Work Text:
Quackity lay in bed, eyes locked on the ceiling, tracing invisible patterns in the dark. Goosebumps spread across his arms despite the thick blanket wrapped around him. The room felt colder than it should have, an unnatural chill settling into the walls, into his bones. The windows were shut tight. The heater was on. And yet, the air carried a strange, lingering stillness, like something unseen was watching, waiting.
This had been going on for two nights now. Sleepless hours stretched endlessly, shadows pooling in the corners of his room, shifting when he wasn’t looking. His body ached from exhaustion, muscles tense with unease. He didn’t know why. He couldn’t explain it. And he hated it.
-
At first, it was just small things. The temperature would drop out of nowhere, a sudden chill settling over his skin despite the warmth of the room. It was subtle at first, barely noticeable, but the longer it went on, the more frequent it became. He’d be working at his desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, when a sharp wave of cold air would wash over him. It wasn’t like the usual draft from the vents or the AC kicking in, this was different. It felt unnatural, like the air had been sucked out of the room and replaced with something heavier, something watching.
Then there were the touches. Small brushes against his shoulder, featherlight and fleeting. At first, he chalked it up to exhaustion, he wasn’t sleeping well, after all, and fatigue played cruel tricks on the mind. But as time passed, the feeling became more distinct. A cold, weightless pressure, pressing just enough to make his skin prickle, but not enough to hold on. The worst part was that it always came when he was alone, when no one else was in the room. It was never forceful, never aggressive, just there. Present. A quiet reminder that he wasn’t alone.
Then came the misplaced shadows. They flickered just outside his vision, shifting in ways that didn’t make sense. He’d see one near the bookshelf in his office, stretched longer than it should’ve been, like the light had bent around something unseen. He’d turn to look, only to find nothing. Other times, he’d catch glimpses of movement in the reflection of his computer screen, a dark figure standing near the door, gone the moment he turned around.
He told himself it was nothing. He told himself he was just tired, stressed, overworked. But deep down, he knew better. Something was off.
-
But, instead of lying there, drowning in the restless silence, he showed up to work four hours early.
The office was empty, dimly lit by the glow of his desk lamp. His chair creaked as he sank into it, exhaling a slow breath. The top button of his shirt was undone, tie discarded carelessly on the desk. A blanket, one he always kept on the couch in his office, was wrapped tightly around his shoulders. His fingers curled into the fabric as he tried to shake off the cold that clung to him.
Maybe he was just getting sick. That had to be it, right? It made sense. The chills, the exhaustion, the gnawing discomfort that refused to fade. The fatigue would explain.. what he'd been seeing. Yeah. That was probably it.
Then, the sharp slam of a door echoed through the empty office.
Quackity’s head snapped up, his breath hitching. The hallway was dim, visible only through the slight crack in his office door. That sound, he hadn’t imagined it. It was real.
His first thought was Charlie. Maybe he had arrived early too and accidentally shut the door too hard? But Quackity hesitated. He knew he’d left the door open. Wide open.
Slowly, he reached for the small penlight on his desk, clicking it on. A weak beam cut through the dim hallway as he rose from his chair, each step hesitant, careful. The air felt heavier now, charged with something he couldn’t name.
The door leading to the main office was shut.
Quackity frowned. He was certain, absolutely certain, he had left it open.
He stepped closer, inspecting the handles. They were jammed down, like someone had forcefully held them in place before shutting it. His grip tightened on the flashlight as he reached out, fingers brushing against the cold metal.
The moment he did, the temperature plummeted.
His penlight flickered. Then, it shut off completely.
Quackity jerked his hand back, heart hammering against his ribs. His breath came out in short, uneven puffs, misting in the sudden cold. He clicked the flashlight’s button, again and again, but nothing happened.
“Whatever..” He mumbled, voice barely above a whisper. He pulled the blanket closer around himself and turned to go back to his office.
But as he walked, the sound of his own footsteps seemed.. wrong.
Too loud.
Like there was another set following behind him.
His pace quickened. The hallway stretched ahead, too long, too dark. He told himself it was just his imagination, just exhaustion messing with him. He was tired. His mind was playing tricks.
Then he stopped.
A shadow.
At the end of the hallway.
It moved, slipping around the far corner before he could get a clear look.
His pulse thundered in his ears. That was not his imagination. That was real.
For a long moment, he stood frozen, caught between instincts. Run? Investigate? Pretend he hadn’t seen anything?
His body moved before his mind made a decision, feet dragging him forward in an unsteady rhythm. The air felt heavier with each step, thick with something unseen. As he reached the end of the hallway, he hesitated. Then, he turned the corner.
A gust of air hit him. Cold. Stagnant.
His blanket shifted against his shoulders, like something had brushed past him.
His eyes locked on the storage room door.
Steel. Slightly ajar.
Someone was here.
It had to be Charlie. Or Fundy. Someone. Someone real. That was the only explanation. Right?
Quackity inhaled sharply and stepped toward the door, pushing it open. The hinges groaned, the sound cutting through the silence like a warning.
“Slime? That you?” His voice came out quieter than he intended.
Nothing.
“Fundy?” He tried again, forcing himself to sound casual. “You know you don’t have to-”
His words cut off as his balance suddenly shifted.
A force, small, but undeniable, pushed against him.
His knees hit the cold stone floor, pain jolting up his legs. He hissed, hands catching him before his face could meet the ground. His breath came fast and uneven.
Had he tripped?
No. No, he was sure. He had felt it. Someone had pushed him.
Dread curled in his stomach. The silence in the room felt deeper now, suffocating.
He needed to leave. Now.
Scrambling to his feet, he turned back toward the door. He didn’t care who it was. He didn’t want to know anymore. He just wanted out.
But before he could take another step, the door slammed shut.
Hard.
His breath caught in his throat. He lunged forward, grabbing the handle.
It was ice cold.
So cold it burned.
Quackity yelped, yanking his hand back. His fingertips throbbed, the cold seeping into his skin. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, panic rising.
“What the fuck--” He whispered, voice shaking. His fist slammed against the steel, once, twice, three times. “Let me out!”
No response.
The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating.
Then--
A touch.
Featherlight, barely there.
Resting on his shoulder.
He sucked in a sharp breath, muscles locking in place. His head turned, almost against his will, his gaze falling on the hand resting just above him.
It wasn’t solid.
It wasn’t real.
Translucent. Like a cloud of smoke, shifting, curling at the edges.
And then, his eyes caught something. A small detail. One he shouldn’t have noticed, but did.
A ring.
Gold.
Intricate engravings twisting around the band.
Familiar.
His breath hitched. His chest ached, heart clenching around something too sharp, too raw.
“..You.”
The word barely made it past his lips, nothing more than a breath.
Then, a voice.
Soft. Amused.
“Did you miss me, pumpkin?”