Chapter Text

‘Am I framed up?’

‘Yeah, you’re good. You ready?’

‘Is there lipstick on my teeth? Do my tits look good?’

‘Uh, no. And yes?’

‘Okay, good, roll it.’

‘Three, two…’

‘Good evening, this is Missy Williams reporting live from outside the Harrington house in Hawkins, Indiana where tonight, Death arrived in this sleepy little town. Earlier this evening, local kids were putting on their costumes and preparing to celebrate Halloween together. But what began as light-hearted fun ended in bloody horror. Four bodies have been found, not yet identified and the suspect remains at large. I’m speaking with local police officer, Phil Callahan. Phil, can you shed some light on this atrocity? Do you have any suspects? Any leads?’

‘Uh, we do not at this time have any leads though we do have a susp–’

‘The hell are you doing, you moron? Get over there and keep people away!’

‘Chief of Police Jim Hopper, can you tell us anything about what happened here tonight? Is it true that the suspect was wearing a Halloween mask?’

‘Get out of here before I smash the camera.’

‘Do you feel responsible for letting people die in a town with a population under a thousand?’

‘I’m warning you.’

‘What about all the deaths leading up to this? Was any of this preventable? Do you know who did this? Are you protecting the–? Hey, don’t touch me, I will sue!’

‘You’re not allowed to film here, this is a crime scene, you little upstart!’

‘God, fine, Jesus. But you know the news cycle doesn’t sleep, Jim. The public will want to know what happened here.’ 

‘As if you give a shit about the public. If I catch you at an active crime scene again, I’ll arrest you.’

‘Missy, maybe we should leave.’

‘What? No, fuck that guy. Hey, keep filming and follow me around back, we’ll sneak inside.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, just turn your light off till we get in. C’mon, why are you just standing there?’

‘This feels wrong.’

‘This is news, don’t grow a set of morals now. Besides, it’s a bunch of dead rich people and spoiled brats, who cares?’

‘Christ, people care.’

‘And that’s why they’ll watch. Missy Williams with exclusive footage of the Harrington House murders? They’ll promote me so fucking fast. Now move your ass and keep it quiet. I wanna get a shot of the Kitchen Blood Bath.’

*

Part One

Wish I may, wish I might
Find my one true love tonight
Do you think that could be you?
If I pray really tight
Get into a fake bar fight
While I’m walking down the avenue
If I lay really quiet
I know that what I do isn’t right
I can’t stop what I love to do
So I murder love in the night
Watching them fall one by one, they fight
Do you think you’ll love me too?

“Serial Killer”, Lana Del Rey

October 1st, 1986

Four weeks until Halloween

The house standing at the end of Honeysuckle Lane is an old one. 

Commissioned by Steve’s great-grandfather in the late 1800s and passed down through three generations of the Harrington family, the house is one of the oldest and grandest in Wysteria, the affluent suburb where the crème de la crème lived. The richest families that came from old money, thousand dollar bills steeped in the lacquered shades of oil, blood and gold.

Though the Harringtons weren’t a family so much as a dynasty, as Steve’s father would frequently correct him with a light slap of his wrist as if correcting a troublesome show pony.

The house is ornate, ostentatious, white and gilded like a rare lily pressed in glass, and Steve hates everything about it. 

The grandfather clock in the ground floor hallway strikes midnight as he leaves his room and makes his way downstairs, headphones on, cassette player in hand. 

His parents are away for the winter, just like the other three seasons, and Steve’s alone in the house. He wouldn’t normally be here at this time, he’d be in his dorm room at college, he’d be in classes or in the library. Maybe getting wasted with the frat guys in Sigma Pi, the ones with wallets fatter than their dicks and shit for brains. But the fancy college his Dad had paid for him to get into has closed down due to the thing that happened last week.

The dead guy in the dormitory bathroom. 

Parker Royce. 

Rich asshole, like the rest of them, who liked to parade around campus in a Cartier watch and invite the hottest sorority girls to spend a weekend at his family’s lakeside cabin, but who was found in the bathroom, skin shock white but for all the blood, so they say.

So now, everyone’s home while shit gets investigated or cleaned up, Steve heard it was a mess. Suicide gone wrong maybe, or the result of skipping payment to fund his little coke habit one too many times. There were a lot of rumours around campus and filtering into Hawkins, but no official word yet. 

They’ll go back soon, when the blood isn’t staining the tiles anymore and when his string of ex-girlfriends can stop crying on camera, delicately blotting their mascara-stained cheeks and saying how much they loved Parker even though everyone knew he was a Grade-A douche, but not yet. 

It’s eerily quiet outside, no noise except for the wind through the trees, or the animal sounds from the woods at the back of the house. Steve tends to keep all the lights on when he’s home alone, likes to flood the house in it, especially in a place like Hawkins, but tonight he’s kept the lights dim, the only real light coming from the pastel glare of the swimming pool out back.  

Steve’s barely dressed, in an old pair of gym shorts and a thin t-shirt with a stretched-out collar that he thinks might have belonged to Tommy first, and he makes his way to the kitchen. Leaves the light off and roots through the freezer for the tub of cookie dough ice cream he knows should be there. 

