Chapter Text

He couldn’t breathe.

Every breath was cut off by another breath, desperately trying to enter his lungs but once again being cut off in a suffocating cycle. Shaky hands tentatively grabbed the key in the keyhole and twisted it slowly, wincing quietly when the door creaked open.

Funny how the world never wanted to cooperate when needed. As he walked, it felt like the floor screamed beneath him with every pathetic, wimpy step. His dad’s loud, grumbling voice drowned out most noise, yelling about something or other from downstairs.

Max had woken him up. He had dropped a schoolbook on the floor and woken him up, and now they were playing adult hide and seek, where you mostly just try to stay alive. At least, until Max got out of the house.

Having grabbed his schoolbag, he descended the stairs. One step at a time and quiet as a mouse, everything went well until halfway down. The other half went just a bit faster; something tripped him, a baseball or a Lego piece. Either way, Max fell, tumbling down like a felled tree and then rolling, until he finally slammed into the floor below.

The crash echoed through the house. The yelling stopped, replaced by crashing footsteps as dad stomped toward him. Everything hurt, but he wasn’t bleeding and nothing felt broken. Still, it was hard to get up.

Before he knew it, a hand was wrapped around his arm, pulling him onto his feet. His dad’s furious eyes stared straight into his own. “You woke me up.” Dad’s voice slurred, still a little intoxicated from last night. “And now, you try to take a bite of my floor.”

The iron grip on Max’s arm bore into his flesh, dirty nails leaving cuts in his skin. He winced.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, praying that it would be enough. His eyes trained on the ground. “I just- I fell, so…”

Even at his middle age, his dad was still a strong man. With just one arm, he raised Max even higher, forcing him onto the tips of his toes. “You fell? Trip yourself, dumbass?” Max nodded, mostly to the first question, but who cared. “God, what a useless idiot. Can’t even walk down the stairs. I’ve raised a fucking retard.”

Max’s face burned, though whether from the pain in his arm or the sting of his father’s words, he couldn’t tell. But he wasn’t about to cry over some mean words like a little bitch. Suddenly, his arm was released and he fell on his ass again. A dull ache began blooming in his arm, right alongside the searing sting of his fresh cuts.

Mean words or not, dad was distracted now, looking at the stairs for whatever might have tripped Max. A misplaced something, be it a porn mag, a beer bottle or a box of cigarettes. Max didn’t want to waste the distraction. But he ended up doing so anyway, a strong need to see what tripped him overriding his need to get away. It almost felt primal.

“What the fuck is this?” His dad asked, coming closer to him with a wooden figure in his hand.

He grabbed Max by the hair, forcing him off the floor again, then basically shoved it in Max’s face. It almost slammed right into his nose. The figure was painted piss yellow, and depicted a freaky goat with squared pupils and a wide, vile smile. “I- I dunno…”

Jason’s face was very punch-able, but unfortunately Max had to resist the urge. He didn’t want to ruin his food with blood. Instead, he took another bite of his shitty school cafeteria sandwich, and continued contemplating how to avoid his dad’s house tonight while Jason droned on and on.

“Sorry, man,” Jason continued, trying to salvage… something. Max’s lack of yelling unsettled him. “Y-Y’know my mom was pissed last time w-when you broke her vas- a-a-and I know you said you didn’t do it, and I believe you, but she doesn’t, so I think it’s best if we… don’t…” He trailed off, or maybe Max just stopped listening. Oh, well.

It was a Friday so he could reasonably stay the night wherever he managed to get to. But none of the idiots surrounding him had any plans for a party, and he was not about to beg them for a sleepover. Even if his dad was absolutely furious at him for bringing ‘demonic shit’ into the house, he still couldn’t bring himself to beg someone.

Kyle was sitting on his right side, Jason in front of him. Meanwhile, Brenda and Stacy were on his left. Stephanie was there too, but she was too absorbed by her phone to socialize or even care about Max’s endeavors.

