The Cliffs, page 16
Another arm came loose from what was a thigh. It reached for the gear that made up a kneecap. It unscrewed it then flung it into the lake.
Now another two arms reached out. One grabbed the piston-constructed lips. The other removed an ear-shaped elbow.
And more arms began to move. They seemed to spout from every part of Afton’s metal jumble like oil gushers shoving through the earth’s surface. Every arm that came out grabbed something. One piece after the other was plucked by reaching fingers. It took only a minute before Afton’s Amalgamation was a roiling lump of body parts and connective pieces.
Then unidentifiable fluids begin spilling from the deconstructing trash. As they flowed, Afton stumbled backward, one short step from the end of the dock.
Larson’s legs gave out. He dropped to the deck and sat with both hands pressed to his lower stomach, his eyes wide and staring as blood started pouring from the trash rabbit’s mouth.
The blood sluiced over the plastic, metal, bone, and wire, and it mixed with the other fluids to flow like hot tar onto the warped planks of the dock. The once-identifiable, though grotesque, rabbit was becoming a decomposing trash heap, a frail pile of disparate bits, weak and struggling.
When the last piece fell onto the pyramid of waste, Afton screamed, and the entire tower of worthlessness fell back off the dock.
For at least a minute, Larson sat and stared, trying to figure out if he could ever put words to what had just happened. Then, painfully, he stood. On unsteady legs, he took short, slow steps toward the edge of the dock. Taking a deep breath, he looked down at the water.
He’d been prepared to jump back if he had to. But he didn’t have to. What remained of Afton wasn’t a threat.
Afton was nothing but a floating stain of insignificant parts bobbing on the surface of the lake. Larson relaxed his muscles, but he covered his nose with his hand. The air was heavy with the smells of acid and decomposition. Oily lather skimmed over the water.
Feeling dizzy, Larson leaned against a post at the corner of the dock. He listened to the water fizz and burble. And he watched the parts begin to sink. A leg. An arm. A foot. Gears. Joints. Mouths. The lake swallowed piece after piece until, finally, only one thing remained.
The last piece of Afton’s trash-self that the lake slipped down its liquid gullet was the purple-striped mask of the marionette.
Larson crumpled to the dock. And that’s when he spotted the Stitchwraith again.
He could feel blood seeping from his wounds, but he ignored it. His vision was becoming blurry; he had to strain to watch the Stitchwraith. As the Stitchwraith stepped out of the shadows and onto the dock, Larson tried to push himself back up onto his feet. He couldn’t let Afton walk away from this factory … in any form.
* * *
Jake knew the detective thought that Jake was as bad as the trash rabbit. He could feel the detective’s anger and fear.
But that didn’t matter. The detective’s infection was already starting to spread. Jake had to stop it.
Thankfully, the detective didn’t have the strength to get up. Not only had he lost a lot of blood, but the stinky spirit that had been in the trash rabbit was taking its toll. The detective could do nothing but stare wide-eyed as Jake approached him.
Jake knelt by the detective’s side. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The detective didn’t seem to hear Jake’s words. The man’s gaze was losing focus, and he was terribly pale.
Jake looked at the wound in the detective’s belly. It was swollen and inflamed, and its edges had a sickening greenish tint. How could Jake get the contamination out?
Jake looked down at his metal hands. Concentrating, he sent energy from the battery pack he knew powered his endoskeleton. He funneled as much of its charge as he could into one of his hands.
And it worked! Jake’s metal hand began to glow red with heat. As soon as the glow began to radiate outward, Jake held his hand over the detective’s wound.
The detective was barely aware of what was happening, but he cried out and tried to writhe away from Jake’s hand. Jake used his other hand to hold the detective in place.
As soon as the detective was still, Jake lowered his glowing hand. The detective screamed in pain, but Jake, wincing, ignored the sound. He had to burn the infection away … even if it hurt the detective. As soon as the heat met the detective’s skin, a greenish gunk that looked like a revolting cross between spoiled cottage cheese and pistachio pudding bubbled up to the surface. It immediately began sizzling, which created a nasty reek of putrid, decaying flesh. Jake would have wrinkled his nose if his nose could have wrinkled. But he stayed where he was, and he kept his hand in place until the last of the repulsive glop was gone.
By then, the detective had passed out. Jake was happy about that.
Jake looked around. What should he do now?
The shriek of sirens answered that question. He had to leave. Help was coming, and that help wouldn’t see Jake as a good guy.
Jake straightened and ran toward the factory. He figured he could wind his way through its interior and escape out the other side. As Jake ducked into a narrow hall, though, his footsteps faltered. He’d just had a horrible realization.
Jake forced himself to keep going as he thought about the trash rabbit and the way it had come apart. Jake’s own spirit had been close enough to the awful man controlling the trash rabbit—the detective had called him Afton—to know that the awful man’s spirit wasn’t as powerful as it had pretended to be. Jake had felt that Afton’s spirit was barely hanging onto this reality. So how would Afton have been able to battle the detective the way he did?
Jake reached the far side of the factory. He poked his head out a small door and looked around.
Twilight had given way to darkness. The moon was bright enough to light up the area, but the night created enough shadows for Jake to stay out of sight.
As he fled the factory, Jake faced the truth that he’d just uncovered: Something besides Afton had been controlling the trash rabbit. And whatever it was, it was worse.
Copyright © 2021 by Scott Cawthon. All rights reserved.