Madonna’s playing on his headphones. Papa Don’t Preach and Steve hums along to it, knows all the words, booty shaking as he bends down and digs out the ice cream that he’d kept hidden behind packs of frozen carrot sticks. He gets a spoon and pops the top, lives for that moment when the first spoonful of cookie dough hits his tongue, all sweet and cold, making him moan.

When the phone rings, Steve barely hears it. 

Would have missed it entirely if he didn’t catch the ring of it between one song ending and another starting. 

He tugs his headphones down and presses pause on the cassette player.

The phone rings in the dead silence of the Harrington house, tinny and loud where it sits on the kitchen counter.

Steve considers not answering. It’s late, who’d be calling at this time anyway? But it might be Tammy, the girl he took to the movies last week who stroked her manicured fingers along the inseam of his jeans in his car when he dropped her home. Might be his Dad checking in on him, asking how he was, if he was still keeping up with his studies, if he was getting ready for the spring internship he wanted Steve to take at his company.

He doesn’t really care about either of those. 

But it could be Robin, something could be wrong. 

Steve reaches over and picks the phone up.

‘Hello,’ he answers, wedging the phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he reaches for the ice cream again. There’s silence, line active but quiet. ‘Hello?’

Then he hears a breath being taken. 

‘Hello.’

The voice is male, low, pleasant. 

‘Who is this?’ Steve asks, hoping it’s not one of the kids’ parents gotten wind he’s back in town, asking if he can babysit tomorrow. He loves those brats but they grated on him sometimes too.

‘Who’s this?’

Steve smirks, ice cream on his tongue, Madonna playing around his neck, phone against his ear. 

‘I think you got the wrong number, buddy.’

‘Well how would I know if you won’t tell me who you are?’

‘Is this Jonathan? If so, Nancy’s gonna love that voice, real charming, not creepy at all,’ Steve says, fronting as he often does. Steve Harrington, King Steve, it’s an easy mask to slip on, less easy to take off sometimes. ‘C’mon, don’t keep me in suspense.’

He runs his hand through his hair. He needs to wash it before he goes to sleep tonight, and leans back against the kitchen counter, one knee bent, bare foot against the cupboard door. The movement pulls his gym shorts up obscenely high, showing off his tan lines, where his skin goes abruptly creamy-white mid-thigh. Steve’s used to lounging around like this, it’s not like anyone can see him anyway.

‘Why don’t we play a game?’

Steve digs the spoon in, rolls his eyes. ‘I’m not in the mood.’ 

And he isn’t. 

He’s had a rough day. 

Being here alone, unexpectedly thrown back where he fucking hates it in this small town with all his history…  it has him on edge. He’s got nothing to do, nowhere to go. 

All he wants to do is go back up to bed, maybe think about Tammy in some new way. He hasn’t jerked off in a while and he could use some fresh material, it’s all stale.

‘No? You got better things to be doing?’

The tone is almost kind, considerate, but there’s something patronising too. Steve wonders if it’s Tommy putting a voice on. Maybe the asshole’s putting someone up to it, trying to freak him out, doing it as some kind of weird new hazing ritual.  

God, he hates this fucking town. 

‘Maybe I do and you’re keeping me from it.’

‘Got a girl over?’

‘Why would I tell you? You some kinda creep?’

‘I’m an upstanding citizen.’

Steve can’t help but snort. ‘Sure.’

‘You wound me.’ 

‘Uh-huh, forgive me for not being there to kiss it better, I guess. I’m hanging up now.’

‘No, come on, we’re just getting to know each other.’

The ice cream tastes so good. Cold and creamy, little bites of frozen chocolate that don’t melt quickly on his tongue. 

Steve rights the phone, gets it in one hand and straightens up. 

‘Get to know each other? I don’t even know who you are.’

‘Ask me sweetly and I might tell you.’

Steve hums around the spoon in his mouth. ‘Yeah, but the thing is, I really don’t care, so…’

‘Let me get to know you then.’

Something prickles distantly at the back of Steve’s head, a little voice telling him just to hang up. But it’s not like Steve’s got anything better to do tonight, why not chat with the weirdo for a little bit? String him along, play his games.

‘What do you want to know?’ 

‘What’s your favourite ice cream flavour?’

The hair on the back of Steve’s arms stands on end. Did the guy know he was eating… but no, that’s impossible, it’s just a weird coincidence. Maybe he heard the spoon in Steve’s mouth and made a lucky guess.

‘Cookie dough.’

The man hums, and the sound makes Steve shiver. ‘I thought you’d be more into cherry pie.’

‘That’s original. Got any more scintillating questions?’

‘What’s your favourite scary movie?’

Steve almost laughs, catches it before he can give this guy the satisfaction.

‘Is that what you really want to ask me?’

‘I love scary movies. Come on, what’s your favourite?’

Steve makes a face. ‘I don’t watch shit like that.’

‘No?’

‘Blood and guts, all that screaming and stuff? No thanks,’ he declares primly. ‘Can’t stand all the stupid teenagers, always running away, falling down for no god-damned good reason and then the killer’s on them. Or, like, when the group splits up and gets picked off one by one? It’s so dumb.’ 

Steve doesn’t mention the real reason he doesn’t watch stuff like that. Why he can’t watch movies like Halloween or Friday the 13th without trembling all over, without sparks darting up his spine and between his legs as he watches people getting their hair pulled and their throats slashed, so much blood everywhere, large hands and muscled forearms choking them out, strangling them.

