by La Chatte Noire
Jonathan stood in the farmhouse at the bottom of the stairs. He took off his heavy work gloves and started up the stairs. Clark hadn't joined him outside to help with the tractor and he was starting to get worried. He paused on the second step. "Clark? Are you up there?"
There was no answer. Jonathan looked back and called into the kitchen. "Martha? Do you know where Clark is?"
There was no answer there either. Jonathan shrugged because it didn't seem too strange and continued up the stairs.
He paused. Something was wrong. Something was horridly wrong. He could feel it. He took a closer look around him. Everything seemed normal, but he didn't remember having so many pictures of Lex and Clark on the walls. The way they looked in the photographs was eerie, but he couldn't place the feeling of unease.
He shook his head. He had to get upstairs. He had to find Clark because something was wrong. Something was horridly wrong. He took a step, then another, fighting all sense of self-preservation in each movement. He wanted nothing more than to be able to turn and run, leave, forget everything about Clark, but he continued.
After an eternity Jonathan had reached the landing. He panted with exertion and wiped his brow. Above his heavy breathing he heard a sound, the first time he had heard anything other than himself since coming inside. It sounded like somebody breathing, softly and irregularly, somebody in Clark's room.
Clark's room. The source of this uneasiness, the reason he came up here. Maybe when he looked in he and Clark would be able to go back downstairs and fix the tractor. He took a hesitant step toward the slightly ajar door.
The breathing didn't change. He took another. And another. And another. He reached the door and placed his hand on the wood to push it open.
The breathing stopped in a fearful gasp. Jonathan started and pushed the door open and stepped in.
Clark's room was a strange sterile white Jonathan had never seen before. He looked around the nearly empty room, searching until he saw the figure sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back to the wall.
"Clark?" Jonathan asked.
The figure shifted slightly, shuffling inside a canvas straight-jacket. He bowed his head slightly, hiding under a shock of black hair as he tried to make himself smaller and disappear.
Jonathan stood just inside the door in unaltered horror. "Oh God, Clark?" He reached out for his son.
Clark looked up at his father with blank, lifeless, insane eyes. Blue eyes. Lex's eyes.
"Jonathan wake up," Martha urged as she shook her husband. She shook him and kicked him in the thigh as she tried to snap him out of whatever was making him scream like this.
He gave a final horrified scream and sat bolt upright in bed. He gasped and looked around, unrecognizing, until he saw Martha. "Oh holy God," he moaned and fell back into bed. He wrapped his arms around her and tried not to sob in his fear.
"What was it?" Martha asked as she held him, stroking his back comfortingly.
Jonathan shivered and pulled himself out of her embrace. "I have to check on Clark. I have to make sure..." He trailed off before running out of the room and into the hallway.
He stopped in his tracks as he looked at the door to Clark's room, slightly ajar. The same mind-numbing fear gripped him as he stood there and shook. He brought a hand up to cover his mouth, choking back a sob.
As the sob broke, he ran toward the door and pushed it open. He stepped in.
Clark's room looked the same as it always had, dirty clothes in a pile by the closet, floor a little dusty, computer blinking a comforting little light, bed unmade--
Jonathan tore into the room, whimpering as he tore back the covers on the bed, trying to find his son. After he had stripped the bed he heard a small noise not his own. He looked behind him and saw Clark, then gasped as he tried to hide his horror.
Clark sat cross-legged against the wall, holding a curled-up blanket in his arms, looking at him. His eyes were blank.
But most of all, they were blue eyes. Lex's eyes.
Clark shushed him and looked down at the blanket in his arms. "Shh, you'll wake the baby." He smiled and started to sing.
"Hush little baby, don't say a word, Mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird."
Even I have nothing to say about this story. It by and far speaks for itself, loudly. Freaked me out when I wrote it, what does that tell you?