He groaned. “So, you’re seriously telling me that not a single one of us wants to host?”

Steph rolled her eyes. “You’re not exactly leading by example.” She had been like that for a week now, making snide remarks and passive-aggressive comments, rolling her eyes at him like Sisyphean’s boulder day in and day out. She wasn’t happy when she learned he beat up her nerdy boy toy.

“You know my dad would kill me,” he said.

“And mine would kill me,” Steph said, still staring at her phone. “Why do you even wanna get out of the house so badly?”

That fucking bitch. She knew why.

Max didn’t respond. Instead, he crossed his arms and looked over the cafeteria, catching sight of just the person who could cheer him up. “Hey Grace,” he called out for her, putting on his sweetest smile. “Wanna sit with us?” He tried, he really tried to look all sweet and innocent, so he didn’t come off as trying to make fun of her.

He wasn’t all that interested in Grace. Sure, she was pretty, but truly her strongest attribute was how hard she was to get. Even now, Max was certain she’d reject his invitation with a disgusted ‘No’ like she had every other day this week, but today, she had a different glint in her eye.

“Sure,” she chirped, “But your table’s full?”

“Uh, no it’s not,” Max rushed, completely flabbergasted that she even said yes. “Jason, fuck off.” Jason didn’t even attempt to put up a fight, he just left the second Max told him to. “L-Look, I saved you a seat.”

Grace stared at the newly empty seat for a moment. “You sure did.” She smiled. Max thought the smile looked a little forced. “Thank you.”

As Grace sat down, Max frantically brainstormed what to say, his mind completely barren. “So, Grace…” He began, already coming up short. He couldn’t help it; his mind had been on thoughts of sleeping in the park. “Wh-What’re you doing this weekend?”

Grace briefly looked up from her food, barely sparing him a glance before her face was in her food again. “I’m staging an intervention for Ted Spankoffski.”

Max blinked, completely taken aback. “Ted Spankoffski?” he repeated, trying to process the name. “You’re, uh… staging an intervention for him?”

Grace nodded, still focused on her food as she chewed. “Yeah, that’s what I just said. Someone’s gotta do it.”

Max’s mind raced. Ted Spankoffski? That was a name he hadn’t heard in a while. The biggest manwhore in town, Ted Spankoffski, had an affinity for married women and was somehow related to Micro-Peter. Weirdly, Max was a little jealous of Peter.

“What… what happened to him?” Max asked, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “I mean, I know he likes to sleep around and drink a lot, but…” One time, he and Kyle had seen him outside a liquor store and asked him to buy them some. They ended up getting two bottles of vodka.

“Oh, gosh, no. Those things are between him and God… and the priest.”  Grace fully looked up from her food, her expression embarrassed. She didn’t want to think about a 35-year-old man sleeping around.

Kyle, who had no choice but to listen in since Jason had left, spoke up, “Then what kind of intervention is it?”

“It’s a self-care intervention,” Grace explained, pointing her fork at Kyle. “Last Saturday, I was helping Pete and Ted move a couch to their new house. Ted twisted his ankle and called it a ‘little sprain’. It’s broken. So, tonight Pete and I are forcing him to go to the hospital.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow, “Why do you need to be there?”

“They moved house?” Max asked.

Grace sat up straight, an offended expression on her face. “For your information, Ruth is coming as well even if she’s not going to be very useful, but Richie’s at some mathlete thing in Chicago.” She made very brief eye contact with Stephanie before looking back at her food. “And, yes, my dad recently sold Ted a new house. Around 2 months ago. Besides, I’m going to babysit Dawn afterwards.”

“Who the fuck is Dawn?” Max asked, not intending to swear in front of Grace, but it just came out. He didn’t know a Dawn, and in a town like Hatchetfield, everyone knew everyone.

Grace didn’t bother scolding him for his vocabulary, she just gave him a nasty look as she said, “Ted’s baby.”

“He has a baby?!” Max and Kyle were equally shocked.

