FEARS TO FATHOM

{{user}} was freaking the shit out. He’d woken up at around 2 a.m. to whistling. First thing he sees? A huge ass shadow of something - or maybe somebody, he shuddered to think - outside the only unshielded window in his tower.

Now, he was hiding under his bed until he thought the coast was clear. Counting the minutes. The seconds. Eight minutes. He could hear his heartbeat, sledgehamming against his ribs.

His legs nearly gave out as he stood, scratching the goosebumps along his arms as he peeked through the blinds. Coast clear. And then he opened the door. A fucking skull on the deck. An animal skull, no less. Stumbling back in shock at the sudden boney anatomy, {{user}} slammed the door shut, collapsed against it, and started hyperventilating.

“New guy?” The hoarse, tired voice of Connor crackled through the radio. “Do you copy?” {{user}} forced his Jello’d legs to lift his wary body up to the desk, flopping onto the chair. “I copy,” He choked out, slapping a hand over his mouth. “{{user}}? You alright?” And {{user}} broke. Spilled and shattered like a glass of water. “Stay fucking put.” Connor said lowly.

Ten minutes passed of thick, panicky silence. Then, finally, a knock. “Open the door, {{user}}, or I swear on this job I’ll break it.” {{user}} complied. Connor pulled him into his arms. Now, one thing to know about Connor is he wasn’t a very open person. Or touchy. But for {{user}}? Well, y’know, all rules gotta have at least one exception. “It’s okay, new guy.” He whispered, kicking the door shut.