously.

" No. It's different."

Soon the little car entered a lane to pay for parking. Michael inched forward until he was beside the toll booth. The box was small and black and looked empty.

All of the guys squinted to see into the booth, but none of them saw anything. Michael looked at Patrick, then at the others and got the same response; they all shook their heads, puzzled. Michael slowly cracked the window, but only a few inches. " Hello? Service here, service! I need some help."

Suddenly, something crackled within the booth, and an eerie music seemed to play from a record player recording on loudspeakers within. Ben jumped in his seat. A little child's voice began to sing:

" Terrorland, Terrorland

The voice repeated the theme twice more, and all three times that it played, Ben sat there in a trance, chanting along.

" What type of sick people are running this place," Marc asked as he cupped his hands over his ears to drown out the singing child," getting children to sing that freaky theme song!?"

" Well, I like it! It's kind of catchy! Terrorland, Terrorland..." Patrick hummed to the rest of the verse.

The voice came from nowhere. " Can I help you?" Yet, it seemed so close to them. It was similar to the voice on the recording, but this one seemed friendlier.

Michael jerked his head around, looking for the person who had said it. " Yeah, but... How much does it cost?" Michael dug through his pocket and pulled out some change.

The person chuckled and told Michael cheerfully," That's not enough, silly! You need quite a bit more to park here. At the moment, parking costs $30.00 unless you have a free parking pass which I suppose you don't since we never give them out!"

" What type of scam is this? I ain't payin' no $30.00 to park here when I can just park along the highway and walk up here for free! Plus, it's healthy exercise!"

" Well, you won't be able to park down there," answered the person. Suddenly, the ground began to shake as if it was an earthquake, but it stopped just as abruptly. Michael looked into his rearview mirror, and what he saw was unexplainable.

A 20-foot stone statue had appeared out of nowhere. The chubby, baby-faced angel stared back at Michael through the mirror with its pupilless eyes. It was supposed to be cute, but it was kind of hard to think it was with it's evil stare. Michael jumped when he saw it at first, but soon he realized that it was only a statue.

" Pay up," the person threatened," or the prices go up."

Michael , who was totally freaked out by the statue, answered," Okay, I'll pay. But how do I give you the money if I can't see you? And I don't think you want me to see you because you haven't already shown yourself, so why don't you just let me pass for free?"

" That's okay. I have a way."

" What way? How?"

Suddenly, something fell on the hood of the car. It was another stone baby-faced statue, but this one was smaller and hooked to a cord and only a head and wings. All five guys watched as it rose into the air until it was in the middle of the windshield, revealing a dent in the hood below. " Cherubhead," Marc whispered to Ben and J.

It's lips began to move, and the voice from before poured out. " Okay, just put the money in the sweet baby angel's mouth."

Marc suddenly grew white with fear. The statue had been alive, or so he thought. " Don't do it, Michael! It's alive! It'll bite you and give you some disease!"

" What are you talking about?" Michael huffed. Marc looked at his face; it was filled with disbelief and digust, like he thought Marc had made a sick joke. The Italian scanned the others' faces and found the same response.

" Didn't you see that? It talked... it talked to us," Marc said.

Ben rudely commented," You're crazy. I didn't see it because I was putting away my Gameboy, but I know it didn't speak. That's impossible." J, Patrick, and Michael had similar excuses; none was watching the cherubhead.

" Be careful what you say," Marc added for safety." The cherubs are always watching and listening; many have died from upsetting them."

" You and your superstitions," Patrick muttered under his breath.

Michael dug through his wallet and pulled out a twenty and a ten dollar bill. He rolled them up together in a cylinder and hesitated. He thrusted the money into Patrick's hand, but the blonde quickly returned it. " You do it; it's your money! Besides it's closer to you." The blue-hair shook from side to side. " Do it!" chanted Patrick.

Unrolling the window slowly, Michael only opened it wide enough for his arm to fit through. He looked at the others.

" Go ahead, Michael. You heard the man; put it in it's mouth." Patrick pointed out at the head.

Michael swallowed hard and noticed that Marc was shaking his head. He reached out of the car and shoved the roll into the cherub's mouth. He pulled his arm into the SUV, unaware of the fact that the money had fallen out.

" Look what you did! Pick that back up and push it in so that it stays!" Patrick scolded.

Patrick's best friend stared wide-eyed at him. But he eventually reached out again. Michael managed to wrap the money around his finger and he poked his finger into the stone statue's mouth. He felt it close down on his finger, so he ripped it out, leaving $30.00. He pulled his arm back into the vehicle and put his finger in his mouth. He pulled it out. " I'm bleeding! It bit me!"

" Pa-lease, you probably just cut it on a sharp edge," Patrick concluded.

" But it's like, little holes, almost like teeth marks!"

Marc leaned into the front seat and rolled up the window quickly. " I told you so!" Marc sat back and noticed Ben in a transe. He snapped his fingers in front of Ben's face and waved his hand. " Hello, anyone in there?"

Ben just looked forward at the now-retreating head. " I'm not a vampire, Live during day, I'm not a gargoyle, An angel baby, The price is red, In the chubby head..." Ben suddenly stopped and snapped out of the daydream.

" What was that?" J asked.

" What was what?" Ben asked, confused.

" That thing you just said."

" What? I didn't say anything. You probably need to join Terenzi in the Nut House." Ben kicked the seat in front of him. " Move along, now. Move along."

Patrick glared at him. " Don't do that again."

" Or what?"

The car inched forward into the parking lot.

***

Large iron letters hovered above the ex-band's heads as they passed the entrance and headed toward the ticket booth. The dead trees reached up into the sky with their bony arms as if praying for rain. The rocks below that paved the road were either as black as charcoal or as crimson as blood. The ticket booth was made up of a few boards slapped together, rotting in the heat of the early morning sun.

Inside the little shack sat a skeleton, grinning at the dare-devil firsttimers. It wore a top hat filled with holes and covered in spiderweb. A flower that was long-past dead was weaved into its ribcage, giving it a look of formality. The pale white arm reached over and pressed the ON button on a calculator. " How many?"

The guys stood there speechless, mouths wide open. The skeleton had moved it's mouth and produced words without a voice box or lips. Patrick finally figured out an explanation for the phenomenon. " It's a puppet. Some guy is behind there making the sounds," he whispered to the others.

" I don't think so, Patrick," J informed. " Where are the strings?"

The blonde gave a little laugh. " Cleverly hid."

" I still don't..."

" Let's play along with it as if it was real." Patrick walked up to the booth and laid his arm across one of the boards. " What? You can't tell how many of us there are? Oh!" Patrick stated to the "puppet" as if it was blind." My bad! You don't have any eyes so you can't count us!"

The skeleton jerked his head forward so his was an inch from Patrick's. " I'm not blind! Of course I can tell how many. Five. If you don't believe me, check." The skeleton waited for his guest to turn around and count. " I want to know how many adults are here."

" Don't try to flatter me," Patrick growled, standing up straight.

Ben scooted closer to the guitarist. " Um... Patrick. That is not a toy." He pointed to the skeleton who was now picking at something between his teeth.

" Yeah, right! That was so planned. They want to make it more real, so they made it pick its teeth."

Marc and Michael stood back a bit from the others who were dangerously close to the bones. At any other time, both would have been up there right by it asking stupid questions and laughing under their breath. But something told them to stay low.

" Five adults," the blonde laughed.

" Okay, that will be..." the skeleton said as it punched some numbers on the calculator "... four-hundred dollars."

" FOUR-HUNDRED DOLLARS!" the blonde screamed." What a rip!"

J suddenly remembered the free tickets in his pocket. " Uh, I received these... uh, tickets." He held them out so the ticket-giver could see them. The bony hand reached out and took the pieces of paper. He studied them through the eyeless sockets, sighed, and looked up at the guests.

" These are invalid," the skeleton said before handing them back to the short male.

" What? What do you mean? There is not an expiration date on it..."

" That's because they were never really produced. We do not give out free tickets!"

J could not believe this. " But I received them in the mail with this note." The pianist conquered his fear of the skeleton and pushed the letter into the reaches of the white claws.

After a couple of minutes of watching the "puppet" read the note over and over, Michael became bored, so he pulled out a fruit-grain bar from a pocket. " How'd this get in here?" he asked unaware that he had slipped it in there on accident. " Oh, well." He took a bite of it and began to chew the brownish-tan and glossy crimson snack.

The skeleton saw the object of food. He quickly threw a rock at the drummer, making him drop the fruit-grain bar to rub the injured spot.

" What did you do that for?!"

A smile formed over the skinless human's face, though the bones did not move; there was just a karma about his attitude. " No healthy things allowed! If you're hungry, then here." His hand clamped over something in the booth and tossed it out at Michael.

The blue-haired guy caught all of it in his shirt. Holding the clothing so it formed a "bowl", he sifted through the various foods. Michael found circus peanuts and candycorn, neither wrapped up, spice drops with black junk on each piece, and taffy that was wrapped in black and orange wrappers (the kind seen at Halloween time that is mysteriously nasty).

" Candy- to rot your teeth! The children's door to imagination-" the skeleton began.

Michael threw the rotters to the ground. " You mean the children's door to the dentist's office!" He wiped his hands on his shirt with a look of digust filling his face. " Candy's, like, good every now and then, but it can do some serious damage."

The skeleton just mumbled between his teeth. He studied the note one more time before stating," You may enter, but you must go to the registration desk to verify these tickets." A bony hand smacked the paper and then waved in the air pointing inside the gates at a large, black, gothic-style building. He grabbed a stamp, dipped it into scarlet ink, and pressed it down on the five new tickets. The skeleton thrusted the stubs at J, but they all fluttered to the ground. J stooped over and scooped them up.

What was inside the building, the boys did not expect. It was dark inside, the only light flickering from the candles mounted to the wall. The floor was a dark burgandy, and the walls were a pale grey. The cold air sent chills up their spines, made the hairs on the back of their necks raise up, and froze them to the bone. They huttled together, their teeth's chattering, parading down the hall like a marching band. Eyes and ears ever alert, Marc's heart froze as he saw the signifgance of this place.

" Oh my...we're in a funeral home!" yelled the Italian, gazing at the pine box in front of the group. The others screamed in fear because the shout hadn't had any warning.

Ben grabbed his chest, feeling his heart. " Man, Marc! Tell us when your gonna scream out in our ears! You almost gave me a heart attack!" He breathed in slowly.

Patrick ran his fingers through his long hair and sighed. " What is with you, Terenzi?" He shuffled over to the coffin. " It's a funeral home, so what? Besides both I know, and you know," he pointed accusingly at his acquaintance," this isn't real! It's fake. There is not a real body in here."

" Cause they've been waiting for us! That skeleton pointed us towards here for a reason, and I don't mean to verify our invalid tickets. It's a setup." Marc stepped back a bit. " That one looks about your size, King. And that one," he turned and faced a tall wooden coffin," looks like the perfect fit for Ben. There's one for Michael and one for me." Two boxes stood up in the corner while one child-sized one leaned against them. " And, of course, one for George."

" My name is J!"

" Whatever."

The pianist walked over to the child coffin and stood next to it. " Does it look like I could fit in this?" he asked rudely as he tried to make a point. He held his arms up to his head, like he was measuring himself, then J waved them at head level above the box to show the difference; there was a good two feet or so between the two.

Ben said," I don't know... I have a feeling that we're not supposed to be in here," as a second thought, he added," yet." Ben ran his hand over the pine box that Marc had noticed first. " Let's see who's occupying our hotel rooms right now." He heaved upwards on the lid, and it slid off into the floor, thudding like a ripe melon.

Inside lay a body, not a human body, but an undefinable one. It was hideous, so Ben turned away. Patrick wandered over and saw it resting in peace. " Pa-lease! That is so fake. It's gotta be made of rubber." He leaned in and touched the thing. " Well, it's kinda slimy and cold." Patrick leaned in more this time, and suddenly cried out. The screams were muffled, and he was pulled in. The coffin shook a bit, and then sat motionless.

The four other guys grouped together, speechless and horrified. " Patrick?" Michael finally asked. " Hey, Patrick? You okay?"

Nothing answered. Michael shoved Marc towards the box and motioned for him to check it out. Marc slowly creeped up to the edge, and looked in.

Patrick sat up and yelled," Boo!" Marc fell backwards to the floor while the others had started running towards the door. Ben looked back and saw that Patrick was laughing uncontrollably.

" Don't do that!" Marc said as he punched Patrick in the arm, causing Patrick to cough out the last few chuckles.

