Bump In The Night [5] | TH
Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader
Summary: Remember to lock your doors.
Warning: Explicit Language, Gore-ish (not really but there will be more)
A/N: Hi! I found this while clearing out my old laptop and thought I'd post what I had written so far! sorry it's been like 7 years lol maybe I'll finish it
22 feet isn’t enough time to process the wind whipping past you, hitting the ground with a thud. Your chest lurches, gasping for air as your back connects to the dirt. You roll over to your side, heaving and disoriented. You had more or less fallen from the window when Tom pushed you out, rather than jumped. You try to scramble your feet but your vision blurs. There’s a black outline of your sight. You force yourself to stay upward, splaying your hands out in front of you to catch yourself on anything. You find support on the side of the house. Help. You have to find help.
As you round the corner, you can see the squad car parked in front of your parents. Someone was here and you were going to be okay. Thank God.
“Help! Please!” You cry out, abandoning the house siding for support. You stumble into the front yard, losing your footing. “Help!”
The grass, wet with evening dew, slides your hands out from under you as you try to push yourself up. “Jesus Christ! Someone! Help!”, you plead. There’s not a sound on the street besides your heavy breathing. Your eyes dart around as you manage to your feet for the second time. All of the lights in Tom’s house are on, illuminating the yard like a spot light. You make out a figure watching you from the front door, and you run as fast as your body will let you to the squad car.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t you hear me?”. The cars lights are all off but the engine is running. You pound on the driver side door, not even waiting for the officer to react. Your cries and attempts don’t even phase the officer, and that’s when you see it. A knife protrudes from the other side of the officer’s neck, blood spilling down his shoulder and into his lap.
“No. No. No!” Your screams increase in volume. “No!” You thrust you fist against the window in frustration one more time. You bring your head down to meet the cold window and a whimper escapes your lips. How could something so cruel and unasked for happen like this? What did you do to deserve this? You halfheartedly hit the window again, your fist sliding against the car frame.
“You never called,” Your breath catches in your throat. You can just make out the reflection of someone standing behind you in the squad cars window. Your entire body trembles as you turned in place. The person takes a steps towards, and you mirror it by pushing your back against the car. This was someone new. They wore an old clown mask, their eyelids painted to match its color. Their hands stayed hidden behind their back as they took another step forward. Your hands quivered as they searched for the door handle.
“What do you want?” You breathe. White-knuckled, you grip the plastic of the handle.
The masked person answers with a laugh, pulling a meat mallet from behind their back. You yank at the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. The masked person lunges, swinging the mallet down where you stand. You ducked out of the way and pull at the backseat door.
The person swings again, and you can feel metal make contact with your hand as a wet thud breaks through the air. You scream in agony as you pull yourself into the backseat. You need to get the officers gun. You try to pull the door closed behind you and lock it, but the attempt is pointless as the meat mallet slams against the glass. You scramble towards the front seat, but you’re stopped. There is a metal caged wall between the backseat and the front. You grip the metal, shaking it in desperation.
“Fuck!” You scream as you hear the window crack under its assault. Desperately, you push your hand through the cage as far as it will go. You arm compresses against the wires, and you let out a heavy breath. “Please, please,” you mutter as your fingers flail in an attempt to make contact with the gun holster of the dead officer. They brush against the clothed material as the window shatters. You push further into the cage frantically, feeling your arm swell with the pressure on its skin. The stranger reaches in, hitting the lock and swinging the door open. Your breathing hitches as the assailant pushes themselves into the car. Your hand finds the holster, unhooking it, but your stuck. You can’t pull your arm back out. They crawl on top of you, brandishing the mallet menacingly. They gently bring the cold metal down to your temple, slowly dragging it across your face. You let out an uncontrollable sob, feeling their hot breath from behind the mask.
“Sshhh, it will all be over soon,” they coo, lifting the mallet in the air.
A blood curdling scream fills the vehicle as you heave your arm out of the metal netting. Your bicep tears against it, ripping a line down your flesh as you force the action. The mallet swings down as you pull the gun out, but you were faster. The shot rings out, and the meat mallet falls from their grip, plummeting towards your face. The strangers body goes limp, blood spilling from their neck.
Your body heaves as you try to catch your breath. Your ears are ringing and you can feel your lip grow warm as blood gushes from the split where the mallet hit you. For a quick minute, you lay there. A sob over takes you and you feel the world closing in on you. Pushing the body onto the floor, you scramble out of the car, collapsing in the street. Your stomach heaves and before you know it, you’re throwing up. The vomit mixes into your cut, stinging, and you gasp for air in between your sobs.
You can tell the adrenaline is leaving your body as your arm begins to throb, blood still pouring from the fresh gash. You steady yourself to your feet, but your head is light. You know your losing blood too fast, but you don’t know what to do. Dying by bleeding out sounds almost more helpless than a brazen attack. A wave of anxiety washes over your body. You weren’t going to let yourself die. This wasn’t going to be your time.
Thinking quickly, you pull the drawstring from your sweatpants, and wrap it around your upper forearm. You grip one end in your teeth, the other in your hand, and pull it tight. This will have to do for now. You have to make sure Tom is okay.
Tom. Shit. How long had he been by himself? How many other people were in the home?
Hesitantly, you make your way back to the car. The stranger is limp, still on the floor, but it’s little comfort. You saw the gunshot wound yourself, but you still feel like they’re going to grab you again. You lean into the car, grabbing the gun you left in your state of panic.
Abandoning all thought, you make your way back into Tom’s house.
Taglist: @wtfholland @justmesadgirl @dayumtomdaddy
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