“Yup, single father. Tragic. She’s the reason they moved to an actual house in the first place.” Grace ate another forkful of stale cafeteria pasta. “She’s 3 months old.” For a moment it looked like Steph kicked Grace under the table. Surely, she just moved her leg, people tend to do that. “Oh, it’ll be so scary, Max. Me, all alone in that big, creepy house. Ted’s ankle looks bad, so I might have to be there all night.”

Max’s heart raced at the prospect Grace had laid out before him. He didn’t know if she was messing with him or genuinely laying down bait, but either way, he was hooked. The idea of spending the night at Ted Spankoffski’s house with Grace Chasity of all people, in Micro-Peter’s safe space with all his stupid nerd collections? Too good to pass up.

“Uh, well, I mean, you shouldn’t have to do that alone,” Max stammered, trying to play it cool but failing miserably. Whatever, not like anyone around had the guts to judge him. “I could, uh, keep you company. Make sure nothing, you know, scary happens.”

Kyle shot Max a look that screamed, Dude, what are you doing? But Max ignored it, too focused on Grace, who gave him a once-over as if sizing him up.

Before she spoke, her face broke into a smile. “Aww, Max, when’d you get so sweet?”

Max preened, “Oh, you know, I’ve always just been a peach.” He smiled as sweetly as he could.

“Move it, Shit Lips,” Max yelled, his face was actively growing hot with anger. “You call that running? You look like a one-legged chihuahua!”

He paced by the wall, watching Lipschitz run. The dork had sped up when he yelled at him, so it must have worked to some extent. At the beginning of the year, when he learned that he and Shit Lips were in the same P.E. class, he had been ecstatic since he’d have more opportunities to mess with him. Then he got confused because he knew he wouldn’t be as happy if Flemwad or Micro-Peter were in his P.E. class.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to ponder that for long since Shit Lips decided to skip P.E. as often as he could get away from him. It was just his luck that he decided to show up on a day when they had to run a relay race. And it was even better luck that they were put on the same team by random selection. His team would’ve been so good without that nerd. It was himself, Brenda, and Brad Callahan.

Those two were great. Brenda was a cheerleader and a thrower at that, so he didn't doubt her speed, and Brad was the secondary quarterback, after Max who was, of course, the primary quarterback. But Richie was a mathlete with asthma, there was nothing athletic about him.

If it were up to Max, Lipschitz would make him run until his legs gave out under him and he ruined his nice face on the hardwood floors. But he couldn’t have that. Not if he wanted his team to win. So, when the nerd passed him again, he called out. “Last lap, Shit Lips.”

By the time Shit Lips had finished his last lap, he practically collapsed next to them on the floor. His face was red. He looked really pretty. But that wasn’t out of the ordinary. He looked the same way when Max had him pressed up against a locker, or on the rare occasion that Max saw him smiling and laughing with friends.

Brenda took off, running her laps. As she ran, Max watched her as well. He didn’t need to make her run faster. She was the fastest girl in their class. Her form was perfect, and her speed was consistent.

Surely, if they placed Richie first in the race, everyone would manage to overtake him but then with Brenda second, she could make up for that. After that, Brad could run his stretch and hopefully not fuck everything u-

“Hheegh,” A heaving sound interrupted Max’s train of thought, drawing his eyes downward: Richie was sitting on the floor, his face getting pale.

“You gotta be shitting me,” he muttered under his breath, noticing how pale and shaky the other boy looked. Richie’s chest was heaving as he tried to catch his breath, each gasp sounding more strained than the last.

Max’s initial reaction was to tell him to suck it up and get off the floor. But as he looked closer, he noticed the way Richie’s hand was clutching at his chest, his fingers trembling slightly. Something wasn’t right. Max felt a flicker of unease, though he quickly squashed it down.