How he can’t go to sleep afterwards without touching himself, thinking about those same hands on him.

He is definitely not thinking about it.

‘Don’t be like that, Stevie.’

He freezes instantly, spoon clattering to the counter. ‘What did you say?’

The line goes dead quiet for a few beats. 

Steve is staring at nothing, the kitchen bathed in soft darkness save for the oven light. 

‘You there?’ he demands, knows he is. ‘How do you know who I am?’

‘C’mon, not like your name and number isn’t in every bathroom stall in Hawkins, pretty boy.’

Steve’s insides go cold. 

He thinks of the last man who’d had him, when Steve gets that itch he just has to scratch. Thinks of the way he shoved Steve against the cubicle wall, so rough and frantic, the taste of smoke on his tongue and stale beer on his breath, the rough stubble of an older man with a band on his ring finger and pictures of kids in his wallet.

And he thinks of the shit scrawled in places like that.

Steve Harrington swallows.

‘Yeah? Well, go back and jerk off some more, loser,’ he snaps, cheeks red. The tone of this prick, god. He just wants to enjoy his ice cream and listen to Madonna and to go to bed, is that too much to ask? ‘Get a life while you’re at it.’

‘No, no, come on, I’m sorry,’ the voice says, kinda purrs. ‘I was only teasing. Let’s start again.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Why don’t you hang up then?’

All Steve’s energy is going into not answering that question. 

‘Look, whoever this is–’

‘You can call me Daddy.’

Steve scoffs, laughs, though it’s a little astonished. 

He wildly ignores the completely fucking non-existent feelings that did not stir in his middle, absolutely not. 

‘Oh my god, what the fuck is wrong with you?’

‘Not a thing, Stevie. I got a great view, gorgeous boy on the phone, what more could I ask for?’

‘How would you know I’m gorgeous?’

‘Everyone knows you’re gorgeous, baby.’

‘Do we know each other?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’re insane,’ Steve declares flatly, sits at his breakfast bar, digs into the ice cream. ‘A gross, ugly nerd sitting in his Mom’s basement wondering why he’s still a virgin.’ 

A little laugh on the other end, like Steve’s being cute.

‘Go on and say it for me.’

‘Say what?’

‘You know what.’

‘Go fuck yourself.’

‘Go fuck yourself, Daddy.’

Steve snorts again, can’t help it. ‘Fucking psychopath, I swear to god,’ he says, but it’s lost most of its crunch now because he still hasn’t hung up and every passing second is a strange, strangled admittance that he kinda doesn’t want to hang up, that curls low in his belly in a way he associates with other, more fun things.

Watching the men his Dad hires to mow the lawn and clean the pool, their forearms glistening in the sun. When he looks at dirty magazines and watches porn videos.

And his cheeks are still red, shorts tight. 

‘Hey, careful with the diagnonsense there, Stevie. I don’t think you’re a qualified professional, are you?’

‘How would you know? Or, let me guess, you’re some loser I wouldn’t date in High School, is that it?’

He sounds bored, and oh, how he wishes he was. If his heart wasn’t beating this hard, if snapping insults over the phone at someone who could keep up wasn’t getting him going.

‘I see why they called you King Steve.’

Steve’s expression sours slightly. ‘No, you don’t.’

‘Why don’t you tell me?’

‘Look, what is this? Why are you calling me, for real?’

Oh, we’re being for real now, are we, Stevie? I am real. Trust me. And I’m calling because I want to play with you.’

‘Play what?’

‘A little game.’

‘I thought we were already playing.’

‘That was just the starter, this would be the main course.’

‘Tell me then.’

‘Call me Daddy first.’

‘No fucking way.’

‘You’re tough, huh? That’s OK, I like it like that. Wouldn’t want you to make any of this easy.’

‘Any of what? You boring me to death on a Friday night?’

‘No, sweetheart. Our game. And because you’ve been such a good boy and not hung up yet, I’ll tell you the rules for free.’

‘Wow, I’m so lucky,’ Steve intones, facetious and sarcastic, but still not hanging up at all. Because the house is quiet and he’s alone here far too often, because silence is unbearable and it’s all Steve’s had for days. ‘Thrill me, mystery man.’

The man laughs. 

It sends shivery things skittering down Steve’s spine, all of them taking root where they should not. 

‘You’re bratty. I like that too. All right, are you listening?’

Steve sighs, licks the spoon. ‘Intently.’

‘I’m gonna let you be the hero, Stevie. I’m gonna let you save lives. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Meaning what?’

‘People are going to die unless you save them.’

Steve blinks, the ice cream stuck halfway. He swallows quickly, winces at the mild brain freeze, heart tripping over itself. ‘What? What does that–?’

The voice drops low.

Ground floor and rough. 

‘I’m going to gut the bitch I’m staring at unless you do what I say, Stevie. I’ll carve her up and leave her bleeding out on the grass for the neighbours to find unless you do what I tell you. You can save her. You can be the big hero.’

It takes a few seconds for Steve to find his breath. 

‘Fuck you, Tommy, that’s sick.’