Patrick was laying on the floor, rubbing his arm, when a voice called out. It sounded like a little boy's; he couldn't have been more than six years old. The guys walked around, searching for the chuckles.

" Ahhhh!" Ben screamed from the front of the room.

J, Marc, Michael, and Patrick slowly went over to the bassist, all staring up at the 15-foot podium in front of them. They scanned it until they, too, saw it.

" What is that?" Michael pointed to the object fashioned to the podium near the top.

Marc sensed the stone statue's presence. " Cherub." All four heads faced him. He stepped back a couple of feet. " It knows."

" Knows what?" Patrick gulped.

The Italian shook his head as he backed away some more. " It knows. It knows. It knows."

The Cali-boy spaced out and began to whisper some riddle. " The omniscent one stares with it's evil eye below, we can run but cannot hide what it knows, it's in plain view- what secrets we hold, it sees and reads what is untold." His eyes had been glazed over, but the bright blue soon reappeared.

J looked at Ben. " Now, I know that you just said something," he whispered.

" What? I said it before, and I'll say it again: you're crazy!"

" Then what was that whole deal about ' the omniscent one'?"

Ben just shrugged, brushing away the idea.

Marc, who had not heard Ben's riddle, kept backing away, but not at a brisk pace. He finally answered 'what it knows' after some unrecognizable gibberish. His eyes became watery. He began to sweat, and something ran out of his eyes and onto his cheek. His shaking hand wiped it away. " It knows our fears; it reads our fears; it uses our fears against us."

The little man's mind clicked on as he put two and two together. " That's what Ben just whispered," J said aloud with a little kick in his voice. " Somebody, I guess the cherub, is ' the omniscent one' and can see our fears, or in other words, ' the secrets we hold', because we do not admit that we have them."

" Spooky, man," Michael added, wiping his hair off his forehead.

" Isn't it?" The child was back, more or less.

Marc, who was now in the dead center of the gigantic room, suddenly crouched down. The others saw him but could not explain what his actions meant. They kept their eyes on him as he lowered his head so he was facing the ground.

The voice giggled once more. " So, you think you're here for invalid tickets. Hmmm... I don't know what to say. You see, we do not ever give out tickets because it is a privlege to come and enjoy the fun of Terrorland. And privleges cost something, whether its a whole country fighting for freedom, also a privlege, or a little boy eating cake. Freedom costed lives, and cake was bought by begging and pleading or doing something wonderful. So there must be some price to come to Terrorland, which is money."

"Yeah, but I-" J started.

" But NOTHING!" the voice yelled. It was so loud the funeral home shook, some of the coffins falling, breaking, and revealing their hosts.

" We don't take orders from no one, not even some cherub that's probably faker than fake and cooked up in the sick mind of Marc Terenzi." Ben hopped towards the voice's direction threateningly.

Michael moved next to Ben to defend also. " If you don't like us being here without paying, then let us go." He crossed his arms as he shifted his weight.

J and Patrick followed with similar responses, both with the same attitude.

" You still can't see," the voice said with a hint of hatred. " Since you are here, you can stay, and you will, unless there's a problem."

Patrick huffed," Well there is, so show us to the exit, and we'll be on our way."

The voice sighed. " Well, if that's what you wish, go ahead. The doors and gaits are all unlocked."

" They were locked!" Ben screamed. He erased his next comment from his mind and ordered instead," C'mon, guys, before they lock them again."The group began its journey across the floor and walked passed the crouching Marc. " Hey, Marc. Let's go," Ben added.

They stopped at the door and heard no footsteps behind them. J turned and noticed that Marc was still in the same position. " What's wrong?"

" I said there was a price to come into Terrorland," the voice growled. It did not sound the same and was now closer to them.

Marc finally stood up and moved to them, keeping his head down. When he reached them, Michael put a comforting hand on his shoulder and asked," You okay?"

The Italian's head rose to look at Michael. He was smiling a crooked, twisted-looking smile. " Yeah, but I'm staying."

The other four's mouths dropped, and there was complete silence until Patrick yelled," Uh uh! No way! Marc is not a a piece of currency! He is not staying, and none of us are either!"

Smiling that evil, twisted smile, Marc said," Oh, but he is. He is staying. I like him. His fears are not easily found; he actually tries to hide them. I need a new toy to play with the mind of. His defeat will be so pleasurable to watch as I weave his fears deeper." His eyes flashed red, and the others could see them fog over by a mysterious smoke that reeked of death.

J quickly thought and came to a conclusion. " Let Marc go! Take me instead. I made them come here, so I should be the price." J raised to his full height and stared threateningly into the eyes of his opponent, reassuring himself that the others wouldn't support his decision and bargain their life instead.

" Go ahead; he's right," Patrick said as he pushed J into Marc's arms. " Take him; we don't need him. It's his fault, not Marc's."

The possessed Italian studied the others faces, all of them blank at what J had said. He shoved J back towards Patrick, but the blonde dodged his friend. " No! You don't care for him! Besides, I like this body," Marc yelled. " So much power."

Standing without speech, the group tried to come up with another way to save their demonic counterpart. Michael did not think long before trying his response.

" We don't need him," Michael laughed, trying to use the reverse response method.

" Well, then you can be on your way."

" No, I lied!"

" I will make a deal with you," the cherub answered. " If you do not come into this building again before the week is up, I might let you go. "

Patrick suddenly answered, cutting anybody off who would have said yes. " No. I've played that game before. You MIGHT not let us go either, so you have to swear to let us go if we never step into this... morgue again."

The cherub disfigured Marc's face as it twisted the tips of his lips into an evil smirk. " Deal."

Marc fell to the floor, limp as a ragdoll. He struggled to sit up, but it was no use. The strength was gone for now. He just lied their crying because he was free.

Ben bent down to help pick Marc up off the floor. His arm slid around his friend's waist, but abruptly, it fell as limp as Marc. Ben's eyes rolled around so that only the cornea could be seen. He swaggered and fell beside the other, but he turned over and began to twitch. His lips moved, but nothing came out. At least not to the other three.

J scooted closer, careful not to touch either of the guys. Putting his ear near Ben's mouth, J listened intently. And he heard it.

" The deal is done," J said, but said nothing more.

Ben soon recovered, as did Marc, but not as quickly. The Italian was still quite weak, so the Californian and blue-haired boy helped him out of the funeral home.

Chapter 3

There it was. It was a giant wooden sign that read: Phobia Phalls. That explained the enormous waterfall in the distance, running crimson. The river at the bottom swerved and curled around various attractions that had to be phobia-based. The water bubbled as if it were alive, trying to breathe the air, gasping for breath.

" How do you think they did that?" asked J curiously.

Patrick flipped his hair, the sun reflecting off the locks. " I don't know. It's probably food dye."

The group headed into the section of the theme park, noting all of the rides. They ignored some of the less thrilling ones and headed straight for the grand-daddy of them all.

The name wasn't that spectaclular. It didn't hint at any sudden falls, sharp turns, intense speeds, or a blowing-your-mind experience. You would have thought that a ride with the name "The Itsy-Bitsy Spider" would have been some boring baby's ride that barely even thrilled the youngest of children. But this was Terrorland, and in Terrorland the terror was real.

Two black, steel arches loomed in the background, rising to meet the grey thunderclouds in the distance. The scarlet river ran between the moon-shaped beams. Webs of silk covered one of the arches fully and also formed a safety net above the rushing waters.

As the guys ran up to the place where a line would have been, they heard children's voices singing that little nursery rhyme:

Patrick was in the lead and reached the loading platform first. A really old, creepy looking man sat on a crate intended to be a chair. He had been sleeping until the footsteps of excitement had stirred him from his slumber. The bony hand, resembling the skeleton's at the ticket booth, pointed to a cable that had five harnesses strapped to it. The blonde went over and hooked himself to it.

" This is gonna be so cool!" Michael laughed, strapping himself in the harness beside his best friend.

Ben squeezed into the harness on Patrick's left. " Woo-woo!"

J hooked himself beside Michael. " You know, I'm not so sure about this... I have a fear of heights."

" Don't be a baby," Michael stated seriously.

" Bring it on!" Marc demanded before he reached the cable. When he began to fasten the seat-belt-like-but-safer clasp, he found that his was damaged and was missing one piece. " What am I supposed to do now?"

" Tie it," moaned the half-dead human.

The Italian knotted it as the cable began to lift them off the ground. In the distance, they could hear the song again:

Ben could not believe what he just heard. " Was it me, or did that song just say ' down came the blood'?" he questioned Terenzi.

Marc shrugged and said," I heard it, too. Maybe we're going crazy."

" Or maybe it means we're...ya know...going to be cut out of the picture."

The wind rustled the bundle of humans as they had finally reached the top. The cool air refreshed them because the smothering heat rising off of the ground had almost caused them to dehydrate. The bundle swung back and forth, idol in the air as they waited to be dropped.

J tried not to think about the inevitable; he was over 200 feet from the ground on a suspicious "carnival" ride. He prayed to himself that he would live.

" Guys," Ben began. " I know this isn't the best time to bring this up, but I remembered this dream I had a few months ago. We were playing around on this bridge. You know, the kind with lots of traffic. Well, we were waiting and decided to get out and dare each other to teeter on the edge. I'm not sure what exactly happened, but I know whatever it was wasn't goo..." Ben stopped in the middle of his sentence and began to sing again. " Prey And Treat, Maybe I'll Kiss Earth After Near Death Judgement, Beneath Enormous Numbers, Masked Among Red Crests."

" What in the world did he just say?" asked Marc.

J leaned forward to see the Italian. " I honestly don't know."

The slingshot catipulted them at the web-decorated arch. They barely missed the silk as the harnesses swung them back up for another round. Spinning in circles, they couldn't see anything but a blur of light as they shot towards the netting a second time. Patrick kicked and screamed when he found out that he would be the one just inches away from the web. The arch neared, and they were about to swing back when a jolt stopped them.

Micheal had lost his breath, as did the others, but he soon was able to talk. " What just happened?" He looked to his left at Patrick.

" Help!" yelled Patrick. " I'm caught in the spiderweb!" Patrick tried to shake his foot out of the web, but it was no use; he was stuck.

The pianist, who was now facing towards the ground with the Italian, screamed in fright," AHHH! Get me down! Get me down! Patrick, take off your shoe so we can go back down NOW! I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die. I'm too young to die."

Ben turned a little bit to face him. " Shut up! If you're too young to die, then I definitely am! It's gonna be okay. Let's use our brains."

" Excuse me, Jeramiah. I can't take off my shoe when it's my pants leg that's caught, thank you very much," Patrick snapped at the almost-to-the-point-of-wetting-his-pants-afraid J.

" It's J!"

The bundle of human flesh swung in the high altitude winds. Loose-flying spider web grabbed Patrick's pants and held on tight. " How high do you suppose we are?"

The bassist scratched his dark blonde hair. " I guess about 150 feet from the concrete. Falling would be deadly, I say out of the question. It looks like we have four other choices."

" What are they?" Marc, who wasn't exactly afraid of the height, questioned.

" One: We sit here and wait for the ride operator to help."

Michael grunted," Yeah, right."

" Two: Cut, knaw, eat, or rip Patrick's foot off."

Patrick was suddenly alarmed. " No! You want me to die from one of these heathen's diseases or loss of blood?" He grabbed his ankle like he could already feel them ripping at the skin.

" Three: Unhook Patrick and leave him here to fend for himself as we swing to safety."

J perked up and said studdering," I like that one: quick, easy, and safe."

" Uh uh. No way!"

Ben waited a minute before saying the last one. " This seems the safest for all of us and I suggest we do this. Four: Patrick takes off his pants and peels off the extra web on his leg so we're free to go back down."

" Are you crazy? I am not taking my pants off for no one's safety except mine, and as I see it, I'm okay. Besides I don't want anyone to see me."

" But nobody's here, practically! Maybe ten people at the most, but nobody you know," Marc answered. " Just do it!"

" No!"

Michael looked at his best friend threatingly. " Well, if you won't take your pants off, then I am!" Michael leaned toward Patrick but sat back up holding his nose. He pinched it as the blood oozed out.

Patrick wiped his fist off on his shirt. He flexed his fingers to make the pain go away, and he felt something on his leg. He glanced down, still worried that Michael might try something stupid, and saw a CD-sized spider crawling towards his face. " Ahhh! Get it off!" The blonde tried to knock it off, but another had slid onto his leg, heading in the same direction as the other. Then he noticed that five more were heading his way. " Attack of the Mutant Arachnids!"

