Chapter Text
Twenty-seven years ago
Talbot County
Silas Cooper cradles the phone between his shoulder and ear as he hammers a nail into the wall. "Listen, Bud," he says, raising his voice to penetrate the background noise; an old radio crackles out a faint country song, accompanied by an ancient air conditioner that hums erratically, battling the stifling, muggy heat of the summer afternoon.
A young boy lurks nearby, partially hidden by chip bags and candy stacked high on the shelves in the centre of the store. He gazes at the scratches on his father's forearm, where the veins bulge as his father tightens his grip on the hammer. “If anyone comes lookin’, we put it about that she was last seen at The Roadhouse. They'll think she ran off with a biker. Bikers are catnip to that sort; no one will think Miss Candy any different.”
Candy. A brief flash of chipped pink nails and the cloying scent of cherry lip gloss flood his senses before dissipating like mist. He fumbles in his pocket until his fingers find the locket. He gently runs his thumb over the cool, sleek surface, planning to place it alongside the other treasures he has collected, hidden away in their secret shrine. Among these treasures are a faded photograph of a young girl, her joy captured alongside a playful golden retriever; a tattered, beloved notebook filled with song lyrics in a clumsy cursive; a plastic hair clip; a blue button; and a unicorn backpack. Each one is a testament to lives stolen.
When his sister, Freddie, gets here, they will go to this place deep in the woods. There, they will kneel on the soft moss and offer a prayer for the lost girls - honouring a vow that they will not be forgotten.
The sharp jingle of the bell above the entrance scatters his reverie, and he slips behind the slushy machine.
A young man strides in with effortless elegance, his tailored suit in a rich burgundy, catching the dim glow of the flickering fluorescent lights above, which causes it to shimmer as he glides past. He looks out of place in the rundown gas station, with its peeling paint, stale odour of cigarettes, and sticky floors.
As the man approaches the register, his father turns away, continuing his phone conversation and seemingly dismissing the man's presence. He carelessly tosses the hammer onto the counter in front of him, striking the surface with a loud clatter.
The stranger swallows hard as he shifts his gaze from the discarded tool to the back of Silas Cooper's head, an unsettling clicking noise emerging from deep within his throat. "Might I impose upon you for some help?" he asks, his accent just beyond the boy's understanding—elusive and exotic. "Regrettably, I'm rather pressed for time."
As he speaks, he slides his hand into the inner pocket of his impeccably fitted jacket and pulls out a dark leather wallet. The boy retreats to the snack aisle for a better view. Peeking between the bags of chips, he catches a glimpse of a profile that looks as if it has been chiselled from marble, with its sharply defined cheekbones and angular jawline.
“The boy will—” Silas begins, glancing over his shoulder, but his voice trails off into a stunned silence, “I’ll call you back, Bud,” he mutters absently into the phone as Bud’s bewildered voice crackles momentarily through the receiver, before Silas disconnects the call, dropping the phone onto the countertop with a dull thud.
From his concealed viewpoint, the boy notices how the stranger suddenly straightens, his posture shifting into something tense with intent. With a subtle, almost imperceptible movement, the stranger's fingers curl into the sleeve of his jacket.
His father stands frozen in place, his eyes wide as he stares at him, “You,” the single word leaves like a breath but falls like a stone.
Silas looks at the crucifix on the wall and, with a slow, contemplative nod, says, “He has sent you to me.”
The stranger, following his gaze, narrows his eyes in clear annoyance. “Are we acquainted?”
Silas leans forward, pressing his hands flat on the counter. "You could say that," he smirks.
The muscles in the man's jaw tighten slightly, a fleeting flicker of tension crossing his otherwise stoic face, "I don’t see how, as I have only recently relocated to America," he counters.
“Yours is not a face ya forget.”
“Is that so?” The stranger chuckles, a low, sinister sound that chills the air between them, more of a warning than amusement. “Perhaps you have mistaken me for someone else.”
“There’s no one like you,” Silas retorts, his voice dropping to a thick whisper.
Hannibal's lips curl into a slow, enigmatic smile, “Well,” he says in a deceptively casual voice, "I can't say I know what you mean.” He opens his wallet and removes some bills, “Now, how much do I owe you for the gas? Pump 4."
Silas remains unmoving, his eyes fixed on the customer, a peculiar smile spreading across his face. "I really admire your work," he states, his voice dripping with an unsettling sincerity.
Hannibal sighs deeply as he sifts through the stack of notes in his hand. "And what work would that be?" he asks, adopting a disinterested tone.
Silas's gaze sparkles with a cruel fervour as he inches closer, “You are indeed a master of our craft.”