‘Wrong answer,’ the voice says and somehow, just fucking somehow, Steve knows this isn’t Tommy. He kinda wishes it was, but… there’s something in the voice that just doesn’t feel right. ‘No more guessing who I am, that’s a waste of your time, my time, and this pretty cunt’s time. And between you and me, Stevie, she doesn’t have much left unless you get this right.’

‘Bullshit, you’re just some fucking loser who–’

‘Ah, ah, ah,’ the voice admonishes. ‘Now, just for that, I’m gonna cut her face either way. You just bought this girl a career in radio, and that’s if she lives. Are you really gonna take the chance that I’m bluffing? Would you really do that, Stevie?’

Steve stands frozen, ice cream forgotten, heartbeat pounding in his ears now, but not in a good way, in a way that makes him sick, makes him think he’s going to pass out, his skin breaking out in a thin clammy sweat, prickling all over. 

‘Who is this?’

‘I want you,’ the voice goes on, as if he hadn’t asked, ‘to touch yourself.’

It’s like a sucker-punch. 

It’s immediate and it has Steve just fever-fucked over warm and sick and… and shaking in less than five seconds because those two words together, there’s no mistaking the meaning. 

But he delays all the same. 

‘What does that mean?’

‘You know what it means. Put your hand between your legs, under the clothes and touch your cock for Daddy. Or do you need me to talk you through it? Guide Daddy’s little boy through each step until you’re hard and dripping down your fist?’

‘You’re outta your fucking mind,’ he hisses, clamming up at the words, at the way his dick presses up against the fabric of his shorts, where he didn’t bother putting on underwear because he’s home alone. ‘I’m not gonna–’

‘I’ll eviscerate her while she’s still alive. Make her watch as I pull her intestines out of her stomach. You know her, too. She’s somebody you’d miss, isn’t that sad?’

Steve shivers. 

Swallows thickly. 

This feeling cuts his heart up like confetti. 

‘I’m hanging up now.’

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘Yeah? Well, you’re a psycho! I’m not interested in whatever you would or wouldn’t do.’

‘If you don’t call me Daddy and touch yourself until you come, she dies. It’s your choice.’

‘This is just a prank, a sad, pathetic prank.’

‘If you’re trying to hurt my feelings, don’t waste your time, sweetheart. Now, are you gonna play or not?’

‘I’m not touching myself, you fucking pervert.’

‘No? Why not? Do you not do that? Are you a pure boy, Stevie? We all know you’re not. Everybody knows what a slut you are, what a perfect little whore Steve Harrington is. Everyone talks about you, on your knees in the locker rooms and the back alleys, and you know it. Hand between your legs or she dies. Do it for Daddy, like a good little puppet. C’mon, take comfort in the fact that you have no choice. That I’m making you do it. That way, you don’t even need to feel guilty when you come harder than you’ve ever come in your whole fucking life.’

Steve takes the phone away from his ear, it’s hot and he’s breathing fast, won’t untangle this knot for anything, it can stay messy and unknowable, thanks ever so much.

He gathers himself just enough, leans in where he knows he’s strongest. 

‘What a fucking loser,’ he says with cold, clean emphasis and then, finally, ends the call. 

He puts the phone back on the hook, clenched all over, expecting it to ring again. He puts the ice cream back too, ignores the way his fingers slip and tremble, how his heart patters in his chest like rabbit feet, like a wild hare running for its life. 

It’s just a stupid fucking prank, he tells himself, kids do shit like this it all the time in Hawkins, bored of going to the arcade and the quarry, they pull sick shit for laughs. 

It doesn’t mean anything.

The phone doesn’t ring again. 

And if Steve jerks off in bed later, arm over his eyes, coming in less than ten seconds flat as he slides onto his front and arches his hips off his bed, pretending he feels hands on his hips, that he’s being impaled on a huge, hard cock with a man’s big hand around his throat, well that’s no one’s fucking business is it?

It’s between him and god. 

*

Steve wakes late the next day.

He feels overheated and hungover, lower belly sticking to the sheets where he passed out before cleaning up. 

He grimaces as he peels the sheet back, doesn’t want to think about what caused it, even though he feels a vicious jolt when he remembers the phone call, like needing to vomit after an all-night bender. He hadn’t come that hard in months, not that hard and fast, like it had been pulled from him, so overwhelming it almost hurt, thighs trembling as he fell back onto his bed.

Goosebumps break out on his upper arms as he thinks about the call. That low, insidious voice, all the things he’d said, and he rubs his hands along them, warming them away. 

Get a grip, Harrington, he thinks. 

He won’t let himself be brought down by a fucking creep loser who gets his rocks off making prank calls. 

It’s bright out; a crisp, clear autumn day.

He gets up and showers, washes the dried come off his belly and between his legs, does his hair and his skincare routine as normal, and pads downstairs to the kitchen to make coffee. 

The phone sits on the counter innocently, silent now, but Steve takes his coffee and heads outside to the porch.

He’s got plans to hang out with Robin where she works over at the video store. In this liminal space, this in between of waiting to go back to college, he finds himself in limbo, bored and lonely. There’s never been anything to do in Hawkins. Even less now that most of his old school friends have moved away, gone to New York or California, to the Ivy League schools their parents had chosen for them, or travelling across Europe to connect with their roots.

It leaves him restless and antsy, mind wandering to places they shouldn’t, that itch inside him starting to grow again.