The others watched as the over-sized black widows enclosed Patrick's harness with their sticky webs, almost as if they didn't want the other members of the band to leave if Patrick was unhooked.

" What's going on?" Marc asked, aware that escape was almost impossible.

J peered at the man on his right. " We're gonna die! It's the end of the world."

" It's not safe up here anymore," Ben answered.

" It never was," Marc pointed out. Without him knowing, his tied harness slowly undid itself from the weight. The Italian slipped out of it and began his journey to the afterlife.

Ben screamed as he watched his friend fall, who was now crying out for help and tears ran out of his eyes.

***

They were pulling on Patrick. The two dozen pack of spiders were slowly slipping Patrick out of his harness. Once, he had tried to kill them with his hands, but soon after they had bundled them up in web. He had also tried to kick them off; his legs became tied together.

The arachnids had managed to get the blonde out, and he hung on the giant web by only his tangled legs. The black widows crawled up on him, tickling as they fashioned a caccoon around his body, only leaving his head free. " Help!"

Michael had to find a way to help his buddy. But what could he do? At least Patrick was idol on the web. Michael looked over at his blonde-haired companion, but what he saw wasn't Patrick.

A dark shadow had grown over Ben, J, and himself and had engulfed Patrick too. The hairy treetrunks danced their way down on the invisible web, and a huge craft loomed overhead. The jelly-like, crimson eyes shot back and forth, scanning the area for its victim. Black widows scattered and disappeared as the mother of all spiders stopped in front of Patrick.

" OMG! Michael, help!" Patrick squealed at his friend. The mother took Patrick up in her fangs' tight grip and began her way to the top.

" No, Patrick! Don't leave me here alone with these freaks!"

Ben and J shot Michael a look of disgust. J said, " Freaks! I am offended."

Michael looked up at his best friend. " Help me, guys! We have to save Patrick!"

" Why don't you just do it alone. The freaks would slow you down," Ben answered coldly. He crossed his arms and turned away from Michael.

The blue-hair twisted to reface Ben. " Please! Pat's a band mate; you have to help him."

" Oh, now, we can save Patrick, but we can't save Marc, the guy who formed us together, the guy who risked coming here though impulse told him not to, the guy who was possessed by the devil, the guy who is seconds away from a death of concrete and blood!"

" He's a goner. We can't help him if he's falling, but we can prevent another death if we just try."

" Hmmmpf."

J sat there and listened to the conversation until he saw something terrifying. " Look! The spider's got Patrick upside down, hanging by a thread of web that one of them baby angel face's is holding in its mouth, and the spider is about to begin the Draining."

" The what?!" Michael and Ben asked in unison.

" The Draining. The spider drinks Patrick's blood."

Ben lamely said," Oh."

The drummer screamed at the top of his lungs," Patrick! No, you can't go! I won't let them take you!" He unhooked his harness but held firmly on because he did not want to suffer the same fate as the lead guitarist. Reaching for the web so he could climb up, Michael's fingers slipped and he felt himself plummet towards the earth below. Suddenly, without warning, his body jerked as something stopped him in midair.

" Agggh!" A scream pierced the silent air.

Michael looked up and saw what had ceased his demise. The chain that was hooked to his pants had been long enough to catch hold of something, and that something was J's leg. The short man had cried out in pain as the metal twisted and wrapped itself around him.

" For the first time in your life, you've been useful!" Michael smiled.

J tried to smile back, but he was preoccupied. Slowly, he was slipping out of his harness. His eyes wandered to the clasp, which was on the verge of breaking, then to the waist strap that was getting ever closer to his head, and then to Michael below.

***

Ben had known that they were going to fall. Yet, he didn't even make a move to save them. He had just sat back, watching them like a movie, and saw the two plunge to the earth below. They had disappeared for a moment, but reappeared, suspended on the edge of horizontal web.

He was alone, and when the others had been with Ben, he wasn't the least bit scared, but now he was scared. What if he never got down? What if he fell and crushed his bones on the concrete? There was too many what if's.

Ben had to get down. He decided that he would try to climb down the web, but the only problem was the horde of spiders waiting for him. He ripped and shredded the silk holding the harness to the giant net. Swinging back at the original arch, he planned to jump before he hit the web to get lower. Then he would scurry down to the ground.

Struggling to unsnap the buckle in midair at high speeds, Ben finally got it. He tried to hold on with all his might, but it was no use. One of his hands grew tired and let go, and the other one couldn't hold him. Ben tried to grab the straps. It was no use; Ben had already let go.

"Ahhhh!" Ben yelled as he fell towards the ground.

***

Michael and J bounced as they hit the sticky web that stretched horizontally across the two arches, recoiling them as the silks pulled at their clothes. Trying to release their arms and legs, they became more entangled and helpless. The two sat there, both hyperventilating, staring at the sky from which they fell, neither actually seeing anything but their life flashing before their eyes.

J started screaming. " Ahhhhh! Ah! Ah! Ahhhhhh!" He kept doing it like a siren, penetrating his and Mike's heavy, quick-paced heartbeats. The cries of fear would not stop; they could not stop.

" Give it up, Jerry," the drummer grunted, turning his head to face the man on his left. " It's over, and we're safe on the ground, more or less. You know, " he took a deep breath," that was kinda fun. I'd do it again if it didn't put my life in danger."

The pianist stopped. " I'm sorry." He closed his eyes as he commented," There is no way that I would ever do that again, and it's J!"

" C'mon, let's get off of this."

Both guys started tearing at the webs, ripping and knawing at the stickiness around their wrists to buy their freedom. Soon, they pulled themselves to an upright position. After getting their clothes separated from the silk, they slid between two holes and fell to the ground ten feet below.

" Man, we are lucky. We were, like, eight feet from death!" Michael exclaimed, amazed about the close call.

Trekking through the high grasses, they finally made it back to the concrete. J and Michael split up to look for the others.

Johnson headed toward the ride's boarding booth to talk with the ride operator. His head hurt because of the fall, and he was a little dizzy. His stomach was in pain while he also felt light-headed and airy so it was hard to concentrate. He stumbled as he weakly crossed the bridge and made it half way to his destination. The blue-haired teenager collapsed to the ground, lost in a world of darkness.

***

Patrick yelled at the top of his lungs as he swung back and forth in the breeze. His face had turned red, and it was beginning to look a little bit purple. He tried to yell again; he thought he did, but it was a weak whisper to himself. The next one was in his head, then it stopped all together.

His eyes had closed without him noticing, but he opened them once he had found out. They were heavy, and it hurt to keep them open. Patrick shut them to stop the throbbing. Before he did though, he saw the three statue heads hovering above him. The pain was still there. What was wrong with his head?

" Ohhhh," Patrick tired to speak. " My head... too much blood... what a rush..."

The pain began to subside, but Patrick was still dizzy. He was getting use to the low air pressure and the height and being upside down. A little light headed, he began to snicker.

It was like having laughing gas. Once you started, it was quite hard to stop. At first it was only a snicker, but then it turned into a chuckle. Patrick tried to hold it in; he bursted out laughing in an insane way.

He swang back and forth and laughed to himself while anyone below watched him fearfully. It was Patrick's own private joke; no, he had no clue what he was laughing at. It was someone else's humor. But it was fun for the blonde. He had a wild time up there, dangerously swinging.

After a while, it just wasn't that interesting or Patrick had began to get another head rush because he only chuckled to himself every once in a while. Through squinted eyes, he saw his blue-haired best friend walking with that short, suspicious character. Patrick thought to himself," Hey, who is that? A best-friend-napper most likely. He's trying to take Michael away from me!"

In a moment, he used up his last strength to call out to the two below. " Leave my friend alone!"

They hadn't heard him, but he thought they had, at least the short fellow, because the two had split up. He managed to shout out a short whoop of joy. Swaying back and forth, Patrick giggled hysterically.

Michael had dropped to the ground to make Patrick laugh, like some kind of sick joke between them. He waited for the teen to stand back up, but the more he stared at the body, the more his eyes stung. He began to cry to try to stop it, but his head was hurting again.

Why was he in so much pain? Would he die from the blood rush? What was wrong with Michael? Why wouldn't he get up? Where were the other three? Was there three more? Everything was so unclear.

***

The ground grew ever nearer as Marc plunged to his doom. He was crying and screaming. His life flashed before his eyes within seconds, then it became blank. He fell at such a fast rate that it was hard to tell where he would land. The crimson river was dead in his path.

The fall from over 200 feet and the speed he had picked up only made impact worse. Marc slammed into the water with bone-crushing force. Dark red swirled about his limp body. Smoky crests dragged him under and drank the little life from his body. Liquids filled his mouth and sank into his lungs as he gasped for breath under the thick river. He tried to swim, but his body wouldn't move. Marc stayed suspended in the liquid, not moving, giving his slipping-away body an eerie death feel about it. A tear that matched the water came out and mixed into the crests, adding part of Marc to the place.

***

The web beneath him was too weak to hold him plus the impact broke the silk strands. Ben fell through to the ground, and the dirt gave way under Ben's bruised back. He landed in a dark, damp hole, glistening in the fresh light made by the hole.

Ben sat up and tried to look around. It was still too dim to see where he was. "I knew it...I didn't go to heaven, so I must have went to-" He stopped when he felt something crawling on his neck. Then he noticed that his legs, arms, and body were covered in the same itchy feeling. He dug into the deep pockets of his blue jeans that were now shorts.

His first try only discovered a handful of dirt and that thing that he was trying to see, but in his second try, Ben found what he was looking for. Using the laser pen as a flashlight, Ben saw the tiny bodies creeping over his.

"Ants!" yelled the boy. He struggled to get up from where he had landed and jumped, grabbing the side of the hole with his hands. Pulling himself up, Ben looked around for help. No one was around. He ran out into the open field near one of the legs of the first arch. He ripped off the California Surf Co. T-shirt and threw it to the ground. Then he rolled around and beat his legs, knocking the ants off or killing them.

Lying on the ground after knowing there were no more on him, Ben breathed in deeply. He laughed to himself and yelled, "Yeah! I showed them stupid ants!" He shook his fists in the air and whooped for joy.

Ben picked himself up off the ground and slowly made his way over to his shirt. It was consumed with the tiny critters. Using a stick, he picked the shirt up and carried it over to the river. He dipped it in, watching the insects drown or get carried away in the current. On the glossy, red waters, he could see his dirt-covered, face. Strangely, he saw another face beneath the waves.

"Marc!"

Ben dove into the river and swam down into the water wear he saw his friend. He wasn't there. Ben jerked his head around, looking in all directions. The liquid was so thick that it was useless to try. He fought the current blindly and felt the body. Wrapping his arms around it, he swam to the top.

It wasn't Marc. A lifeless corspe was suspended in Ben's arms. He stared at it, horrified, and dropped it back into the murky depths from which it came. Ben went back under and searched again.

He grabbed the Italian's well-built body and dragged him to the surface. He pulled himself to the shore and pushed the guitarist on to the land. Ben crawled up by Marc and fell on top of his shirt. He put it on, and he noticed that the guy next to him wasn't breathing.

"Terenzi! Breathe, Terenzi!"

***

J ran over to the arch where Patrick was located. Holding his hands over his eyes to shield them from the sun, he spotted Patrick at the top. The spider was getting closer to him, so Horn grabbed a rock and thrusted it into the air at the arachnid, but his poor attempt to save the band member was useless; the rock fell about five feet in front of him.

What could he do? He just couldn't leave Patrick there for the spider. This had to work.

"Hey, cherub!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. J watched as Patrick swung because the cherub had turned to face him. "Let go of my buddy! I know demolishers who'll turn this place into a stone graveyard in ten seconds flat!"

The two cherubs that were on the sides of the one holding the blonde up started screaming. They yelled at the short man with their high-pitched, children voices. Threats entered the air, but Horn couldn't make out what the foul-mouthed, angel statues were cursing.

"Yeah, that's right! And you are so sick...I hate cherubs. They have those nasty, little baby faces and those sick, pupilless eyes...Gross!"

The middle one became enraged at his comment and opened its mouth to swear at J. But once the teeth opened, the web-string was let go, and Patrick began to fall like a rock to the ground, heavy and motionless.

J ran over to the horizontal web that had saved him and Michael. He hoped Patrick would end up on it. When he arrived, he found the unconscience blonde hooked to the net of silk. A large mass of spiders were crawling down the other one, trying to catch the prey for the queen. J reached up and jumped to catch the end of the string that held Patrick up for so long, and with the force of his body against gravity, he ripped Patrick from the web's grip. Then he dragged Patrick through the bushes and weeds to safety.