Photo of TV static: © Klikk/Dreamstime
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
First printing 2021
Cover design by Betsy Peterschmidt
e-ISBN 978-1-338-73390-7
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
Scott Cawthon, The Cliffs
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Now another two arms reached out. One grabbed the piston-constructed lips. The other removed an ear-shaped elbow.
And more arms began to move. They seemed to spout from every part of Afton’s metal jumble like oil gushers shoving through the earth’s surface. Every arm that came out grabbed something. One piece after the other was plucked by reaching fingers. It took only a minute before Afton’s Amalgamation was a roiling lump of body parts and connective pieces.
Then unidentifiable fluids begin spilling from the deconstructing trash. As they flowed, Afton stumbled backward, one short step from the end of the dock.
Larson’s legs gave out. He dropped to the deck and sat with both hands pressed to his lower stomach, his eyes wide and staring as blood started pouring from the trash rabbit’s mouth.
The blood sluiced over the plastic, metal, bone, and wire, and it mixed with the other fluids to flow like hot tar onto the warped planks of the dock. The once-identifiable, though grotesque, rabbit was becoming a decomposing trash heap, a frail pile of disparate bits, weak and struggling.
When the last piece fell onto the pyramid of waste, Afton screamed, and the entire tower of worthlessness fell back off the dock.
For at least a minute, Larson sat and stared, trying to figure out if he could ever put words to what had just happened. Then, painfully, he stood. On unsteady legs, he took short, slow steps toward the edge of the dock. Taking a deep breath, he looked down at the water.
He’d been prepared to jump back if he had to. But he didn’t have to. What remained of Afton wasn’t a threat.
Afton was nothing but a floating stain of insignificant parts bobbing on the surface of the lake. Larson relaxed his muscles, but he covered his nose with his hand. The air was heavy with the smells of acid and decomposition. Oily lather skimmed over the water.
Feeling dizzy, Larson leaned against a post at the corner of the dock. He listened to the water fizz and burble. And he watched the parts begin to sink. A leg. An arm. A foot. Gears. Joints. Mouths. The lake swallowed piece after piece until, finally, only one thing remained.
The last piece of Afton’s trash-self that the lake slipped down its liquid gullet was the purple-striped mask of the marionette.
Larson crumpled to the dock. And that’s when he spotted the Stitchwraith again.
He could feel blood seeping from his wounds, but he ignored it. His vision was becoming blurry; he had to strain to watch the Stitchwraith. As the Stitchwraith stepped out of the shadows and onto the dock, Larson tried to push himself back up onto his feet. He couldn’t let Afton walk away from this factory … in any form.
* * *
Jake knew the detective thought that Jake was as bad as the trash rabbit. He could feel the detective’s anger and fear.
But that didn’t matter. The detective’s infection was already starting to spread. Jake had to stop it.
Thankfully, the detective didn’t have the strength to get up. Not only had he lost a lot of blood, but the stinky spirit that had been in the trash rabbit was taking its toll. The detective could do nothing but stare wide-eyed as Jake approached him.
Jake knelt by the detective’s side. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The detective didn’t seem to hear Jake’s words. The man’s gaze was losing focus, and he was terribly pale.
Jake looked at the wound in the detective’s belly. It was swollen and inflamed, and its edges had a sickening greenish tint. How could Jake get the contamination out?
Jake looked down at his metal hands. Concentrating, he sent energy from the battery pack he knew powered his endoskeleton. He funneled as much of its charge as he could into one of his hands.
And it worked! Jake’s metal hand began to glow red with heat. As soon as the glow began to radiate outward, Jake held his hand over the detective’s wound.
The detective was barely aware of what was happening, but he cried out and tried to writhe away from Jake’s hand. Jake used his other hand to hold the detective in place.
As soon as the detective was still, Jake lowered his glowing hand. The detective screamed in pain, but Jake, wincing, ignored the sound. He had to burn the infection away … even if it hurt the detective. As soon as the heat met the detective’s skin, a greenish gunk that looked like a revolting cross between spoiled cottage cheese and pistachio pudding bubbled up to the surface. It immediately began sizzling, which created a nasty reek of putrid, decaying flesh. Jake would have wrinkled his nose if his nose could have wrinkled. But he stayed where he was, and he kept his hand in place until the last of the repulsive glop was gone.
By then, the detective had passed out. Jake was happy about that.
Jake looked around. What should he do now?
The shriek of sirens answered that question. He had to leave. Help was coming, and that help wouldn’t see Jake as a good guy.
Jake straightened and ran toward the factory. He figured he could wind his way through its interior and escape out the other side. As Jake ducked into a narrow hall, though, his footsteps faltered. He’d just had a horrible realization.
Jake forced himself to keep going as he thought about the trash rabbit and the way it had come apart. Jake’s own spirit had been close enough to the awful man controlling the trash rabbit—the detective had called him Afton—to know that the awful man’s spirit wasn’t as powerful as it had pretended to be. Jake had felt that Afton’s spirit was barely hanging onto this reality. So how would Afton have been able to battle the detective the way he did?
Jake reached the far side of the factory. He poked his head out a small door and looked around.
Twilight had given way to darkness. The moon was bright enough to light up the area, but the night created enough shadows for Jake to stay out of sight.
As he fled the factory, Jake faced the truth that he’d just uncovered: Something besides Afton had been controlling the trash rabbit. And whatever it was, it was worse.
Copyright © 2021 by Scott Cawthon. All rights reserved.
Photo of TV static: © Klikk/Dreamstime
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
First printing 2021
Cover design by Betsy Peterschmidt
e-ISBN 978-1-338-73390-7
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
Scott Cawthon, The Cliffs