But Robin’s always happy to see him. 

And when he walks inside later that morning, she squeals, runs and jumps on his back, insists he carry her for the entire shift like this, he can be her pack horse. 

‘Oh, the honour,’ he sighs, heart warm. 

Robin kisses his cheek when she drops back down, arms around his neck. ‘How was your Friday night?’

‘Yeah, it was good.’

He considers telling her about the call.

Doesn’t, even though they tell each other everything. 

Or, at least, almost everything.

He almost forgets about it anyway because being with her is fun and light and lovely, even though they’re just being dumb together, cracking their old jokes and reminding each other of the most bizarre moments working at Scoops. 

Customers come and go, some surprised to see Steve, especially a few of the older people until they remember about the campus atrocity. Karen Wheeler tells Steve she hopes he’s doing OK after what happened, pats his shoulder and lets her hand linger a beat too long. Steve just smiles instead of leaning into it, is trying to be good these days.

Not sneak into his ex’s house when she’s away to fuck her Mom in the kitchen.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he answers, rearranging the snack section for absolutely no reason. ‘Just wish they hadn’t kicked everyone out while they deal with it or whatever.’

Mid-morning, the town clown comes rolling in with Jonathan Byers and a few of the kids, who greet Steve eagerly with hugs and high fives. 

‘We didn’t even know you were back!’ Dustin Henderson chides, beaming despite his disapproval. He’s with Lucas Sinclair and Will Byers. ‘You didn’t call.’

Town clown Eddie Munson comes up behind him and casually puts Dustin in a headlock, scrubbing the top of his head. ‘Not everything needs to be run by you, does it?’ he says, laughing when Dustin easily slips the headlock and whacks his shoulder, fixing his curls which Steve can tell have been sprayed for extra bounce and hold. It’s sweet that the kid remembers. 

‘Hey man, good to see you,’ Jonathan says to Steve. 

‘Yeah, you too.’

Eddie’s shaking his finger where Dustin bit it, his hair wild. 

He glances at Steve. ‘Sir Harrington, hello.’ Does a formal bow, like an absolute doofus. 

Steve rolls his eyes, the corners of his mouth curling up because Munson’s always been weirdly endearing. A nerd, for sure, but a harmless one, and the kids adore him.

‘Hey, goofball.’

‘You working here now?’ Eddie asks when he flips up, hair utterly askew, dark waves and curls. He’s in a band tee and ripped jeans and he smells of smoke, weed and dollar store cologne. His eyes are bright with mischief.

‘Hanging out, you?’

‘Chauffeuring these brats around town.’

Steve used to do that, before he left for college. 

‘That’s cool,’ he comments mildly, can’t help but be a little jealous. ‘Better you than me getting rinsed out.’

Eddie smiles, the tip of his tongue pressing against his teeth. 

‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’

‘Wish I could say the same for you.’

Eddie chuckles, his shoulders are broader than Steve remembers, the span of them pulling his t-shirt taut even though he’s still as skinny as a rake and just as lanky.

Eddie’s pulled away to the sci-fi section, almost trips and smacks into the snack display and Steve sucks his bottom lip into his mouth so he doesn’t do something silly like laugh.

Jonathan looks at Steve again, the pair sharing an awkward man nod.

‘You still with Nancy?’ Steve asks in what he hopes is a friendly tone. 

Jonathan winces slightly. ‘Uh, no, actually. We broke up about a month ago.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Steve says, privately thinks, well dodged.

‘Yeah, no, it’s cool. She’s got a lot goin’ on, trying to get that promotion over at the news place, y’know. Anyway, good to see you, and welcome back,’ Jonathan says, following the kids. 

Steve sighs. ‘I’m not back.’

Eddie comes strolling over while Jonathan and the kids are fighting over which Star Wars movie is the best (somehow the one with the teddy bears isn’t winning) and Robin’s signing for the stock delivery.

He smiles at Steve, almost shy, hands in his pockets. ‘So, uh… you doing anything for Halloween?’

Steve looks up from the back of the VHS case he’s been reading. Something about a pretty blonde with a mermaid tail. ‘Not sure, probably throw a party if I’m still here.’

Eddie rocks back on his heels, nodding. ‘Oh yeah, heard they’re things of Hawkins legend.’

‘You can come if you want.’

Eddie gasps, puts a hand on his chest. ‘Steve Harrington would invite moi? I’m so honoured, truly.’

‘If you bring some of your stash.’

‘Doubtless. What about scary movies?’

The tape in Steve’s hand slips as his stomach lurches, but Eddie’s there just in time, catching it before it can drop to the floor.

‘Whoa, careful.’

‘What did you say?’

Up close, Eddie’s eyes are big and dark.

‘Slashers, y’know. Horror movies, all that grisly shit, as is tradition this time of year.’

Steve takes the tape back, trying to slow the trip of his pulse. ‘I’m more of a romantic comedy kinda guy,’ he says as casually as he can. ‘Not into all the blood and gore.’

‘I can respect that.’ Eddie tilts his head, little line between his eyes, but his expression is kind. ‘You good?’

‘Yeah, just tired I guess.’

‘Well, get some rest, idiot.’

Steve laughs. ‘I will, thanks.’