"Pat! Pat!" He began to slap the guitarist to wake him. Finally, Patrick regained conscienceness with a dazed look in his blue eyes.

"What happened? The last thing I remember was me swaying in the air, and a short, suspicious fellow stealing my Micheal." He shook his blonde head to start it thinking again. Patrick looked back at J and exclaimed, "You tried to kidnap my Michael!"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Just help me out of this caccoon."

"Are you gonna be a butterfly?" J joked as he ripped the material made by the spiders, releasing his bandmate.

***

"Terenzi! I said breathe!" Ben slapped his ex-bandmate. Marc wasn't breathing, so Ben did the only thing he could: CPR. He pinched the Italian's nose and breathed through his mouth and into his lungs. After that, he listened for a heartbeat, but Ben heard nothing. He placed one hand on top of the other and pressed down rapidly, and he repeated these three steps several times.

Ben finally gave up; it was no use. Marc was dead. Ben turned around and leaned up against the body. He put his head in his hands and began to cry.

"What's wrong with you?" asked a voice behind Ben. "Someone die?"

"Marc...drowned!"

"Crazy! I knew it. You're insane."

Ben looked behind him and saw Marc staring up at him. Ben smiled, and Marc tried to smile back, but he coughed up the river's water. Marc smacked his lips and wiped off his mouth. "Man, that stuff tastes like blood."

"I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't,"Ben answered, looking at his stained clothes and then at Marc's. "You're shirt is stop-sign red! And you're hair is dark red."

"Well, I wouldn't be talking, Bledsoe. You look like a red-head yourself." Marc sat up and looked around then back at Ben. "What happened to you?" He pointed at Ben's face covered in mud and little red bumps.

Ben felt his head and laughed. "I fell out of the sky and into an ant nest. Nasty little things covered me from head to toe, but I got out. I guess not without battle wounds." Ben wiped some of the red mud off his face and threw it at Marc. "This stuff is caked on. Before long in this heat, I'll be an adobe Ben."

The Italian stood up and scanned the surroundings. "Why's Michael over there on the bridge?" Ben's eyes followed to where Marc had mentioned, and both boys became concerned suddenly.

They rushed over to the drummer, who seemed lifeless. Both remembered Michael had asthma and searched his pockets until they found the inhaler. Marc put it in Mike's mouth, and pumped it.

Michael sat up after a few moments. "Where am I? Is Pat okay?" He glanced up at where Patrick used to be and noticed that the bundle was gone. "Oh, no! Pat's been devoured by the beast! It's all my fault...Stupid asthma!" He slapped his forehead, mad at himself.

Out of nowhere, J and the blonde came strutting up, both proud to have escaped from the nasty situation. "Hey, Mike. I thought you were a real pal and would try to save me, but I guess I know who my true friends are." He looked at J.

"What do you mean?" Ben huffed. "Michael was the only one who WANTED to save your butt! It just happens that Joey got to you first."

"It's J!"

Marc glared at the little man. "Whatever. Is that all you think about?"

"You need to get cleaned up," said Michael from the ground. "The both of you." He pointed at Ben and Marc. "I think I saw a bathroom near that crazy ride we just got on. By the way, Marc, wasn't your shirt white, and Ben, didn't you have blue jeans on?"

"Don't ask," Marc answered.

Ben and Marc found the restroom after a few minutes of searching. They ran some water in each of their sinks and washed off their skin. Marc took a handful of water and splashed it on his face, but he stopped as he looked into the mirror.

The Italian turned around to face the stalls and stared up at a cherub head mounted to the wall above the toilets. It's eyes were closed, and a faint sound like someone or something was snoring came from the direction. Marc faced Ben who was trying to wash out the splotches of red out of his shirt where it had soaked through.

"We are not using the bathroom here. The cherubs could be watching,"Marc whispered.

Ben turned around and looked at the still head. He shook his head like it was impossible that the statues were really alive, but he knew deep down that Marc could be right. Come on, how many people actually lived through a stunt like the boys had just did. "Let's get out of here."

Marc studied the cherub. "I'm with you."

Chapter 4

The five guys strolled over to the ride that was closest to them, the shortest walking distance. They studied the sign that led to the entrance of the spooky ride: Rollerghoster. Not the most pleasant name for a ride, but the guys decided that rollercoasters didn't hold any immediate threat, so they wanted to try it out. Under the name, it read: Get the Pants Scared Right Off of You! Could that possibly happen? Remember: Anything is possible.

Michael entered the ride's entrance hall first. Speeding down the hall, Michael stared blankly at the dusty, grey, concrete walls. He realized that the whole ride was enclosed in the concrete box. It surrounded all sides and the top, never revealing the tracks or cars or even people taking a trip around the "Rollerghoster." Michael tapped his foot on the floor, emitting a sharp rap yet still giving Michael the feeling that the box was hallow and lonely. So the floors were made of concrete; what could they possibly be trying to keep out? Or were they trying to keep something in?

Marc, Ben, and Patrick followed with J trailing behind.

J didn't want to go on it. He was afraid of heights. And rollercoasters definitely had height. But staying alone in the themepark probably wasn't the best idea, so he tagged along, unsure, unsecure, and most of all, reluctant.

After a few minutes of wandering endless corridors, they arrived at the loading pad. A woman was at this one instead of a half-dead man. She was fairly young and smelled of a rotten odor. Her hair was teased and pulled half-back, and her fingernails were home to multiple fungi and dirts.

"Welcome to the Rollerghoster!" she cheered, raising her hands above her head like she was enthusiastic. "Come. Come and sit." She patted the cars.

Marc hurried over to the middle car of three. "I'll sit here." He hopped over the side and grabbed the seatbelt. Proving why he wanted that certain one, he added, "Just in case something comes from the front, then I won't be first...or if it comes from behind." He looked over his shoulder, paranoid.

"Ooh! I'll pair up with him!" Ben shouted, running to the car.

"I'll be his partner!" Patrick screamed, following Ben.

The two boys reached the car at the same moment. They began to tug on each other's hair, pull at each other's clothes, rip at the other's skin, and throw each other off of their "designated" seat. Ben tore out a chunk of Patrick's blonde whisps; Patrick attacked Ben's feet with his own, stomping down as hard as he could. Then the Califorian shoved two fingers into the eye sockets of the rhythmic guitarist, winning the fight and the seat as Patrick rubbed his eyeballs greedily to ease the pain.

The Italian hooked the seatbelt around him and Ben and pulled the lap bar down over their bruised legs, sealing the deal.

Michael placed himself in the front. "I'll take my chance." He began to fix his seatbelt when Patrick ran over and hopped in as a last attempt.

"There is no way," Patrick whispered, "that I am riding with Joseph. Who knows where he's been? For all I know, he could be a mass murderer." He shoved a pointer finger in J's direction.

"Who?"

"Jose. Or whoever he is? I forget."

Johnson nodded in understandment.

The woman trotted over to the front car where Michael was. "Let me get that for you." She tightened it so much that the belt almost cut off Michael's circulation. When she looked up, she winked at Michael and grinned.

Patrick leaned over to Michael as he loosened the belt a little. "Looks like you got an admirer."

Johnson just shook his head in disgust, first making sure the woman wasn't watching.

"No...I can't be by myself!" J whined. He stomped his foot on the ground like an angry child. "No! I didn't even want to come on this stupid ride in the first place. I hate heights, and I hate rollercoasters."

"Can it, Jack!" Marc shot the short man an evil glare.

"That's J!"

"Bite me," Marc threatened.

Ben forked an arm at J. "Don't go there 'cause if you are looking for a fight, I'll give you one." J backed off and swallowed hard. He meekly climbed into the last cart and gave a sigh of regret.

"Ready everyone?" the woman asked. She cackled as her hand reached for a rusted pipe. "Well, I don't care!" She yanked on the lever as fast as she could get the creaking pipe to go down.

The train jerked forward and stopped, smoke floating into the darkness from behind J. "What the-" J was cut off as the carts jerked forward again in an attempt to make its way to the drop. It sped forward and slowed drastically near the end, throwing all of the guys from their seats. Luckily, they had remembered to wear their seatbelts, and Patrick thanked the strap as he gazed into the nothingness below.

They were all shoved back on to the benches as it hurried to the end, and the chain pulling the cars stopped spinning on the wheel at the end of the track. J closed his eyes tight as the rollercoaster inched over the bump and dropped to the depths.

Everything went by so quickly. There wasn't time to notice any of the props let alone enjoy the crudeness of them. Ben could hardly distinguish the colors whizzing past him, and Marc could barely tell that there was even light. Michael couldn't see anything; he held his eyes closed as he waved his arms around in the air.

One of Michael's arms hit something, so he pulled it back into the train. He stared at the bloodied arm, gushing his fluids out of the veins. Michael was stunned, shocked. He couldn't even cry out in pain. Patrick glanced over at his friend and noticed the injury. He shook his head. "Tisk, tisk. Next time you'll remember to keep your hands and other body parts inside the cart at all times, especially when they tell you to."

The car did not halt, but it slowed down so quickly and unexpectedly that the guys were once again thrown forward. J tried to brace himself when he had seen the other two cars jerk, but it was no use. His head slammed into the plastic seat in front of him. J rubbed the reddened bruise on his forehead.

Two large, metal doors appeared in front of the guys, reflecting an eerie light from a blue lamp somewhere on the ceiling. They creaked open slowly, and the car shot into them. Looking over their shoulders, the guys could see the doors closing once again before everything went black.

Slowly something came into view. It was distant in the darkness, but it glowed like the eerie, blue light. At first it was just a speck, then a small picture, but the thing took form as it neared.

It floated. It floated so lightly, hovering and barely moving. It had the face of a child. The eyes were whited out, the mouth shut, and the arms at its side. Finally, when it reached the front of the car, the five boys could distinguish that it was, in fact, a human boy. They watched as it turned its head slowly from side to side as if it was scanning them in curiosity.

Marc jerked his head away, so he didn't have to look at the child. It definitely freaked him out. The child had reminded Marc of a childhood friend that he had known, who had sadly passed away. The Italian didn't like the feeling he got from the floating boy's eyes that looked past just the skin but into the mind, heart, and soul; it was creepy.

Marc glanced forward to see if he had left and found the boy staring straight at him with those awful, dead-white eyes and that chilling stare. The boy was still at the front of the car, but he was located more in between Michael and Patrick so there was a clear path to Marc. The floating apparition kept staring, and finally, the mouth opened, saying something but never emitting a sound.

"Ahh!" Marc screamed, jumping in his seat. He leaned over to whisper to Ben. "It said something to me....It talked to me..."

"Huh? What did it say?" the Californian murmured back.

His eyes became larger and his voice scratchier. " It really didn't say anything, but it lipped out, 'Soon you will be joining me, Marc.' Oh, my God...Oh, my God...What am I gonna do? What can I do?" Marc began to rock back in forth.

Soon the boy left, and a swarm of ghosts materialized around the moving car that spun on loops and skidded on curves. The group laughed and chuckled, holding their stomachs and covering their mouths. Some of the girls approached the guys in the car and played with them by touching their shoulders, pulling on their clothes, and grabbing the guys' hair. They blew on the backs of the boys' necks, tickling them and sending chills up their spines.

An old apparition with a derby cap emerged from the seat and sat by J. He tipped his hat and chuckled, actually blowing spit onto J's shaking face.

A teenage looking one, that resembled Patrick greatly, went up to the blonde. He pointed at Patrick's hair, then to his own, and smiled; the hair styles mimicked each other, excluding the fact that the ghost's hair was light and floating with his body. He laughed, producing a horrible combination of giggles and snorts. Then he waved goodbye to his "twin."

There was another boy ghost that should actually be considered a man. He came up to Ben and tried to touch the bassist's hand, but Ben snatched it back quickly. Through eyes that were in about their mid-20s, Ben could see the guy meant no harm and reached out, letting his hand penetrate the ghost's and come out on the other side. Or was it the other way around?

Suddenly, Ben began to shake, his eyes rolling back into his head. His arms twitched and whipped about uncontrollably. His head jerked back as it ended up rolling over towards Marc with the whites of his eyes still visible. He began to sing:

"Hearing whispers inside my head

Telling me these things are dead

And the child in me

It hears, it feels, it sees

Never thought these things were real

And now gambled life with a deal."

Marc swallowed, unsure of what the song meant. Remember: Marc is not easily scared, but this was one time that he was.

Horn began to scream.

Apparently they had reached a drop in the tracks that sent Horn into a frenzy of madness and fright. But once they landed on the "bottom," he was okay; he just looked off to the side as the car passed hundreds of ghosts.

