Chapter Text
It’s been seven years since Tim Wright uploaded entry eighty seven to the Marble Hornets channel. He found himself living in the same location, despite moving away for a few years to make sure everything was safe. Nothing happened. Even despite the immense mourning he still hadn’t gotten much past, everything was fine. Tim didn’t find himself seeing odd figures in the distance, or any upsetting symbols on the walls. He didn’t bother carrying around a camera anymore - yet he still kept Jay’s old camcorder on his dresser. It’s not like he could just get rid of it. That wouldn’t be nice. Especially to Jay.
Man. He misses Jay like a motherfucker. He consistently found himself still thinking of him, little things like skeleton decorations during Halloween, jay birds perched atop the tree branch that sit outside his window… though, that’s kind of a given. He even found himself thinking about him while at the store, pausing in front of the pints of ice cream behind glass doors.
Tim was only broken from his thoughts when he looked head-on, tearing himself away from the display, and saw someone that struck fear into his heart. A striped blue and black jacket, brown hair… glasses. Those glasses. He felt sick to his stomach. Like a deer in headlights, or a loading webpage, or a helpless puppy about to be preyed on by a hawk. That was Alex Kralie. Right? He was dead… Right? Last time he checked, Alex was dead on the floor. He can’t even remember it all that well, but he knows he’s dead. Tim stands there, slack jawed, until Alex looks in his direction. The other man makes an awkward face at him, a look of pure perplexion across his face. Like a stranger being stared at.
Now Tim knows that look a bit too well. Sometimes, in the past, he would think he was seeing Jay from behind, which eventually developed into a staring problem and an issue with recovery. He immediately glances back to his cart, turning it around in hopes of leaving the store. Without even sneaking a second glance… Tim doubts himself now. Was that Alex? He can’t even tell anymore. He doesn’t want to look back and double check. That’s weirdo stalker behavior. He does not want that, especially after his past experiences. Something in his gut feels wrong, and as he turns the corner into the check-out line, his eyes lock onto the man in front of him. A black coat, and peaking out beneath that, a beige hood… That same damn outfit Brian was wearing on the day he auditioned for Marble Hornets, but.. when he turned around, that was no Brian Thomas. It was just some guy. He returned Tim’s stare of confusion, before the two of them went back to their shopping. Tim felt shaken, heart wrenching and throbbing like a stress ball belonging to a student with anger issues. It felt harder to breathe. He missed Brian so damn much. He had buried the guilt long ago, but it still resurfaces like animal bones in a mudslide.
That was just embarrassing.
Even in his state of being, Tim managed to pull into his apartment’s garage safely. Nothing went wrong on the way home. His groceries are safe and sound within his house. And that is a win for Timothy Wright.
With a sigh, he puts away the final stack of paper plates, shoveling the last grocery bag into the Bag of Bags. Everything was normal-ish. He had a routine. He woke up at 8 am roughly every morning, he ate something for breakfast, he hung around the house before going into work, (if it was the weekend, he would convince himself to go take a walk,) he had lunch, he talked with people normally, he went home normally, and he went to bed normally. Without waking up in the middle of the night to strange sounds or scary images. It was normal and he was normal and everything was fine and he was healing. Simply.
He reminded himself this over and over as he sat down in his bed, rubbing his eyes. Normal. It’s normal and fine. It’s a regular Friday night at 10:36 pm. Now he’s reminding himself this as he lays down, turning out the lights, double-checking that his awfully small pocket knife was still there… That he is alright.
It takes just about 4 hours for the crash in the living room to wake Tim up.
He jolts awake, frozen like a deer in headlights. His comforter still gripped by frightened fists, his heart pounding, and his eyes wide open, Tim exhales slowly. The silence is deafening, keeping him in this terrifying hold as he listens for anything else. The ringing of strained ears starts, as the ticking of the clock fades away into the swaying of the curtains. That’s when the second thud comes from his living room.
The sound of a book hitting the floor.
Tim wastes no time grabbing the knife, unseathing it, and holding it in a way that, if he was thinking right now, would throw him into entry 86. He held it out in front of himself as he made his way down the hallway, tired eyes wide through dark, ashy brown hair. The same ashy brown of this silhouette’s hood.
This silhouette’s hood. Tim registers an intruder and his brain kicks into fight or flight mode. He took no extra time tackling the intruder to the ground, throwing their head onto the floor as he leans his weight onto them. The perks of being a bigger guy - no one as frail as this kind of person is going to easily get out from under you. In fact, no one as frail as this person is going to survive that sort of hit on the head. Tim checks their pulse, and thankfully, they’re still alive. They’re conked the hell out, of course, which leads Tim to finally register the rest of their form.
Their dark hood peeks out from a windbreaker jacket, which accompany dark jeans and running shoes. A totally normal hiker, one might think, until they look at the most prominent feature - their mask. Dark, soulless holes for eyes and cartoonish, skull-like teeth for a mouth. Tim pauses for a good long while, heaving breaths. What’s going on here? Is the question he should be asking. But he’s not going to make the same mistake as the final girls in horror films. They never unmask the killer - and even if this person isn't a killer (yet), Tim isn’t going to fall for it. He wraps his hand around the skull mask, and with a loud snap! , tears it clean off of their face. Tim holds it high, elastic dangling, as he takes in the features of the person beneath it. Sickly eyebags beneath their eyes, which frame a long, wide nose. Spotty facial hair atop lips he’d recognize anywhere.
His stomach dropped. Tim felt like he was going to cry. Or throw up. Maybe both. Like this was some sort of fever dream prank that someone thought would be funny to play on him. He just can’t believe it. His hands drop into his lap, as he still sits on top of the supposed-stranger, legs resting on either side of them in a once-aggressive way. Tim has to check again, and, despite the results he would never expect...
That’s Jay Merrick, who died seven years ago, lying unconscious in his living room.