Eddie gives a salute before running over and breaking up a near tears fight between the kids, whose debate about Star Wars has gotten personal. ‘Quit yelling about Empire, Mike. Don’t announce to the whole world that you’re so basic,’ Eddie suggests, casually has the kid in a headlock. ‘See you around, Harrigton!’ he calls back and then walks into the door instead of pulling it, complaining that the kids tried to murder him.

He’s strange, a big kid himself.

Long after he’s gone, Steve thinks of his wild hair and the crooked slope of his nose, wondering if it’s been broken at some point. Wonders if Eddie will ever leave Hawkins, and how.

It’s early afternoon when Nancy comes by and Steve knew he’d see her sooner or later. 

He takes a breath to steady himself when she walks in, gives a little wave and a smile to be polite and she blinks hard, visibly surprised. Looks pretty in a knitted cardigan and a long skirt, her fingers stained with ink from aggressive note taking, no doubt.

‘Oh, you’re here,’ she says and Robin whistles low, drops her gaze, like it’s none of her business. 

‘Returns?’ she asks Nancy, civil and polite. 

‘Uh, yeah,’ Nancy says, setting her tapes on the counter, staring at Steve. ‘Thanks.’

Steve decides to be the bigger person, comes over, fake smile slapped right on. ‘Hi, Nancy.’

She nods for a moment before she composes herself. ‘You’re here because of the campus murder, I suppose.’

Steve wrinkles his nose. ‘Already calling it a murder? That’s not official yet.’

‘Well, speculation is rife,’ she points out archly. 

‘There aren’t even any suspects.’

‘That you know of.’

‘Parker was a moron, but no one wanted to kill him.’

Nancy shrugs. ‘I heard he had a nasty coke habit and was running out of trust fund money to pay his dealers.’

‘You been writing your speculations for the local eight O clock roundup?’

‘Investigative journalism is–’

‘You owe three fifty for this one.’

Nancy looks at Robin. ‘Pardon?’

‘Three fifty, this one’s overdue,’ Robin points out with her best Cunty Customer Service smile and Steve bites his lips into his mouth to hide his own. ‘Late fees, Madam Wheeler, sorry. Nobody’s above the law in this here small town.’

Nancy’s cheeks darken slightly as she pulls out the cash, throws Steve a look. ‘So, you knew Parker?’

‘Are you seriously trying to pull me for a quote?’

She tongues her cheek. ‘Just on background.’

Steve rolls his eyes, turns away, headed out back where he absolutely should not be, but oh fucking well. ‘Great to see you again, Nance.’

He’s almost made it when she calls out, ‘You didn’t hear about Chrissy Cunningham, then?’

She’s so fucking annoying, he’d almost forgotten. 

‘What do you mean?’ he asks, mildly pissed at himself for turning back, but he and Chrissy dated years ago, they have a little history. Caramel-blonde with a smile as sweet as apple pie, and a heart to match. If something happened, he wants to know. 

Nancy takes her change from Robin, confidence returned and she shrugs languidly. ‘Surprised you haven’t heard yet, or maybe it’s because I’m an investigative journalist, that I’m trusted by the local PD.’

‘Jesus, get laid, Wheeler,’ Robin sighs. ‘What happened to Chrissy? Is she OK?’

Steve walks back. ‘Nancy,’ he warns. 

She huffs. ‘Don’t Nancy me, Steve. You wouldn’t even know if it wasn’t for–’

‘Know what?’

She stares at him. 

He used to love her, isn’t that wild?

‘I heard it’s bad,’ she utters quietly. 

Steve shivers, suddenly cold even though he’s bundled up in a sweater. ‘What’s bad? Tell us, Nancy, stop fucking around.’

‘Jim Hopper said she was attacked last night, in her house.’

It’s like a hand around his heart, it’s like ice in his veins. 

‘Attacked?’ he breathes, eyes wide. ‘Wh-what do you mean?’

‘Someone broke in while she was alone in the house. Her parents were away and the burglar or whatever, they–’ Nancy shakes her head, but Steve thinks it’s for effect. She’s composed, always is. ‘They had a knife. They cut her.’

He stares, the world slowly tipping sideways. 

Water turning to blood. 

‘What?’

*

When he gets to the hospital, he immediately sees a few familiar faces. Chief of police, Jim Hopper, plus Powell and Callahan. They don’t see Steve, though, who sneaks past them on the way to Chrissy’s room. He’d left Robin in Family Video and drove here pretty much right away. 

There is no fucking way. 

No way it’s about the bullshit last night. 

But he has to see her, has to know. 

Chrissy’s parents are talking to Hopper, faces drawn and pale, nodding. He seems serious but calm like always. 

Steve slips inside the room - wheedled the room number from a young nurse - and then instantly goes still. 

Steve walks in, stops dead in the doorway because whatever he’s expecting, it’s not to see Billy Hargrove standing at the foot of Chrissy’s bed. 

They both look at Steve and oh… 

Oh god. 

She’s got bandages over half her face. 

Hospital gown, arm in a sling. 

Chest wrapped in what very little he can see beneath the V of the gown. She’s hurt, she’s really fucking hurt. Looks like a little broken canary, practically drowning under the bandages and the white sheets, and Steve’s heart grows too sizes too big.

