The soft crying increased in volume as America walked up the stairs. He couldn't tell if the sound was becoming more plaintive or if he could simply hear it better because he was getting closer to the source. As his feet gently stepped upwards, the creaking stairs seemed to join in lamentation with the small voice floating down to meet him. His palm, moist with tension, stuck slightly to the railing, as if to pull him back down the stairs while his feet pulled him upwards. He roughly wiped it on his blue jeans then lifted his arm, holding it bent at his side and slightly outstretched instead, to compensate for the slight shift in balance that comes from having one arm immobilized as well as the light dizziness that kept returning. As he climbed ever further he could feel his bravado slipping slightly, doubt pushing in, shoving like a schoolyard bully at his heroic instincts.

What if it was a trap?

He felt himself hesitate, right foot hovering momentarily above a step before bringing it down and continuing. A trap? Yeah, right. Why? It wasn't as if he had any advantage downstairs that he knew of. America felt the metal chain dig somewhat painfully into his skin as he clenched it tighter in his fist. His knees began to feel shaky and the need to turn around conflicted with the voice in his head which was screaming, 'Don't you dare look back. Don't you dare, because you have no idea what's behind you'. The creepy feeling at his back had returned, tickling the area between his shoulder blades and causing the short hairs on the base of his skull to bristle, but he didn't know if something was actually there or if it was just because of his nerves. America wasn't sure he wanted to know. He tried to swallow, but found his mouth dry, tongue sticking to the back of his throat. Best to keep moving he told himself, looking up into the hall ahead, into the dirty window in the wall that was letting in just a hint of dusky light, and focusing on the pathetic whimpers which came every closer. He was almost at the head of the stairs. It was too late to turn back now anyway really. He steeled himself, gritting his teeth and taking a deep shaky breath before stepping off the final step and into the hallway.

He swiped his palm along his thigh again, feeling the pendants hit lightly on his leg and taking comfort in the presence. America held his shoulders back slightly and, refusing to look to his right down the stairwell, walked down the hallway towards the sound. For a moment he was afraid it was coming from middle room, but as he grew closer he realized that it came from further down, from the end of the hall. He quickly walked past it, unwilling to look in, but at the same time feeling the knot in his gut tighten. If something was in that room and came out behind him there'd be nowhere to go. America pushed this out of his mind and continued on, focused instead on the pitiful crying. He was trapped no matter what.

He reached out slowly towards the door which, being pulled halfway closed, blocked his view of the far room. Like all the other doors he had seen in the house it was made of heavy, dark wood. He could feel its solidity and weight as he pushed gently, testing it. The door however, unlike the floors, the walls, the wood on the railings, wasn't chilled, didn't seem to carry that lingering tinge of dread which, he had come to realize, permeated the house. America's eyes widened as he felt his posture relax. Although cool to the touch, the door also seemed to carry just a bit of warmth, drawing him physically out of the bitter cold which he realized, to his horror, he had began to get accustomed to. He pushed against the it once more, sending it slowly creaking open, and stepped tentatively forward.

He found himself set at ease by the room he stepped into. It was relatively small, tinier than the middle room (Emily's room, his mind supplied before he could stop himself) and was painted a calming, yet vibrant blue. The sounds emanating from it however didn't reflect the relative peace of the newfound space. America stood just inside the doorway looking across at the small figure curled up on the floor. To his relief, (relief? Ghosts and relief don't belong together in the same sentence) it was the same small boy that had appeared to him earlier. He shook his head and pushed the door back to its previous position. He didn't know what he was thinking. It was a ghost. A little kid ghost of course, but still a ghost. It's not like it could die again. America shuddered, suddenly feeling the need to run out the door rising up within him.

He shook his head briskly in an attempt to get a grip on his panic before he could think about the possible repercussions. His balance was swiftly lost as the pain in his head (when had it started hurting like that?) increased and he gripped onto the doorframe to avoid pitching forward. Thankfully, it was enough to keep him from falling on his face, but he still stumbled, feet striking the floor heavily.

America looked up when he heard the sniffling stop abruptly, eyes meeting the startled, puffy, gaze of the little boy, and blinked. Who knew you could scare a ghost? He smiled softly and, deciding the spinning in his head had stilled sufficiently, let go of the doorframe.

"Hey," he said, mentally grimacing at the whispering quality of his own voice. "Can I come in?"