The first girl ghost to actually approach one of them without playing games hopped onto the hood of the car in front of Michael. Smiling, she flipped her ghostly-blue hair out of her face, revealing her shoulder. Her eyes gazed into Michael's, and he became lost.

She hovered closer to the blue-haired drummer and sat in his lap. Her hands began to stroke his hair, causing him to shiver. Was it fright, or was it pleasure? Michael was not sure, but maybe it was some of both.

Patrick looked over at her as she kissed Michael's lips. The boy didn't move, Patricked noticed. His eyes were closed, and he was still shaking. The blonde could faintly hear a sigh of relief or pleasure or pain or something come from his friend's direction. Suddenly in front of Patrick's very eyes, the girl opened the boy's mouth and twisted herself into it, disappearing within Michael as her feet followed, barely missing Micheal's mouth shutting.

Inside Michael, he could feel the girl ghost. She weaved herself about every crevice and organ in his body, inside and out. He could feel her in his heart, tinkering with the ticker; in his throat, sucking in enough air to cause Michael breathing problems; and in his mind, playing with his thoughts.

Micheal, I am here. In you. You should be thanking me. She began to speak to him in his mind. My name is Amy, Michael. I need you. And I am sure you need me too. I can give you what you want. I know what a boy like you desires; I can give you what you only dream of. Money, fame, material items...Love. Isn't that what you want? Love? Does anybody really love you? I can. All you have to do is get me out of here. Take me away from this prison.

Patrick was still observing his friend. Michael had his head turned up towards the ceiling, and his lips were moving. Sounds came from the drummer's mouth. Not words; sounds. His eyes twitched but never opened. King could see the foot tapping up and down at a brisk pace, like Mike was impatient.

Michael, listen to me. Amy needs you. No? You don't know how to help me? All you have to do is agree to let me stay in your body. You ask why I can't already do that? Because...The ghosts doors, the metal doors, they keep me in this place. Without your agreement that I can stay in you, the doors won't let me out, or if they do, I'll die in the light outside without you. Michael, I need you. Need.

What was going on? Patrick could not figure it out. He hoped that his guess was not right; he couldn't imagine what Michael was doing.

What will happen to you? Nothing. I will just be with you. Catch? There's a catch? No. No catch. We'll be together, that's all. Just me and you. You and me. Michael, there's only one that I want to take me, and that MAN is you. You...What?! No?! You cant' do that! I NEED you!

Michael opened his mouth and puked the girl out. "Get out of me!" he yelled. "I know what you were thinking. I could see your nasty thoughts as clearly as you can mine!"

"What the-" Patrick asked, unsure of what was going on. He looked around curiously, and his eyes met the hallow ghost eyes of the girl. She giggled flirtaciously.

Patrick glanced over at Michael, who had now closed his eyes and plugged his ears with his fingers. He hummed to himself and occasionally yelled to the spirits, "Get away from me!"

The girl giggled again as she sat down in Patrick's lap just as she had done with Michael. She stroked his hair and tried to kiss him, but Patrick resisted. The girl's eyes flashed with a flame in them, but they calmed back down as she ran her hand over his leg and patted it.

What harm could the ghost girl do to him? Besides, she wasn't real. It was all an allusion. Patrick had wondered often what it would be like to kiss something that wasn't there. He leaned in to brush his lips against the teen's. The girl pulled his face closer as she bit his lip, and she grabbed a chunk of hair and yanked on it.

Patrick released his lips and fell back against the bench as the girl wiggled his way down his throat. It was the weirdest sensation Patrick had ever had. He knew that he wasn't alone.

Patrick, I need you. You need me. I am your angel, Amy. I'll protect you. What do you want? I can make it come true. Just make what I want to come true, and we have an agreement. You want love, don't you? All boys do. So insecure. I can make it so that you are perfect. You are perfect. Be perfect for me. I need you. Help me, please?

Patrick couldn't explain what was going on in his head. He couldn't see, he couldn't hear, he couldn't taste, he couldn't smell, and he couldn't feel. Patrick felt like a marionette at the hands of a master puppeteer, being manipulated into doing whatever his controller wanted whether it was questionable or not.

Michael watched his possessed friend bubbling at the mouth as the muffled sounds growled from the depths of his throat. His eyes twitched, but they hadn't closed; the eyes clouded over. It began with a twitch in the eye, and then it went to his fingers. Finally, Patrick's whole body shook like he was having a seizure.

The blonde jerked around in his seat, and Michael was getting worried. Patrick fell limp all of a sudden, and Michael's heart raced. Was Pat...dead? He poked the body carefully.

Patrick sat up in his seat and looked around like nothing had happened. "Michael, you look like you've seen a ghost." He stared at the apparitions floating about the blackness. "Oh, yeah, you have. Ha ha! You kill me sometimes." He punched Mike's arm. "So when are we going into the light? Light good. Dark bad." Patrick grabbed his knees and began to suck his thumb.

Michael stared back at the others. He knew that this wasn't the Patrick he was best friend's with. He was different. The others didn't seem to notice any of the past events. Ben was still in a state of unconciousness, and Marc was traumatized to the point where he couldn't see straight. He was ranting on about hundreds of ghosts surrounding him when only one was really near the carts. J was trying to reason that everything was just his imagination, but it was kind of hard.

The ride jolted forward, and the five guys sat in silence. At last they reached the giant doors at the end of the ride. As the doors creaked open, all of the boys thanked the Lord for daylight.

They jumped off the ride and ran outside into the open air, laughing. That was all but Patrick. Patrick kissed the ground and gazed at the surroundings like a new born baby, so innocent and naive. Then Patrick began to jerk around again.

He fell to the pavement, slamming his head on a rock and fading into deliriousness. Through hazy eyes, he could see Michael and Marc hovering over his head, and he could feel Ben's hands holding his arms to the ground. Faintly he could hear J panicing in the distance.

"Help him!" yelled Michael. He grabbed Marc's shoulders and shook him violently like a doll. Marc scrambled out of the blue-haired boy's reach as he clawed towards Marc's throat. "Someone help him." He began to cry.

Ben, on top of Patrick trying to stop the body from twitching, snapped, "What can we do?"

Patrick jerked around until he felt something creep out of his throat. He could see the face of that girl above his, and she kissed him again. "Thank you," he heard her say before she vanished into the light.

"Look! He's okay!" J pointed a finger at the blonde. He was moaning and trying to sit up.

Ben jumped up and helped Patrick to his feet. Michael hugged him, and Marc looked at the spot where the spirit had appeared before Patrick.

Marc had seen it too. He knew Patrick had made a deal with the devil, but what was it? He glared at the blonde through squinted eyes and muttered, "You had better not put any of us in danger."

No one had heard the Italian.

Chapter 5

Marc stood away from the rest of the guys. The others were helping Patrick along and asking him questions to figure out why he had acted like he had, but Marc didn't want to be near the blonde. He knew something was going to happen eventually from Patrick's bad decisions, but what? He didn't know.

In the distance, the guys could see another sign. It was hard to read, and when they got to it, the letters had disappeared, hiding what the ride was called.

The ride really didn't resemble an amusement park attraction. All it was was a hole in the ground with a chipped, old, rotten, concrete staircase that disintegrated as it moved into the shadows within. A rope blocked off the entrance.

"Looks closed," Michael pointed out. He began to turn around, searching for another ride. "I guess we should skip it."

But just as he had suggested that, the others could see the scarlet rope unhook itself from the side of the railing of the dangerous staircase. It wiggled around like a snake, and as if it was surveying the posse, the unattached end swerved the tip around. Finally it dropped loosely to the ground.

Patrick looked at the air where the rope had been. "Ha, ha! That's a good one! Putting a rope on strings and making it look...ha...possessed." He wiped his brow, sighing the last laugh.

"Should we go in?" Ben questioned.

"No duh." Patrick had already started down the steps. Quickly the other guys followed.

After they made in down the stairs, they could see a hall of doorways lit in a dim, white light. The doors were identical; none stood out from the others. All of them were white, probably wooden, and had a gold, rusted doorknob on the left of the door. There were no numbers on the doors nor were there signs to tell what was in each of them.

Ben studied each of the doors quietly. Removing his hands from his hips, he faced the others. "I guess we pick a door." He approached the one closest to him and knocked on it. There was no answer from the other side, and it did sound like a room was in there, not some brick wall that would be considered a joke or something.

"Which one?" Patrick asked, looking at Marc.

"Why would I know?" He backed away from the blonde.

Ben strolled down the corridor as he let his hand run across each of the doors. He didn't know what to think of this place; it truly was a puzzle, an unsolved puzzle that it seemed he couldn't solve. Reaching the last door on the right, the dark blonde grabbed the knob and tried to turn it. It wouldn't budge. "The dark secret in you can't hid forever; they know. Now's the time to face up to it. Will you pick to disbelieve or die?"

Michael grabbed the second knob on the left and twisted it. The door opened. A bright light shot out of the opening, blinding the guys from seeing what was inside the room. Michael stepped into the room, holding his arm over his eyes as he tried to shield them from the light. Within seconds, his body faded out of sight.

All of the others ran to the door to enter after their acquaintance, but the door slammed shut when they were an inch away from following the drummer.

"How come we can't go with him?" J demanded. He crossed his arms. "He probably got the good door."

Suddenly a box that was invisible because it matched the walls that was located above the door flickered, and red smoke that came out of nowhere in the box crawled into some words, telling the guys exactly what attraction they had came upon: The Nightmare Room.

"That doesn't sound too good," Marc stated, pointing up to the words.

The guys turned around and noticed that each door had an twin box above it just like Mike's door. Their fears began to sink in; they couldn't stay here.

With J in the lead, the four ran up the stairs, only to find that they couldn't leave. A piece of glass had covered the hole in which they entered. All their eyes stared out sadly at the sign on the other side as the words appeared right in front of them: The Nightmare Room.

J began to hyperventilate. "We're gonna die, aren't we?"

"No," Patrick chuckled, "don't be silly. It's just fun, that 's all, and fun can't kill...I hope." His face showed that he was worried. "Besides, Michael is in there. What were we gonna do? Leave him in there when we go to safety...I mean, were we just gonna leave him there and let him think we deserted him?"

"I suppose not." J looked out of the window.

"Well I was going to do just that," Marc informed. "Every man for himself."

Patrick glared at him. "Well, I am going to go now and find my room. I know that the sooner you go into one of those, the sooner you'll find the exit. Michael's probably already waiting for us on the other side."

"Yeah, the other side of life; you know what that is? Death, Patrick, death."

Ben shoved Marc. "Don't give him any ideas! We need to be optimistic if we are going to survive."

The Italian tip-toed to look into Ben's eyes at eye level. "Pessimistic people survive longer 'cause they know what will happen. If you are pessimistic, then you know what to prepare for therefore you are ready for the inevitable."

"You think what you want, and I'll believe myself. That way one day we'll know whose right."

The four comrades entered the hallway once again. Marc tugged on the knob closet to the stairs; it didn't turn. He reached for the next one. This one gave away. "I guess the door chooses who it wants, not the other way around." The others watched as Marc stepped into the light, and his body was gone. The door shut on its own, sealing the choice. The box above the door flickered on with the same horrible words.

Ben went to the one on the left, five doors down. It opened for Ben on his first try. He gazed into the light, unsure if this was right, but there was no other way; this was the only way. His figure was covered by the light, and the door closed slowly. The words appeared above his door.

J hopped down the hallway, trying every door. The last one was his. It admitted the short man into the white. He faded away as the door locked back and as the words twisted into shape.

He was the only one left. Patrick was all alone. Standing at the front of the hallway, he looked down at the end. He never noticed that there was a door on the opposite wall. It opened on its own, welcoming the man on the other side of the corridor to come in. The light reached out for Patrick, but it stopped within a foot from him. Suddenly, he found himself on the end of the hall with the door, yet he knew he hadn't walked over there; but he was within two feet from the opening. It didn't matter now what was on the other side of the door. No one was left for him.

The fifth box turned on.

***

Michael uncovered his eyes after the light's blinding glow faded away. He was in small room, but it was dark. What was going on? A spotlight flashed on in one corner to reveal a small stove similar to those fake ovens with a lightbulb that little girls used to cook treats. This one was real though because it looked like a minature oven. His sister had owned one of the lightbulb ovens once, and he had broken it when he tried to explode a frog in it.

A person chuckled in one of the corners. The person sounded familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on who it was. "Michael, how nice it is of you to join me for dinner." Patrick. That was who it was. Michael knew it was him.