“Hey, Shit Lips,” Max crouched next to him, looking him over. This wasn’t the usual level of pathetic Richie exuded. “Hey, hello!” He snapped his fingers in Richie’s face a little, bit didn’t get a satisfactory reaction. Clearly, the little twink didn’t have the wherewithal to react. “Huh, wait, shit… do you need your inhaler?”

Lipschitz nodded, letting out a weak cough, his eyes squeezing shut as he continued to struggle for air.

“Fuck,” Max mumbled, briefly wondering what to do. He couldn’t just leave; he was busy making relay plans. But Lipschitz needed that inhaler. Oh, right, he didn’t have to get the inhaler himself. “Hey Callahan, go get his inhaler.”

Of course, Brad did as he was told, half-walking, half-jogging to the boys’ locker room. Satisfied with his handling of the situation, Max went back to watching Brenda while picking his relay plans back up.

So, Richie ran first, likely letting everyone overtake. Then Brenda would run second, so she could make up for Richie’s shitty running. Then Brad would run after her, hopefully overtaking the last few runners. After Brad, Max would take the home ru-

Max’s thoughts were once again interrupted by a noise. His attention snapped to Brad, whose laughter seemed incongruous with the situation. What was so fucking funny about giving an asthmatic guy his inhaler? He got the answer the second his eyes landed on Brad and Richie.

Brad was holding the inhaler out of Richie’s reach and saying, “Come on, what’s the magic word? Don’t you have any manners?”

“Callahan! What the fuck’re you doing?”

Brad’s face fell as he realized Max’s tone wasn’t one of amusement. He dropped the inhaler into Richie’s waiting hand, his smile quickly fading. “Uh, sorry. I was just trying to—”

“Don’t care,” Max snapped, his frustration barely contained. He kept his gaze on Richie as he administered himself a dose. “Do you think he can run without breathing? No, dumbass.” Max preferred more traditional methods of bullying like flick-it tickets, swirlies, and means words coupled with occasionally beating the shit out of his victim. But holding on to an inhaler? That crossed some sort of line.

At least, that was what Max told himself. But deep down, he knew he just didn’t like the way Richie looked while he couldn’t breathe.

In the end, they placed second in the relay.

So, Shit Lips didn’t completely fuck up.

Chapter Text

Max only recently learned that Peter Spankoffski, better known as Micro-Peter, wasn’t rich. In fact, he only learned this last week when the loser had told him so outside Pasqualli's.

But as Max stared up at the massive villa in front of him, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had been lied to. His jaw hung open as he took in the massive villa. The house loomed like a stately sentinel in the middle of the forest, its grand architecture starkly contrasting to the dense, encroaching woods of the creatively named Witchwood forest. From where he stood on the gravel path leading to the entrance, the villa looked more like a relic from a bygone era than a home.

The setting sun cast long shadows, adding a slightly eerie aura. The villa’s stone façade, though beautifully crafted, seemed to absorb the light, making it appear even more imposing. When Grace said the house was big and scary, she meant it.

He noticed the Studebaker in the driveway. He had seen that exact same car drop Peter off at school a few times, which could only mean one thing: Ted was still home.

As Max approached the front door, he wondered if he should wait outside and hide until they had gotten rid of Ted. Grace had specifically told him to arrive at this time so that he wouldn’t be there for the Ted-tervention and fuck everything up (Max’s words, not Grace’s), but maybe the reason he was still there was because they didn’t have the manpower to force him out. With meeker steps than normal, he made his way to the door, nearly tripping on the front steps. They were uneven and inconsistent; Max could easily imagine someone falling with the baby on their way out. They needed to fix that.

He stood awkwardly at the doorstep, debating his options. He could hear faint voices coming from inside, and his heart raced with the thought of walking in on the intervention. He wasn't particularly keen on witnessing whatever was about to go down. But the idea of spending the night with Grace was enough to push him forward, even if it meant facing Ted Spankoffski. He was not scared of him, but he was never a big fan of adults.

Before he could change his mind, the door swung open, and there stood Grace, her expression a mixture of relief and mild craze.