How could anyone ever hurt someone like Chrissy?  

Billy looks at Steve, he’s got on a white wife-beater under a brown leather jacket with skin-tight jeans, his medallions gleaming against his chest. There’s a styrofoam cup on the bedside table, hot coffee, he’s obviously been here a while. 

‘Harrington,’ he drawls. ‘Did you knock first? Because that’s rude otherwise.’

Steve shakes himself out of his shocked stupor. ‘Uh, s-sorry, yeah. I just. Chrissy, oh my god, I’m so sorry, I just heard. Are you OK? What the hell happened?’

She manages a weak smile and lifts her one good hand towards him. 

He takes it and sits on the bed, ignoring Billy. 

‘Hey, you,’ she croaks. They were always on good terms, she’s always been so sweet. ‘I didn’t even know you were back.’

‘Just for… the college thing, but sweetie, what happened?’

‘Hey, you shouldn’t even be here,’ Billy points out, voice low. ‘Did they let you in?’

‘They let you in?’ Steve snaps mildly. 

‘I’m her boyfriend.’

‘Ex-boyfriend, Billy,’ Chrissy sighs. ‘And it’s fine, he can be here, it’s OK.’ Steve rubs his thumb lightly over her knuckles. When she looks at Steve again, her visible eye grows wide and frightened, breathing growing flinty. ‘I just… it’s scary to talk about, I don’t even know if I’m remembering it right.’

‘And you don’t have to talk about it, I’m sorry,’ Steve reassures, lifting her hand to kiss the back of it.

‘No,’ she swallows, ‘it’s okay. I was at the house last night,’ she says, voice fractured by a mild croak. ‘Parents were out, I was by myself with Lulu, you know?’ Lulu was Chrissy’s show-winning poodle. ‘And then I heard this noise at the back doors, so I went and looked and I saw…’

Her breath gives out. 

Bottom lip trembling. 

‘I saw someone behind me in the glass.’

‘Who was it?’ he asks in barely more than a dread whisper. 

‘I don’t know. It was… a mask. Made my heart stop dead, it was just like… a Halloween mask or something. Black eyes, like a ghost and a white face. He had…’ Tears fall and she shakes her head. ‘He had a knife, a huge one, like a butcher’s knife. And I knew from the way it glinted in the light that it wasn’t fake, not from a costume store like his mask. And when I turned, he tried to stab me, but I ran, I got away, I almost got away but he caught up just before I could get out the front door and then I…’

Her breath gives out and Billy moves to her side. 

‘You shouldn’t be askin’ her all this shit, man. She needs to rest.’

‘No, it–it’s OK,’ she says, gripping Steve’s hand. ‘I can’t remember a lot of it, it’s sort of a blur.’ A tear rolls down her face, the good half. ‘But I remember when he pushed me on the floor. I hit my head pretty bad, think I passed out a little. When I opened my eyes, he was standing above me with the knife, he was…’ The tears fall harder as she starts to sob. ‘He was just watching me. Like he enjoyed it. Like he enjoyed seeing me cry. I begged him then, begged him not to kill me, I’d do anything, and he…’ Chrissy hiccups wetly, ‘he laughed at me. He said, You really think I’d want anything from you, bitch? I just want to see you bleed.  Then he kneeled over me, and he… he ran the knife up my leg, so light it didn’t hurt, and up under my skirt, like he was just thinking about where to cut me. But then he said he wanted me to always remember what a lucky girl I am.’

Steve’s heart breaks. He presses close as he dares, takes her in his arms and she clings to him, crying against his chest. 

‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispers into her hair. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Will I ever be beautiful again?’ she sobs, her fingernails biting crescent moons into his arms.

‘Of course you will, you are.’ He strokes her hair, meeting Billy’s eyes over the top of her head. He lets her cry, loudly and brokenly, holding her the entire time. ‘Who found you?’ he asks when she’s gone quiet against his chest.

‘I did,’ Billy says. ‘I called by the house a few hours ago, no one was answering so I went around back, saw blood on the floor and I broke in.’

‘He saved my life,’ Chrissy says, eyes swollen with tears as she looks at Billy, the one Steve knows better than to start a fight with. She tries to smile. ‘Better a gruesome scar than a gravestone, right?’

You just bought this pretty girl a career in radio, and that’s if she lives.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Steve says again, insides cold and hollow, sickness swirling in the dark. ‘Do the cops have any leads?’

‘Maybe it’s the same wacko who killed someone on your campus, eh Harrington?’ Billy interjects, faux conversational and when Steve looks, he sees cool hostility there beneath typically fiery blues. Always looking for a fight, always seeking trouble and if there’s none to be found, he’d make it, Billy would. 

Steve definitely remembers. 

Knows what it’s like to clash with this fucker.

Hopper comes inside with a nurse, sighs when he sees him. ‘Out, both of you. Especially you, Hargrove. We need your statement down at the station.’

Steve kisses Chrissy’s hand once more, says he’ll come by again soon just as her parents come back inside, talking about corrective surgery and the surgeon her Dad’s flying in.

There’s a small courtyard just outside the hallway next to Chrissy’s room, and Billy steps out, saying he needs a cigarette. 

After a beat, Steve goes outside too, watches as Billy digs a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. His jeans are so tight Steve can see the corded muscles under the denim.  