"Patrick, buddy, I can't see you. Why don't you turn on a light so that I can?"

A light flickered on in the corner adjacent to the one housing the stove. But what Michael saw was not his buddy.

The obese figure filled the corner from top to bottom, and it's pudgy fingers fiddled with a spatula and a two-pronged fork. As it chuckled, the pints of fat in its stomach jiggled the dirty apron covering its stained clothes. A chef's hat sat neatly on top of the messy blonde locks.

"Eat! Eat!" It commanded. The thing shoved a cake towards Michael.

He looked at the three-layers in disgust. They were leaning and the pink icing was running off the cake, onto the plate, and into the floor. He looked up at the thing that had given the present to him.

"Patrick says eat!" Patrick's chubby hand forced a handful of cake into Michael mouth. He choked it down, the dry pastry clogging in his esophagus. His face turned purple, and the thing punched Michael in the stomach, making Michael swallow the cake.

Patrick grabbed Michael and picked him up in the air so that his head was touching the ceiling. He surveyed the boy and dropped him ten feet to the ground where he sprawled out, the wind knocked out of him. Michael tried to pick himself off the ground, but his wrists and one of his ankles were sprained. He dragged himself to a corner on the opposite side of the room.

"You need to eat more! So puny. All you are is skin and bones! Eat! Eat!"

"No, I don't want to eat. Who are you? What do you want from me?" Michael shook violently.

"EAT!"

"No."

"EAT!"

"I cant."

"EAT!"

The thing waddled over to Michael, squatting so it wouldn't slam its head on the ceiling. It grabbed Michael by the waste and pushed a piece of cake into his mouth. "EAT or DIE!" Patrick threw his head back and laughed wickedly.

Michael's eyes watered up as the pastry lodged itself in his throat. He grabbed his neck and tried to claw at it, but what good would that do? His eyes rolled into his head, and the snorts became muffled as he began to slip away.

Patrick punched Michael in the stomach again, and again Michael swallowed the desert. "You like Patty Cakes," the thing ordered. "EAT!" And Michael was stuffed with the "Patty Cakes" for at least an hour. He ate until he could eat no more. If he took another bite, he would throw up or die.

Michael had been sitting in the thing's lap, eating the pastry, but Patrick sat him down in a corner as it turned around to look at the minature oven. "Another batch is ready." It pulled a tray of the steaming-hot cakes out of the oven. They bubbled and oozed.

It sat the tray on the floor and began the process of concocting the pink icing. It began by taking a tub of vanilla frosting and spitting in it. Michael jerked back, horrified. Then it squeezed its hair, and grease fell into the mixture. The thing looked at Michael and smiled. "Don't want it to be sticking to anything." And last, it added blood. Its blood. That was how the icing got its pink color.

Michael had recognized the taste of the vital juices, but he had failed to realize that it could have been the plasma and cells. His head swayed like he was drunk, and he grabbed his stomach. He was going to hurl. There was no doubt about it.

"You will not mess my floor!" the thing screamed at Michael. It grabbed him and spanked him with the spatula. Patrick's blood splattered on Michael's pants. He began to cry.

The creature waddled towards a pile of baking instruments. It began to dig in them, the pans clinking together. Some didn't please Patrick; he tossed them to the side with a look of digust on his pudgy face. "Baking sheets? No. I can do better." Flinging the sheets out of the pile, it began to sort again. "My specialty. Yes. That's it." The thing's butt shielded Michael's view, but soon it turned around with a shallow, round pan.

A rolling pin rolled from out of the shadows towards Michael. It stopped at his foot. Looking up, he could see the evil gleam in Patrick's eyes. Chuckles protruded from the monster's lips. "Michael, come here." The thing waved a finger in his direction. "Come here. Don't be afraid. I'm making you a desert."

"But I'm not hungry," Michael moaned. He touched his stomach, and his pant's button popped off. "I can't eat anymore."

"But I am starving!" Patrick snatched the boy into his greedy, grubby hands.

Michael found himself on a cutting board with some dough. Patrick began to roll the dough out with the rolling pin, humming the tune "Patty Cake" to himself. The floury dough became large enough, and the balloon took it and spreaded it out on the bottom of the round baking pan. Then he went back to work, rolling out another dough sheet.

"Now its your turn." He grabbed Michael and began to hold him over the pan.

"What are you doing?"

"Making you a desert."

"But I said that I'm not hungry."

"That's not gonna matter one way or another. YOU are going to BE the desert. I make YOU a DESERT. Or do you prefer me to say 'Turn you into a desert?'"

Michael suddenly became alarmed. "What? Why are you doing this? Please don't. Please. I beg you. I don't want to be a cake."

"You won't be," the thing informed. "You're going to be a pie." It shoved Michael amazingly into the five inches of pan. Then it covered Michael's broken body with the other dough and took a fork to poke holes in the top for the baking process. Screams came out of the pie as the fork was shoved into it. "Oops. My bad. I hope I didn't poke you."

Cries from inside the pie continued, even after the fat Patrick threw it into the minature oven. The degrees was turned up to 450, and the door shut on the pan and its contents.

"Johson Pie...Michael Meat Pie. Yes, I will call you Michael Meat Pie. Delicious...I can just taste you now. Yum." Patrick began to laugh hysterically, spit flying in all directions.

Michael could feel the temperature rising about his twisted body. The pain of the broken bones and the heat weighed down on Michael. His tears fell and turned into vapor so quickly. Blood from the bones that ripped his skin began to cover the bottom crust like a cherry filling. He felt like he was dying. Dying in a pie. The Die Pie.

***

Marc felt the light suddenly become darkness. His eyes were open, yet he couldn't see anything. It was as if he was blind. Was this the nightmare? Blindness. A nothingness. A world without anyone else. No. He could feel that the room was filled with something. Something but not someone. He reached about, trying to find some object to hold onto because the darkness was making him dizzy.

Maybe this wasn't as bad as it seemed.

A light flashed in the distance. Marc found that he was not in a normal room. Somehow lightning had came from the ceiling and lit up the room with black walls. It flashed again, revealing that the floor was not made of carpet nor wood nor concrete. The floor was dirt, muddy and slimy. As the lightning flickered again, Marc could make out creatures weaving in and out of the earth. Nightcrawlers, spiders, scorpions, and worms were everywhere.

He lifted up his foot off of the soft, squishy land. An animal scurried past. What was dirt doing in a room? He ran over to the walls and felt of them, searching for a door, the door that would be the exit. Maybe it was here? No. Maybe over there? No. There? No. No. No. He couldn't find it. The walls were solid and cold. They were rough, like any other wall. But where was the door? Marc went back to the wall he had came from, but the door had vanished. What was happening?

Suddenly the lightning shot through the sky, and rain began to pour down over him. It drizzled at first, but soon it became heavy. The water pulled down on his clothes, like dying people who believed that Marc could save them.

Marc looked up at the ceiling. It was there. The rain was coming from the ceiling, not a sky. How? There were no fire sprinklers, no doors.

As his mouth opened, the water trickled down into it and to his throat. The rain didn't taste like the sky's tears, nor did it have a flavor of any other kind of water. The savor was that of nickel or iron, almost like...It couldn't be. But it was, and Marc knew it. Blood.

The blood kept falling from the nothingness of the ceiling. It fell and sank into the ground, letting the spiders feed on the liquid they've come to know and love. Redness attacked Marc. He couldn't hide from it either; there was nowhere to hide. And he couldn't run when he was trapped in the black room like an animal, a prisoner.

The Italian stumbled through the now thickening mud. He tripped, and the bugs attacked him. They grabbed his skin and hair and ripped at his throat.

Marc's eyesight was blurred. The darkness was starting to take toll on him. Maybe blindess was his nightmare. Maybe it was slow and painful death by the bites of insects and arachnids and who knows what else.

He pushed himself back up into a standing position. His head jerked about the room, still searching for the exit. Where? Where?

The blood began to pour heavier. It kept getting heavier. Marc could hardly breathe because it was everywhere. The air even tasted and smelt of the red fluid. Looking at the ground, he could tell that the room was not flooding.

But his legs were sinking into the thick muds. Slowly he was sinking in the dirt like a quicksand. He was already covered in it up to his knees. And the process became faster. The ground was swallowing him in at an impossible speed. The wet, loose dirt was giving away to his weight. Within seconds, the ground was at his armpits. Marc clawed at the earth as it pulled him in. His mouth was soon caught in the drenched mud. The blood was filling his mouth with the dirt as it fell as washed it in. Barely able to comprehend the situation, Marc felt the mud rise over his eyes, and then it covered his whole body. He was in the ground, unable to breathe, choking on mud, drowning in blood.

Marc grabbed at the bugs around him, trying to pull himself to the top; he needed air. His hands ripped at the ground and all of its dwellers. The mud seemed to become harder to move through, and the weight was getting greater.

Finally the guitarist's hand penetrated what Marc thought would bring his end. He used all of his strength and was able to pull his head out of the doom, coughing up dirt and creatures as he gasped for air and life. He couldn't see, but managed to clutch something to help dig up the rest of his drenched body.

The Italian's face was caked with the land, and his body followed. The sobbing sky of blood was cleaning most of it off of his hyperventilating self. Marc's dirtiness was being exchanged with the bodily fluids, making Marc a living, sanguinary corspe.

As his eyesight bloomed, he could see his saviour. It was a wooden box, now blood-stained crimson. It hadn't been there before. Marc decided that when he gained back some strength that he would look in it to see if it had any tools that might be useful to a poor, pitiful, null person.

Minutes passed, and the rain almost took Marc's life again because he was swallowing too much of the sky's tears. But Marc avoided his fate by standing up. Steadying himself on the box's edge, he glared into it, hoping an answer to this enigma would pop up.

But his hopes were shattered. The box was empty. Reaching in, Marc felt of the bottom, disbelieving that there was just and only a wooden crate.

Something whizzed past Marc and shoved him into the receptacle. The lid shut with a loud boom, and locks could be heard on the other side of it. The Italian began to beat on the sides and top.

It suddenly dawned on the guitarist that this was no ordinary box. It did come with something in it, something that Marc had missed. A death had came delivered in this coffin.

Sounds were being produced on the out side. Someone was out there.

"Hello?" Marc listened for an answer.

Nothing.

"Hello?"

Still there was no reply.

"Is someone out there?" He already knew the answer was yes, but maybe they didn't think he knew.

A noise told the victim that the person out there was scrambling around, unsure what to do.

"I know you are out there!"

The anonymous person snickered and smacked the box as if he was testing its durability. When he was satisfied, the original sounds began again.

What was the person doing? Why wouldn't they help Marc? Why wouldn't they speak to him? Who were they? Marc was frightened. Realizing what the noises were outside, Marc began to panic. The man on the other side of the box was digging in the dirt. His plan was to bury the coffin and its owner; Marc was going to be buried alive.

The guitarist began to beat on the coffin and shake it. He smashed his fists on it, trying to break it open to release himself, but it barely splintered. This person, the one who had done this, had came prepared with a thick, almost impossible to break coffin. And they had known that Marc would try to get out. Whoever it was wanted Marc dead.

Suddenly the Italian could feel the box moving, and grunting was produced. The person was pushing Marc to his grave. The dirt around the hole gave away, and the coffin slid down into it partially and fell the rest of the way, banging as it hit the ground.

Dirt was shoveled on top of the box. Steps could be heard where the mud was being patted down at the very top.

Marc was shaking. He was six feet under in a wooden coffin that was filled half up with the blood from sky. Bugs and nightcrawlers could be felt swimming around while some used the body in there with them as a flotation device. They were in his hair and between his clothes.

Marc was shaking so hard; the only sound was the rapid beating of his heart and his heavy breathing.

***

Ben must have fallen unconscious as he entered the door because he was lying on the ground with a splitting headache. He sat up and felt his head and looked at his hand as if blood was pouring out of a gash. His hand revealed none, but he felt a bump on the side of his skull.

Looking around, Ben could only see four, white walls around him. He looked up at the ceiling; there was no ceiling. He wasn't outside, but Ben wasn't inside either. He couldn't say where he was or what he was doing there. Remembering the door, Ben followed the wall all the way around the box without finding an opening.

Ben stood up and stumbled over to the blank surface, steadying himself with a hand. Everything was so dull. The floor, the walls. They were just white. And then there was the sky. Ben couldn't make out any colors, just grays. It was like someone had knocked him in the head, causing him to be color blind.