The boy stayed frozen for a moment, completely unmoving and eyes still widened as if in shock, before nodding. That was all America needed. He walked over to the opposite side of the room and sat down beside the boy, who stared at him intensely the whole time.

They sat in silence for a minute. America glanced about the space before turning his eyes towards the boy, who was looking down at his knees. He needed to say something. Part of him couldn't believe the fact that he was having difficulty coming up with words. But really, what do you say to a ghost? America looked up at the ceiling and raked his hand through his hair, barely noticing as the chain caught hold momentarily. He'd already flubbed one conversation big-time. But had that been a ghost at all? America shuddered momentarily. A motion to his right caught his eye and he looked back down. The boy was looking up at him with large, wet eyes, America's sudden movement having caught his attention.

America looked back at the boy for a minute, then licked his lips and plastered on a grin. Perhaps it was simply best to try to forget the ghost thing completely. "Is this your room?" he asked, trying to think of the figure sitting beside him as a normal kid and not… America reigned in a shiver. The small figure beside him nodded his head once again, then looked quickly back down at his feet.

"It's a nice room," America continued. He wasn't just saying it to make conversation either, he realized. Compared to the other rooms in the house this one looked decently well-kept. It was still dusty, and still cold, but it also didn't look as run down as the other spaces. It was in the small details: the way it was painted instead of covered with peeling wallpaper, the lack of dents and gouges, and just simply the fact that it felt inhabited. There was no way to explain that feeling clearly. The room just didn't have the same aura of abandonment that plagued the rest of the building.

The child kept staring down at his feet, not making a sound. Literally. America blinked, noticing for the first time that the kid wasn't breathing. He looked away as his smile dropped, feeling his stomach do a flip-flop, and maybe a barrel roll for good measure. He gripped hold of his blue jeans and fought down the urge to scoot away. If he was going to get anywhere he was gong to have to get over his fear. It was completely irrational. 'Like having a conversation with a dead kid is really rational,' his mind supplied. He would have preferred if it hadn't used the 'd' word. He swallowed a bit of his fear, grimacing at the knot it was causing in his stomach, and looked back over to the kid. His frown deepened as he noticed that the scratches were still on his legs, looking red and painful.

"Looks like whatever that thing was messed us both up," America said, gesturing at the child's legs. The child look up into his eyes, mouth open, for the first time looking as if he had something to say, before lowering his gaze slightly. For a moment he sat staring, expressionless, at some point on America's body before horrifying clarity seemed to spring forward in his mind. His eyes widened quickly, mouth dropping even further and spreading outward as if in a noiseless scream. America blinked again, alarmed at the horrified expression which now covered the child's face, before looking down and suddenly having his own moment of clarity.

"No! No kid." He shifted himself around so that he knelt facing the child before reaching up to his jacket and jerking the zipper downwards. It caught a quarter of the way, stuck and unmoving while tears sprang to the boy's eyes. America only wrestled with the zipper for a moment before giving up and pulling the left side of his jacket away from his body as much as he could. "See. Don't worry. Still there." He said, glancing down at his semi-concealed arm. "It's still there. Don't freak-don't freak out, okay?"

Wobbly tears had gathered in the boy's eyes, threatening to fall. He sniffed once, twice, then nodded. America let out a breath, relaxing his shoulders and letting go of his jacket.

"We good?" he asked, feeling at a loss. It's not as if he could give the kid a hug. "No more tears?"

The child nodded once again, then swiped his hand across his face, rubbing at his eyes. America watched him with a small bit of puzzlement. He really didn't get ghosts. The kid didn't breath, but he did cry. America could see the tear tracks on his face, even though he knew he wouldn't be able to feel the wetness if he reached his hand up to the small pale cheeks. Evidently they could be hurt too, if the scratches said anything, but…

America shook his head. Best not to think about weird stuff like that. That was more Arthur's thing. He looked down at the ground, feeling a small twinge in his stomach. If only he hadn't lost the phone. Arthur would know what to do.

It took him a minute to realize that he was still being watched. America lifted his head to look into the child's now perplexed eyes and smiled the biggest, most heroic smile he could muster. He allowed himself to sit back down fully and scooted back up against the wall. America stretched his legs out and glanced back over at the red marks which adorned the child's calves. He frowned again as a thought crossed his mind.