“Max, right on time.” She smiled innocently, her voice just a bit too cheerful. Before he could respond she pulled him inside and pulled him into the kitchen where Flemwad and Micro-Peter were in full swing trying to talk to Ted. “Alright, Ted, reinforcements are here!”

The scene was like something out of a bad TV drama. Ted Spankoffski, the infamous manwhore of Hatchetfield, was slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, his eyes were wide but his mouth was in a smile. His dark hair was a mess, and there was a faint bruise on his temple that only added to his disheveled appearance. In front of him was an empty tea cup.

Peter, looking as small and timid as ever, was nervously fiddling with the edge of his sweater, glancing between his older brother and Ruth. Ruth stood by the stove with her arms crossed, her expression a mix of concern and frustration. They each had a half-empty tea cup.

The kitchen itself held no ounce of coziness. Its defining feature was the array of moving boxes littered everywhere. Right, new house.

Ted laughed and pointed at Max, “Aww, you brought reinforcements? Consider my timbers shivered!” His eyes were crazed as he stood up, not limping despite the alleged ankle. The only indication that his ankle was broken was the dark purple and black bruise, barely visible below his pant leg. “Well, fuck you, all of you! I’m not leaving Dawn alone in this goddamn motherfucking house!”

Max would be the first to admit that he didn’t know Ted very well. He had maybe had two conversations with him in his life, and one of those conversations was just 13-year-old Max begging him to buy him liquor because he was too much of a pussy to use his fake ID. But even with his limited knowledge about the man, Max could tell this wasn’t his normal behavior.

Micro-Peter grabbed Ted’s arm, “She’s not gonna be alone, Ted. Grace will stay.” Judging from the meekness in Pete’s voice, his confidence was as big as his pimple dick. Max rolled his eyes. Of course, Micro-Peter was timid and weak. Just last week, Max had taught that standing up to people stronger than him was pointless, so why would he be anything else?

“No, no, no, that won’t do!” Ted started pulling his hair. The sudden drop from aggression to despair threw Max for such a massive loop that he had to take a step back. He really shouldn’t witness this. Honestly, he was shocked that no one had told him to leave. “Petey, don’t do this to me, please, I thought you loved me…” He removed his hands from his hair, placing them on Peter’s shoulder and digging his fingers into his flesh. His hands were covered in bandages. “Don’t you love me…?”

Clearly, Ted needed help with more than just his ankle. If anything, he should be institutionalized.

“I do, of course, I do.” Pete reassured, “That’s why we’re here.”

Max hovered awkwardly at the edge of the scene, unsure of his role. The earnest desperation in Ted’s voice made him feel like an intruder, which he was, but he didn’t want to feel like it. He glanced over at Grace, who also seemed a bit uncomfortable but was managing it.

She smiled again, that same girl-next-door smile that she had given Max in the cafeteria. “That’s right. And I can assure you, Dawn will be safe in my care.” She placed a hand over her chest, over her heart. “I even brought self-defense tools.” She pulled a cartoonishly massive crucifix out of her purse. It was the size of a small baseball bat. How did she have space for that in there?

This was so surreal. Max could barely believe what was going on. Was he seriously partaking in an intervention for Ted Spankoffski as if he ever gave a shit about what that old man did with his own body? And why were Flemwad and Micro-Peter okay with him being here? They hadn't even commented on his presence or seemed the slightest bit uncomfortable at all! And better yet, why couldn’t Max get himself to do or say anything? He should be mocking them. He should make Peter’s life a living hell for being related to a loser like Ted, but he couldn’t find the words.

Max’s mind was racing, struggling to reconcile the bizarre reality he found himself in. The scene before him was so out of place that he almost expected someone to yell, “Cut!” and reveal it was all a setup for a prank show. But this was real, and Ted’s emotional turmoil was genuine, no matter how absurd the situation seemed.