‘Want one?’ Billy asks, angling the pack at him.

Steve nods, needs to keep his hands busy, to focus on something so he doesn’t throw up.

‘I know it’s not your fancy brand.’

‘It’s fine.’

Steve takes one, presses in when Billy gets his Zippo out and lights it for him. Steve inhales, lets the smoke hit the back of his throat and then down, down, there it is.

Then he puts a respectable distance between them. 

Billy’s watching him the entire time. 

‘You OK, man?’

‘Fine.’

‘Your fingers are trembling.’

Steve tries to steady his hand. ‘Just cold.’

‘Haven’t seen you around for a while.’

‘Been busy at school. Or at least, I was, until, you know.’

They smoke in silence for a minute, and Steve’s not used to this, not used to being in any situation with Billy where he’s not in his face, where he’s not itching for an excuse to rile him up.

‘Do you really think it could have been the same person? 

‘What?’

‘The person who attacked Chrissy, you said maybe they’re the same person who killed Parker Royce.’

‘Was that the dude on campus? I don’t know.’ Billy sucks on his cigarette, face stormy. ‘But it takes a fucked-up piece of shit to hurt someone as sweet as her.’

‘You still love her, huh?’

Billy looks at him. ‘What do you think?’

Steve saw them around sometimes, when they were dating, remembers the ricochet when the news hit that the hottest blondes at school were going steady. The kind of combined beauty that felt impossible, untouchable. When they walked through the hallways together, Chrissy’s hand looped around Billy’s arm, and everyone stared, spellbound.

But they were a bad match too.

Billy’s stormy, prone to anger and violence, got a rap sheet as long as his arm, and Chrissy’s a darling.

It would have never worked out.

Not that Steve felt a sick little lurch of joy when he found out they had broken up. He wasn’t like that.

‘Do you think… will the surgery work?’

Billy stares at him cooly, exhales smoke through his nose.

‘She’s gonna be scarred for life, that’s what I overheard the doctor saying, even with all the money her Dad’s gonna throw at them.’

Steve shivers, wishes he’d bought a better jacket. ‘Who’d do something like this?’

Billy shrugs. ‘You got a theory?’

‘Maybe.’ Steve eyes him. ‘Where were you last night?’

Billy’s smile is slow forming and dripping something like disdain, too warm though. ‘Is that an accusation, Harrington? I’m wounded.’

You wound me.

‘Well, where were you then?’ Steve presses, heart beating hard. 

Jim Hopper comes outside, gives Steve a roughly assessing look before Billy can answer and says, ‘Though I appreciate your junior detective skills, kid, Hargrove was in a cell all last night for drunken disorderly. Went on a bender, a loud one.’

Steve grits his teeth. ‘What time?’

‘He was locked up by eleven, we let him out this morning.’ Hopper holds Steve’s gaze. ‘You doin’ OK? Haven’t seen you since you got back.’

‘I’m not back,’ Steve corrects quickly. ‘And I’ve been studying. For when school starts again.’

‘Right. Well, no trouble while you’re here, please. Got enough going on right now, understand?’

Steve sees Nancy lurking at the end of the hallway, no doubt ready to press him for details, notepad already in her hand. 

‘Crystal clear,’ he says and decides to find another way out of the hospital just to fuck with her. ‘Later, Hargrove,’ he adds, gives Billy the finger and a smile that could cut glass. 

‘Be seeing you, Harrington.’

‘I hope not.’

*

He’s pacing. 

Back and forth in the kitchen, checking the clock. 

Hand in his hair, pulling hard sometimes, heart doing its best to get free of the meat and bone cage inside, mind spinning. He doesn’t have much on again, had stripped down to his t-shirt and shorts the moment he got in. No underwear, his nipples tight and hard where they poke up through the thin fabric.

‘There’s no way,’ he tells himself. ‘You were probably dreaming anyway. Yeah, that’s it.’

But he can’t shake the feeling either. 

He can’t shake anything. 

No matter what miracle surgeries her parents pay for, Chrissy will have that scar all her life. Will be maimed. 

Just like the guy said. 

But she’s not dead, he didn’t kill her… if that’s what even happened, maybe it was just coincidence… somehow?

Steve’s nerves are tangled, fraught. 

He thinks fuck it, and gets his Dad’s vintage whiskey from the cabinet in his office, takes an ungodly swig and yelps at the taste, but the burn soothes something inside that needs soothing, smothering, strangling. 

He takes the bottle out to the kitchen, clear glass showing the pool outside. 

Eerie blue, should already be covered by now but his parents forget sometimes, they don’t really care. Someone comes to clean it once a month, they’ll cover it once they’re done. 

The grandfather clock ticks loud. 

Steve can hear each breath. 

And then it chimes. 

Twelve chimes. 

His skin prickles. 

Like someone is standing right behind him. 

And when he swallows, it’s over the forming lump. 

Heart goes pitter patter, little feet of swift prey. 

The water is darkened in patches with leaves. 

The blue is bright. 

Bright neon and white tiles. 

Steve flinches hard when the phone rings, like his insides want outside, his heart halfway up his oesophagus. 

He just knows. 

He knows who this is. 

With trembling fingers he takes it off the handle. 

Puts it to his ear. 

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Stevie.’

*