"Are you going to get in trouble because I'm here with you?"

The child just brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. He shrugged, tiny, bony shoulders shifting up and down.

"Ah," America said, brows furrowing deeper, and started to stand. "Then I'd bett-"

He felt a cold chill run straight through his right leg, a burning which pierced through his muscle and bone. Looking down he saw the child looking up at him, his hand clenched and going into America's calf, as if in an attempt to grab hold of his blue jeans.

"Mmmm…" America hummed with uncertainty, shivering, then sat back down. "Okay. If you're sure."

The boy looked down at his knees, his body language etched with relief.

"But," America continued. "Can you at least tell me what's going on here? I mean-"

America stopped himself as he saw the boy shaking his head again. "Great," he said sarcastically. He pulled his left leg up and draped his arm over it, while stretching his right one, gingerly pointing and flexing his toes. It was still sore, still felt a little stiff and tight and downright weird when he moved it in certain ways, but at least it seemed to be improving. Thank God for his miraculous capacity for healing. He just hoped he'd be as lucky with his fingers. He didn't dare test them, but thinking about it still brought the sharp ache to the forefront of his mind. They'd need some work, he realized, wincing. That was going to suck. 'Of course', he realized, the small haze finally beginning to lift somewhat, 'the whole situation sucks.' With that small thought reality seemed to crash in around him.

"So, I bet-" America winced at the small tremble in his voice and cleared his throat. "So I bet you can't tell me how to get out of here either, huh?"

The boy continued to stare at his own knees, small semi-transparent fingers tracing a circle around the kneecap, then softly shook his head.

America sighed and leaned his head back gently against the wall. "Thought as much." He rolled his head to the right, glancing down at the boy. "Look kid, I-"

Suddenly, movement caught the corner of his eye and a tiny, cold hand was placed just a hairs-breadth from his lips. Cold rolled off of it, turning his breath into a tiny cloud of white that passed slowly, as if meeting some resistance, through the small palm and pointed fingers. The child was leaning over him, staring out into the hallway at a creeping shadow. The form was soundless, undulating like the black mass that stalked the windows. America's lips grew colder, matching the chill that was slowly spreading throughout him. His eyes followed the shifting form as it moved, growing larger, towards the partially closed doorway, bringing a distinct sense of wrongness with it. He could feel his pulse thumping in his ears and his lips began to burn. He and the boy sat silently. America's lips grew numb and the burning moved down to his lungs. The tiny breaths he dared to take weren't enough and the oxygen that reached his lungs was frosty, chilling his core painfully. They sat unmoving as the darkness danced just in sight, until it finally started to crawl away and the atmosphere returned once again to a state of relative calm.

The child looked back into America's face and removed his hand. America breathed in deeply as it was moved away, surprised at how warm the air in the room suddenly felt. America swallowed. "Kid." He whispered, still not completely at ease. "What is that thing?"

He bit off a frustrated growl when the child looked away.

America was about to continue when a soft voice filled the silence. "It's okay here."

America looked over at the child, who was picking at the claw marks on his pants. "What?" he asked, a little confused.

The child continued to look down, but spoke again, a little louder. "It's okay in here. They can't get us."

America tilted his head to the side, opening his mouth to reply when once again the child beat him to it.

"I don't know why." The child looked up with a soft smile, as if he knew what America was going to ask. "It just is. You can share with us," the child glanced down, wrapping his arms around his knees. "If you want to, that is."

America nodded, but frowned as questions began to pop into his mind. "If it's safe, then what was all that a minute ago?" The child was silent again, looking back down and shrugging his shoulders. "Habit?" America continued, and was met with a small nod.

"Mmm…" America glanced around the room. He wasn't completely convinced, but it was better than nothing. He had just opened his mouth to speak when he noted the child had stood up and was running out of the room, footfalls making no sound.

"Hey!" He stood up and followed after. "Can't you at least tell me your-" America pulled at the door and turned the corner into the hallway, "name?" The last word came out in a whisper as he stepped out into the empty space. The boy had once again disappeared.

Author's Note:

So… this ended up longer than I had originally expected... and I'm still not past the point I thought I was going to end up covering in chapter 7. Hopefully it's not moving too slow. I wasn't certain on the pacing for this chapter and the last, but I think it's working out okay for the moment. Thanks for reading.