Walking the length of one of the walls, Ben noticed a sharp corner and turned it. Maybe this was the way to the door. But had Ben walked to the box and passed out? He had felt fine earlier.

Around the corner, Ben found the same dull walls that had surround him before. He slid his back down the wall and sat down. It was a riddle to Ben how he could end up in a place that he had never passed by before. He put his hands in his face.

When he lifted his head up again, Ben stared at his hands. His hands weren't the light tan that they always were. No, they looked white. He checked his shirt and noticed that he could only see dull gray spots where the blood stains had been before. His pants were gray, his shoes were gray, his socks were gray, and everything else--was gray. Ben grabbed his eyes and rubbed them.

He looked at the world around him in disbelief. He was color blind. Ben stood up and steadied his drunken sway with the wall. He stared at the structure. It was styrofoam. Styrofoam?

Ben panicked. He did the only thing that he could do. He scratched at the wall with his fingernails. Chunks of the white packing material fell to the ground, softly thudding as they bounced off. Ben sat down again, his heart racing as he hurriedly searched for an escape route. His fingers were raw and calloused after digging at the barricade.

Something moved in the sky. It was quick, but Ben saw it. What was it? Where did it go? Behind him, Ben heard an object crash to the floor, and beneath him, Ben could feel the rumble of thunder in the ground.

But it wasn't thunder. He knew it wasn't. The booms bursted too quickly, one right after the other. It sounded more like footsteps.

A human face, dozens of times larger than Ben, appeared out of nowhere, floating in front of Ben. He screamed and began to claw at the wall again. The eyes watching him were full of hatred. The cold glare pushed down on Ben, and he crawled up into a ball within the hole he had formed in the styrofoam.

A rumbling chortle pierced the air. The high pitch was too much for Ben's ears. He covered them and winced as the eardrums bursted. Ben could feel the blood trickling out of his popped sensors.

Ben was taken hostage, and he struggled to pull free from the grip of his tormentor. The hand smelled of flowers; it was a woman's hand. He gnawed at the prison, his mouth filling with the blood of his victim. He turned his head and spat.

The other hand belonging to the giant came down and slapped Ben in the back of the head, causing his neck to whiplash and almost break. He bit down on the hand again. This time the woman brought her eye to look at him in the face. The bassist was ready; he aimed a mouthful of blood at the bullseye.

As the eye closed itself to wash away the body fluid with salty tears, the Californian saw what he had been trapped in. It was a mouse maze. A massive maze made of styrofoam.

The woman threw Ben into a metal cage carelessly, and Ben's body slammed into the metal bars and fell to the ground. He pulled himself up to see where his capturer had gone. Everything was blurry.

Ben could feel the footsteps nearing him beneath his feet. He held on to the side of the cage, and he jerked his head in the direction of the creaking gate on his new 'home'. The woman reached in with a piece of cheese.

Ben wasn't a mouse. He wasn't a rat. Why would he be seduced by the present of a dairy product let alone any other food while he was a prisoner in a world that he didn't belong to? What if it was poison? The venom could run through his veins and stop the blood flow within minutes of the first bite.

But cheese did sound good. It was a delicious treat, full of wholesome vitamins and minerals. Ben was sure it wouldn't hurt to take just one little bite.

He reached for the cheddar, but it was too far. Ben crept a little closer, his outstretched fingers wiggling towards the food. Still too far. He crept ever closer until he was beneath the treat. Ben jumped up and savagely tore into the hunk of cheese.

Something stuck Ben in the back. He looked behind him to see what had interrupted his feast. It was a metal pin on some type of machine. The pin jammed into his back, and Ben watched the giant flip a switch, sending thousands of electric volts through Ben's body, before he blacked out.

Ben found himself back in a maze. But this one wasn't the dull, white, styrofoam walls, it was the dull, brown (which looked gray), cardboard walls. It was as boring to look at as the one before.

Jumping, Ben grabbed the edge of one of the cardboard sides and pulled himself up to look over the top. The maze seemed to stretch on to the horizon, but he knew it was only a few yards for real. He could have probably walked it in three or four steps if he was his normal size.

His hands began to bleed, the cardboard cutting into them. Ben hopped down to the floor and sat down. He refused to run the maze like some kind of test experiment animal. Looking at his hands, he figured that he probably wouldn't stay here much longer. The giant woman would most like put him to sleep because he was an insignifacant, stubborn lab experiment.

The woman appeared with the needled taser in her grip. Ben stared at her threatingly. She reached in to shock him, but he began to run. The giant laughed. That was what she wanted: for him to run. And Ben was running now, so obviously she got her wish.

The boy turned the corners of the poorly constructed maze to find himself at deadends or places that he had been to before. Ben pushed on though. He would die running, searching for a way out before he was taken again by the woman. He was pushing the strength of his whole body. His heart shouldn't have beat that fast, his lungs shouldn't have breathed so rapidly, and his legs were straining to keep up with his will power.

Ben collapsed on the cardboard floor, sweat turning the brown to a muddy black. He flipped over to his back to stare up at the sky. He had said that he wasn't a lab rat, but in fact, the truth remained. He was.

He couldn't prevent the hand from taking him away from the maze. Ben secretly hoped that it would. He wished deep down that somehow this torment would come to an end.

***

J reached up and touched his head. It had felt like something hard had came down on it, like a baseball bat or a pipe. Perchance he had just fell down the steps. Either way it had hurt.

Opening his eyes, he could see where he was. He was back in Ben's house, propped up on the living room sofa, alone.

He sat up. Glancing around let him realize that this was real. Somehow he had gotten from the demented theme park to his bassist's house. And all he had done was open a door and enter. Maybe that was the exit. The exit to the theme park.

"Hello?" J called out.

Suddenly he heard a rumble above him. J looked at the ceiling, and he could see the lights shaking and pieces of plaster crumbling up and falling off. It looked as if it was an earthquake or bombs were dropping from the sky. In one moment, the lights went off, and J sat in the dark in silence, listening to the noise that came from above. But just as quickly as they had ceased, the lights came back on.

J jerked his head towards the stairs. The rumbling was getting louder and closer to him. The stairs looked as if they would collapse from all of the racket. They swerved and shook under the pressure of something.

At a speed almost too fast to comprehend, four boys jumped off of the steps and attacked Horn. They slammed him into the ground, rolling the couch. Fists, feet, and bats met contact with various parts of J's body, causing pain, and lots of it.

"Get out, Horn!" Ben screamed, shoving a pipe in the short guy's eye.

"Get, midget!" Marc jabbed a shovel in a leg.

Michael yelled a war cry and took some dull, kiddy scissors and smacked J in the forehead with them. Then he bit down on an ear and began to shake his head vigorously, supposedly trying to rip the ear straight off.

"You heard them. Get!" Patrick had joined in the fight with a wooden baseball bat. He was slamming it into J's side.

The kicks and hits came in all directions; J felt helpless.

"What are you doing to me?!" he cried out.

Ben grinned an evil smile and punched Horn in the eye. "Torture him some more, boys!"

Michael got on a chair and, trying to fulfill the Californian's orders, leaped off of it. His heavy body reached J's with such force that it knocked the wind out of J and probably broke his ribs. Mike laughed and chuckled, rolling off of J.

"Die!" Marc demanded as he took a butter knife and pierced the skin on J's leg. "Die!"

No...J didn't want to die! And why were they doing this? He thought they loved him...Well, love is such a strong word; it was more like accepted him than loved him. But that didn't give them the right to murder him.

"Please stop...Quit it...Please!" J moaned.

"Hit it? Please? Okay, give him what he wants," Ben purposely "misunderstood."

Patrick took a frying pan and met the side of J's head with it.

"No...no more."

Marc grinned. "More, he says!"

The blonde rammed it again at the victim.

"Please not anything."

Michael joined in with the misunderstanding. "Horn said, 'please knot anything.' I'll give him one on the forehead." He kicked the victim in the head with a steel-toed boot.

The laughs tortured J probably the most. They kept on laughing at him as they slowly killed him. They were killing him. He was going to die by his only friends. Why didn't they accept him? It truly was a nightmare: Murdered by your best friends.

As the pain and death kept coming, J secretly wished that they would be caught by the cops and receive the death penalty for what they were doing to him.

***

Patrick was just walking down a tree-lined street. He just accepted that he had never been to the theme park, that he had only dozed off while on a morning walk and had dreamed up the whole ordeal. Patrick smiled up at the morning sun, its rays warming his face.

A couple walked by Patrick, and he could hear them laughing together. Young love. Today was the perfect day.

The laughs vanished in the distance, and again Patrick was by himself. He watched the white flowers float off the trees and dance in the air, twirling like ballerinas. It had never occured to Patrick that he had no clue where he was. Flowers like that didn't grow in Flordia.

In fact, the houses that sat on either side of the street looked like they had come out of 60s sitcom. He hadn't seen any of those in person.

Patrick scratched his head, unsure of what was going on. But something was wrong. Patrick felt his head again; all of his hair was missing. Well, not all of it, but most of it. It was cut in a short, 60s hairstyle. He didn't want to look at his clothes in fear that they were ugly, 60s bellbottoms. But he had to.

He was right. He was wearing a baby blue matching bellbottoms and jacket outfit. His shirt was stenciled with little purple flowers on a pea green background. Patrick stopped in the middle of the road and tapped his foot which caused him to scan down to his footwear: white loafters.

Patrick stumbled backwards and caught himself from falling by hitting a mailbox. He had to be hallucinating. He told himself it was a dream within a dream, a double nightmare. That was all it was.

Two lovers strolled down the lane, and Patrick strangely felt that he had seen them before. They resembled the couple that had passed him earlier. She was wearing a poodle skirt, and he had a similar outfit as Patrick's. Why hadn't he noticed it before? No one dressed like that.

The couple, holding hands, were talking and laughing, just like before. Patrick stood still, watching the two, as they passed the trees. They vanished into thin air as they met a crossroad.

Suddenly, Patrick noticed that no one else was on the street. It was a nice day outside, yet there were no children playing, no dogs barking, no one barbequeing. There weren't any cars in the driveways, and none of the homes had any lights on. It was like everyone had just gotten up and left without telling the blonde.

"Hello?" Patrick yelled to the houses. "Is anyone home?" Something creaked behind him, and he turned to see what it was, hopeful that it was another human being. No, it was just an old, rusted swing swaying in the breeze.

He summoned enough courage to knock on one of the doors, and Patrick waited for an answer. He peeked into one of the windows to reveal a home filled with dull furniture covered in dust. No one had lived there for a while. Patrick checked a few of the other houses and found the same.

Where was everyone? Patrick was alone. He didn't like to be alone. Yeah, sometimes he needed some space from other people, but not like this. Patrick sat on a stoop and waited.

***

The kitchen timer dinged. It was time for Michael Meat Pie to come out, or it would burn. And Chef Patty didn't want that. He liked the pie to be just right with flaky, golden brown crust and a warm, done filling.

A giant ovenmitt reached into the minature oven and pulled out the pan. Steam rose from its core through the holes made with the fork. The fresh scent of cherries wafted in the air; that was not expected since a human was the filling and should have the smell of cooked flesh.

Patrick waddled over to a spot in the corner.

"Now, my lovely creation," he explained, "you will be put up for sale. I do not wish to eat you, for I wish someone else to have the pleasure." He licked his chops. "I am tempted very much to go ahead and devour you, you sweet morsel, but I refuse. Maybe one of your yummy, delicious friends will have the pleasure of getting the first taste of my masterpiece. How do you feel?"

The pie moaned.

"Don't worry. It'll all be over soon. I cooked you at a low temperature to make sure you would stay fresh, ripe, and....alive."

The pie coughed. Smoke came from the holes.

"You should've covered or closed your mouth. Smoking kills, you know."

The pie didn't find that funny. The pie had wanted to die from all of the torture and teasing of the heat, of the flames. It felt worse than death; cooked alive in a pie and living to tell the tale for only minutes before being eaten by another human had to be worse than death. The pie sure felt that way.

"Now, now. See here. I am sending you off now. Delicious." A finger reached into one of the holes and came out with a bit of the filling on them. It stuck itself in the grubby mouth and satisfied its master.

The pie could feel the bouncing of someone taking it away. Taking it away to be ate. Michael now knew what food must think before its last seconds on this earth.

***

What could Marc do? He couldn't move in the small box. Not that much, at least. Being six feet under and losing air was not the easiest situation to get out of. The boy figited with the top of the box, where the lid would shut, trying to find an opening. Nothing; it was sealed tight. The cracks were even closed.