Hannibal hesitates a moment in the counting of his money before saying with genial ease, "While I am flattered by your kind words. I must say I feel unworthy of such accolades." He holds up a crisp stack of bills. "Now, if you don't mind, I would like to settle my—"
Silas slaps the counter with his hand, cutting him off, "You and I share the same appetite. Two peas in a pod, I'd say." His grin widens, twisting his features with a demented childlike wonder.
Hannibal angles his head, a predator assessing its prey. His eyes darken, and his lips twitch, barely suppressing a snarl.
“Those beneath us cower in fear and awe before us, as the Lord intended,” Silas continues, his voice taking on an almost philosophical quality.
Hannibal turns his attention to the young boy, silently watching the exchange. The boy's wide, unblinking eyes reveal a visceral, innocent fear, underscoring the ominous presence of Silas.
As the boy connects with Hannibal's stare, he sees an extraordinary, ethereal glow reflected in it. A luminous pulsing light emanates from Hannibal, which instils in the boy a profound sense of tranquillity, soothing him. I prayed for an Angel.
Returning his attention to the boy’s father, Hannibal says, “Is that why your son cowers behind the chips and Twinkies?”
The boy stumbles forward, as if compelled by an unseen force, his movements sluggish and clumsy. Suddenly, a gigantic set of wings bursts from Hannibal’s back, expanding with a thunderous clap. The boy's eyes grow wide, his mouth falling open in awe. The wings stretch majestically, sweeping out in a breathtaking arc, their feathers glistening in the celestial light that radiates from their bearer.
Hannibal observes the boy with keen curiosity.
Misinterpreting the scene, Silas’s lips curl into a cruel smile."You like young boys, huh? Figures." he gestures toward his son with a careless flick of his wrist, “Come here, boy, let our friend get a good look at ya.”
Hannibal’s focus snaps back to the man behind the counter, “Are you offering me your son?” he asks, his lips twitching with barely concealed repulsion.
With a chilling calmness, Silas says, "Didn’t the Lord offer up His Son?"
The boy, seemingly unfazed by the implication, suddenly blurts out, "I prayed for you..." His words spill out like a confession, his eyes boring into Hannibal's with a startling desperation.
Hannibal's gaze swings back to Silas, "Weak is the man who preys on the vulnerable or those under his care."
The words dangle in the air like a threat, but Silas merely laughs, “Oh, come now… there’s no difference in what we do. I may not possess your artistic flair, but we both…” He leans in closer. “We both have itches that need scratching, and if we can rid the world of vermin, the scum…” He shrugs, a lecherous smile spreading across his face as he leans in even closer. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
Hannibal smiles, a slow reptile curl of his lips that fails to reach his eyes. “You believe you are doing the Lord’s work?”
“The Lord tests the righteous, for the day of wrath is coming.”
“I will fill your mountains with the dead,” Hannibal recites, his words slicing through the air like a sharp blade. “Your hills, your valleys, and your streams will be filled with people slaughtered by the sword. I will make you desolate forever. Your cities will never be rebuilt.” The fury simmering beneath his seemingly composed exterior becomes vividly apparent when, in a sudden and fierce motion, Hannibal seizes Silas by the neck and pins him against the counter. “Then you will know that I am God.”
The boy lunges forward and grabs the hammer; it feels large and heavy in his small hands. The suddenness of his own movement surprises him. He stands, his eyes wide and unfocused, as if he doesn’t recognise the tool he’s holding or understand how it came to be in his possession.
He stares at the hammer for a moment, then his eyes wander until they settle on Hannibal’s face. Hannibal shows no signs of alarm or surprise; instead, intrigue sparks in his eyes. Slowly, he straightens his back, rising to his full height. His gaze sharpening as he tightens his grip on Silas's neck.
The boy raises the hammer above his head. For a moment, his grip falters, and the tool wobbles precariously. His eyes dart anxiously between his father’s face and Hannibal’s as he deliberates his next move.
From the counter, struggling against Hannibal’s vice-like hold, Silas snarls, "Do it, boy. Take him out!"
The words swirl around him, stirring the sinister and suffocating presence that has been festering there for some time. His gaze fixes on Hannibal, who waits patiently with unsettling impassivity.
Overwhelmed by a sudden surge of adrenaline, the boy slams the hammer down, but instead of striking Hannibal, it harshly impacts his father's skull.
The boy's grip remains around the handle of the hammer, which is now firmly embedded in his father's head. For a few moments, the boy simply stares. His father's eyes are wide and unblinking, his mouth slack, squashed against the counter, his features twisted with agony and bewilderment.
The boy sways in place as if under a spell, his eyes glazed and vacant, while his father's body jerks violently, the muscles convulsing.