A spider danced up into Marc's hair on its eight, long, bony legs. It began to weave web into the mess of blood-drenched strands. Then out of nowhere and for no reason, the arachnid bit down into the boy's scalp, causing a wound and a sharp pain.

Marc cried out. His hand knocked the demon insect into the blood that filled the coffin, where the spider drowned in its own nurishing food. Rubbing the spot, the Italian felt a large bulk swelling up on the back of his head. No doubt the spider was probably poisonous, and if Marc didn't die from loss of air or drowning, then he definitely would from the arachnid's posion.

He rested in the coffin for a while. He surely didn't know how long. Minutes could be hours, and hours could seem like minutes. There was no telling how long.

The other guys had probably got the good doors. They were probably already out of the theme park, and Marc was doomed to die. Maybe Marc was a sacrifice? Maybe the doors just picked one of them to save the others? Who knows?

The Italian's mind wandered around. It was hard to think when he was facing death in the eyes. The air was getting thinnner, causing Marc's mind to start floating from lack of oxygen. That left him uncapable of finding a solution to this problem.

But somehow Marc's thoughts got back to the spider. Maybe it was the venom in his system, or maybe the boy was going crazy, but one way or another, he found himself recalling what the spider had did. It broke the skin with its fangs, and that let the poison seep into his veins and brain.

What if the guitarist's skin was the coffin? And the venom was Marc? That would leave the fangs to be...What? Perhaps his fist? Maybe.

Could Marc actually break the coffin with dirt packed on top if he had the will to? He saw himself doing it, but he was getting weak so very quickly.

And there was always the chance that he could just kill himself quicker by letting the blood from the sky seep into his last life line.

But he would do it...Or die trying.

Marc took his closed hand and brought it to the wood above him. It splintered a little bit. Apparently the boy had put a lot of force in it. He gathered all his strength up and repeated the gesture. Luck. A few, fairly large pieces fell to the liquid below. A trickle of fluid came in too. Kicking, Marc forced it open enough to crawl out.

But now he was in the messy deathtrap of mud. It was filling his mouth up, and blindness started to sink in. His arms moved, but it was no use. He wasn't moving; he was sessile. How could it be?

Now Marc was going to die in the dirt like an animal...a dinosaur. His mind flashed to images of the gigantic prehistoric animals being caught in tarpits. Was that what it was like to die?

It couldn't be true. Marc was not going to die. There was no way that this was real. If it was, then there would have been doors in the room. There would have been the door he entered from. The ceiling wouldn't have rained, and the rain wouldn't have been blood. No. It wasn't real.

It wasn't real.

***

Lying on his back, Ben stared up at the ceiling. He could only see black, and then there was light. Not a white light, but a eerie green glow. Ben couldn't see the green, but he felt it. It flickered every once in a while. Ben had no strength left to turn his head to see what it was that produced the illumination.

He was back in a cage; that was the only reality that Ben could grasp. He wasn't alone. Ben could hear the sounds of claws scampering across the damp wood floor and scratching at the rusted railing. It was cold, but Ben wasn't able to shiver. He was a motionless doll in a state somewhere between life and death. Limbo.

A set of red glowing eyes stared at Ben from a safe distance. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were there; he could feel there cold stare baring down on his already crushed body. They didn't blink. No, they just gazed at him longily.

Ben knew the creature wanted him to die. Then it would have a feast on his corpse. It would probably be the most the thing had ever eaten at one time since living here in this mad laboratory. Why didn't he just die? He would be killing two birds with one stone; he'd relieve himself of the pain and feed the creature a nice, hearty meal.

A different set of eyes watched him from a shadowed corner. The creature chattered to Ben, but how was he to answer when he couldn't even make out what it said? He sighed and waited for the darkness to take its toll. All he wanted to do was to sleep.

The creature scurried to Ben's motionless body, and he could make out a blurry shape hovering around him. Another one appeared on the other side of him. He was trapped; they were monstorous cannibals that wouldn't even give him the decency to die before they tore into his flesh.

One of the creatures, maybe the first one, tried to sit Ben up. It used its clawed hands to push his back up in the air while it dragged him to the edge of the cage. Ben rested on the wall. Rest was good.

Ben's eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he could see quit well in the dark. He could make things out better than when he was in the light, and Ben believed he could distinguish some of the colors of the room. The mysterious figures who had moved him where carefully watching him as they ran around the room.

He could make out thick, bulky, fur-covered bodies with long, naked tails streaming behind him. Whiskers poked out of the cone-shaped snouts, and beady eyes sat on the sides of their heads near large ears. They were rats, lab rats, just like Ben.

One pushed a pellet of meat and corn towards Ben, and he turned his head away from the offering. The white rat sat there, staring with them beady eyes. Ben didn't like those beady eyes. Always staring. They wouldn't stare anymore if he ripped them out. No, that would teach them not to stare.

The giant woman entered the room and grabbed Ben out of the cage, shaking him around. He saw the long needle. It squirted out some venom. He would die by lethal injection.

Ben was a criminal. Only criminals died by injection. It all added up now. The cage, the torture, the lethal injection. This was some kind of prison holding him for a crime. But what crime? What did Ben do to deserve this?

The scientist carried Ben to a table. Ben caught his reflection in a mirror. He WAS a rat. That couldn't be. Ben was human. He was a real boy. This was just his imagination. It had to be.

***

The kicks never stopped. The hits never stopped.

Ben kept orders flying out of his mouth left and right. Kill J. Kill J. Kill the midget.

And Marc kept following the orders. But he would go further. Instead of fists and bats, Marc used sharp things: knives, needles, even a rake. It was like he enjoyed it.

In fact, it looked as if all of them enjoyed it.

Michael kept laughing. He wouldn't stop. His finger was in J's direction, always pointing. His laughs became chortles or chuckles or snickers, but they always went back to laughs. At one point, the drummer was crying because he was laughing so hard.

Through Ben's dictatorship, Marc's abuse, and Michael's giggles, you wouldn't think Patrick could be that bad. But he was the worst of them all.

The blonde, in fact, just sat there most of the time, watching the other three attack Horn and his helplessness. Patrick was the worst because he wasn't joining either side. J found that unfair because if the blonde wouldn't help the others, then he should just help J. What was so hard about that?

Then, they tied Horn to a chair.

It wasn't any better. They smacked him around. Especially the Italian. If Ben demanded something, Marc would go further. Ben might say kick him, and then Marc would throw a dart in his leg. Ben might order J's eyes pinned open, and Marc would do that and then spit in them.

Michael couldn't stop giggling. It was so bad now that the boy was foaming at the mouth.

J glanced at the drummer, a look of digust filling this face. That was torture; seeing Michael foam like a rabid madman was torture to the maximum. J wanted to get far away from him.

But wait. Something was wrong in this picture. J glanced at Marc's eyes; they were blue. Then he looked at Ben's; they were brown. It seemed that their eyes were switched.

And Patrick's were hazel while Michael's were bright blue. That was wrong. They had each other's eyes too.

If Ben had Marc's, Marc had Ben's, Patrick had Mike's, and Michael had Pat's, then maybe this was a dream. Maybe J was seeing what was only in his mind. Maybe he was so afraid of his own hallucinations that he forgot the other guys eye color or mixed them up.

The short man looked over at Patrick again. He stared at Patrick's eyes, visualizing that they were blue, not hazel; they changed to match J's description. J imagined Patrick with no hair, and the blonde suddenly became bald.

It was all a hallucination. Ha. A hallucination that J could manipulate.

***

Patrick got bored waiting, so he busted into one of the houses. It wasn't like anyone was there to tell him what to do and what not to do.

He searched the homes for any sign of life: a bird, a cricket, a spider spinning its web in a corner. He just wanted someone, or something to talk to. And he found none.

Patrick opened a refridgerator to find it filled to the max with food. But it wasn't real. None of it was. "What is this, a cheap trick?" Patrick asked himself. He pulled a jar of pickles out of the ice box to reveal that it was cardboard. "Someone thought long and hard for this one."

Sitting down on the couch, Patrick stirred the dust into a frenzy, blowing it into a cloud of dirt. He coughed and sneezed, penetrating a hole from which he could see what sat frozen, watching him from the other side of the room.

It was a television set, one of the old timey ones. On its screen was a still picture of a news broadcaster smiling. Patrick could tell that it was cardboard too. Wrote by him in cardboard letters were the words "Have A Nice Day."

"Yeah, right," Patrick thought aloud to himself. He reached over and turned the knob to change the channel. It flickered, and the same picture appeared on the screen next to the number 3. The first one had been on channel 2. Something was strange about that news broadcaster.

Patrick flipped the channels all the way around back to channel 3. Every stinking channel had that stupid smile on it with those stupid words "Have A Nice Day." It was like a Mr. Rogers nightmare. It was Mr. Rogers, not some news reporter.

Honestly, Patrick didn't know which was the worst: being stuck in a 60s episode of the Brady Bunch, having to live off of cardboard, watching the same Mr. Rogers cardboard cutout doll on every TV station, or being alone. It was a nightmare.

"Wake up, Patrick," Patrick said as he slapped his face. "Wake up!" He hit himself again.

A child skipped down the sidewalk outside. Patrick went to see who it was. He watched the blonde boy throw a rock on the number 8 and skip down past it without touching the block. It was him. But he was here. How could that be?

***

How they got outside, none of them knew. All they knew was that they weren't in the mud or injected with poison or being beaten or watching Mr. Rogers on a television set. But Michael was missing. Had he not made it out of The Nightmare Room, or had he passed the test the quickest and left the other guys as dead?

They all knew that it had happened although it hadn't happened. It was one of those stories that no one but you would believe, except they had proof of living in a true nightmare.

The spider bite was still on Marc's head along with blood and mud dripping all over his body. Ben had the first bump when he had woken up and electric burns from the taser, not to mention the barely visible hole where the needle had struck his skin. J was totally beaten: two black eyes, a bloody nose, and countless bruises and cuts all over his body. The dart was still planted in his leg, and Marc ripped it out to add on to the pain. Patrick had tucked a cardboard soda can into his back pocket, and it was still there.

"Man, I'm starving. All that cardboard worked up an appetite in me," Patrick informed as he grabbed his growling stomach. He spotted a concession stand over to one side. "I think I'll buy a treat."

Patrick returned with a small pastry, mumbling about the jacked up prices. "This is a rip off! A 5-inch pie for twenty bucks! Geez!" He tucked the rest of the money into his wallet. "Oh well, it's food, and it's decent for such a dirty theme park."

Patrick bit into the pie and dropped it. "Gross! It tastes like Michael!"

"What?" asked J.

"How would you know?" questioned Marc suspiciously.

"Hey, I've been in plenty of fights with Michael-"

Marc cut the blonde off. "Sissy fights."

"What?!" Patrick bursted.

Ben answered, "Only girls bite and scratch."

Marc finished, "Real men punch and kick."

The pie's filling oozed out onto the ground. The crimson contents ran around their feet and a bubble popped. Marc looked at the treat in horror. "I swear it just said help."

Patrick eyed the Italian. "Pies can't speak."

Ben picked up the crusty outside wrapped in a sheet of plastic wrap. He studied the label on the package and dropped it back to its resting place on the ground. "What's a Michael Meat Pie?"

"Sounds like something Michael would eat," Patrick answered casually.

"You mean, it sounds like something Michael would be!" Marc exclaimed.

J watched the ooze flow down into the sewer through a round drain in the middle of the road. It was dark in there, and J honestly didn't want to know if anything was living in there. But he heard whispers. And he could make them out. "Help" and "EAT" were the main one syllable words.

"Patrick! Help me!"

"Michael?" Patrick looked around quizically, searching for his friend. "Where are you?"

"Down here, in the dark." The words came up from the drain. J jumped back a few feet.

"I'm coming! Hold on!" Patrick reached his hand into the drain, and he felt Michael wrap his fingers around his arm. The rythmic guitarist pulled with all his strength to drag Michael out of the sewer.

Michael emerged from the hole, bloody and crying. He laid on the ground, curled in a ball, his clothes half burned. "Help me." He shook violently as Patrick touched him. "No more. Please! Not another Patty Cake. I'll explode."

"I knew he was crazy," Marc whispered to Ben. "He's been hiding in a drain this whole time, and he expects us to believe someone cooked him in a pie after feeding him 'Patty Cakes'. What next?"

"Well, crazy or not, he's gonna need some new clothes," Ben answered. He went and bought Michael a pair of shorts and a T-shirt that read "I survived The Nightmare Room."

J dug the park map out of his pocket and searched it for the next attraction. "So where do we go now? What do you guys want to ride...or survive, I should say?"