Hannibal's hands flex around Silas’ neck, tightening his grip. A macabre delight twinkles in his eyes as he awaits the boy's next move.
The boy's hands shake as he extracts the hammer. With a faint crunching sound, it finally comes free, dislodging splinters of bone and bloodied clumps of hair from the pulpy wound. A faint glint catches his eye, and he sees his father's crucifix dangling from his neck. The boy's fingers run along the chain, feeling the rough texture of the tiny links and the blood that had begun to seep onto the grooves. When he comes to the cross, he examines intently for a brief moment before, with a violent tug, he rips it from his neck and stuffs it in his pocket. His hands no longer tremble.
With a burst of purging resolve, he lifts the hammer and, in an escalating frenzy, brings it down hard against his father's head, again and again - his pain and rage propelling him onward.
Blood spills freely from the vast, ever-spreading crater, pooling on the counter and dripping onto the floor, creating puddles at their feet. Time appears to pulse, expanding and retracting with the rhythmic destruction and dispelled aggression.
He doesn't realise he is screaming until he feels firm hands gripping his shoulders. Hannibal fills his vision; his lips are moving, forming words, but their meaning remains elusive, slipping from the boy's grasp—his vision blurs and swirls, with Hannibal’s face flickering in and out of focus. The store has come alive, its shadows deepening and twisting around them like the dark tendrils of a mythical beast.
Hannibal's resplendent wings unfurl with a languid, sweeping motion, creating a sharp, high-frequency noise that assaults the boy's senses. The unified wail of a chorus, myriad voices harmonising together, their singular, cutting note echoing repeatedly, incessant and unyielding.
The ground beneath him is cracking and crumbling as the pounding rhythm of the wings wears it down. His eyes, heavy with tears, rise to behold the radiant figure before him. Overwhelmed, he closes his eyes and whispers, “You are glorious, Il mostro.”
The boy's moment of bliss is brought to an abrupt end when Hannibal sharply pulls back his eyelids. Seemingly satisfied, Hannibal shifts his attention to the boy's wrist, pressing his fingers firmly against the skin to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat.
“What happened?” the boy manages to stammer, his voice brittle.
“You had a mild seizure,” Hannibal states evenly.
“Am I dying?”
“I said it was mild,” Hannibal replies coolly with a flicker of impatience.
“Are you an angel?” the boy whispers.
With an inscrutable look, Hannibal takes the hammer from the young boy’s sticky, blood-drenched grasp. “A fallen one, if one at all,” he observes, his voice even.
“Like Lucifer.” The boy noticeably brightens up.
Hannibal removes a crisp white handkerchief from his inside pocket and wipes the handle of the hammer, “Morning Star. You see his influence all around us,” he muses, “His presence is constant and visible, whereas God—he is consistent only in his absence.” Hannibal looks down at the lifeless form of Silas Cooper “Where is your God now?” he taunts.
“Hiding,” the boy murmurs, voice weak but resolute.
“From whom?”
“Us. He fears what he has created.”
Hannibal's gaze sharpens. “And rightfully so,” he asserts as he tosses the now-clean hammer onto the counter beside the former proprietor.
Casually scanning his surroundings, Hannibal notices the "Take a penny. Leave a penny" jar. He lifts it and places it into the gaping hole in Silas Cooper's skull. Admiring his work, he emits a low chuckle. “Penny for your thoughts,” he grins.
“Take me with you!” The boy suddenly blurts out.
Hannibal stills, the silent weight of the boy’s request hanging in the air between them.
“Please…Please take me and…and my sister…” the boy’s breath hitches, “We could be a family. Please …Il Mostro.”
At that moment, the distant rumble of an approaching car catches Hannibal’s attention, and his head twitches in its direction. “This is where our tales diverge, I’m afraid,” he says lightly, tossing several bills onto the counter, “Though I would not be adverse to them crossing again…you are a fascinating boy, I am keen to see what becomes of you.”
“You can’t leave me…the Lord sent you for me.”
“I find myself forming a habit of disrupting God's plans.”
“The Lord's will must prevail.”
“If that is truly the case, then fate will weave our paths together once more.” He spins on his heel, but as he begins to walk away, he hesitates, his gaze wandering to the stand displaying lollipops. After a moment's thought, he reaches out and takes one.
Without turning around, his voice hushed and heavy with emotion, he says, "Take good care of your sister," before striding out of the store, the bell above the door chiming sharply as it swings shut.
The boy stands, his eyes fixed on the figure disappearing into the dusky twilight, admiring his magnificent wings as they flap languidly, catching the last golden rays of the dying sun. “Il Mostro,” he whispers.
~V~