Flemwad, who had been way too silent this entire time, decided to try to lighten the mood. “Y-Yeah, Ted, if any boogeymen come at Dawn, Grace’ll just smack right into hell with that cross.” She chuckled awkwardly and half-heartedly at her shitty joke, then gave up when she realized no one else found it funny.

Just as Max was in the process of stopping himself from making a snide remark about Flemwad’s dumb joke, Ted, still clutching Peter’s shoulders, started sinking to the floor, dragging his little brother along with him. The room seemed to hold its breath as Ted's body crumpled onto the tile, his face losing color and his breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

A collective gasp filled the room, and the chaotic energy shifted into a panic. Peter shook him, his face pale and stricken with shock. Ruth quickly moved to Ted’s side, checking his pulse with trembling hands.

“Shit, shit!” She pulled at her curls, tears threatening to spill. “He’s fucking dead! He fucking died!”

Pete's breathing became quicker as he shook Ted harder, “Wake up! Damn it, wake up!”

Grace, on the other hand, remained eerily composed. She straightened up from where she had been leaning against the counter, and her smile morphed into a knowing grin.

“Please, calm yourselves.” She said, her tone almost clinical. “There’s no need to use such vulgar language. Teddy’s just having a little nap.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Peter’s voice cracked. “Is he… is he okay?”

Grace stepped over to the kitchen table and picked up the empty tea cup by Ted's seat. She twirled it in her hand, the slight clink of porcelain against porcelain ringing in the tense silence. “Oh, he’s perfectly fine. I just helped him out a bit.”

Max felt a chill run down his spine. “Helped him out?”

Grace nodded and reached into her pocket, pulling out a small, half-empty vial labeled “Sleep Aid” in neat handwriting. She held it up for everyone to see, the label casting a starkly reassuring glow in the dim kitchen light. “I put some of this in Ted’s tea. He was getting too worked up, and I thought it best if he calmed down for a while.”

The room was enveloped in stunned silence as Grace’s words echoed through the air. The atmosphere seemed to freeze, with each person present struggling to reconcile what the fuck Grace had just done. The eerie calm in Grace’s demeanor contrasted sharply with the chaotic panic that had preceded it.

Peter stared at Ted, his eyes wide and his skin pale. It was like one of those sad animal abuse PSAs with a baby animal next to its dead mother. Sometimes, he tried to shake him awake. Meanwhile, Ruth quietly dried her eyes.

Max stood awkwardly by the door, feeling like a misplaced piece in this surreal puzzle. He glanced at Grace, trying to read her intentions. Her constant, placid smile and the casual way she brandished the empty vial were disquieting. For once, he felt eternally relieved that he never bullied Grace. Only God knew what she would do.

After a prolonged pause, her voice broke the silence once more, now with a practical note that seemed oddly out of place given the situation. “Alright, Max,” she said, turning her gaze toward him with a new, almost cheerful resolve. It startled him more than he'd like to admit. “We need to get Ted to the car, and you’re the strongest one here.”

It was as if Grace’s words snapped Max out of the shocked fog, he had been in. Grace hadn't just drugged a man for shits and giggles. She had done it so they could get him to a hospital for a serious injury. They were helping him.

“Yeah, okay. Sure, yes, yep.” Max nodded more to himself than to Grace. He shook his hands both to hype himself up and to calm him down. “Okay.”

He walked over to Ted and Peter and crouched down. He slid his right arm under Ted’s knees and his left behind his back, and then just scooped him up. Ted was pretty lanky, so he was confident that he only weighed around 160 lb at most.

“This is why Ted only lets Richie babysit,” Pete hissed at Grace. “‘cause you’re fucking crazy.”

“No, I'm efficient.” Grace huffed as she opened the door for Max. “Watch the steps.”

Max tried, he really tried to watch the steps like Grace said, but it felt like they moved the second the outside air hit him, and he lost balance. “Shit,” he hissed as he regained his footing. No need to worry, he had this in the bag.

He heard a gasp from Pete when he stumbled, but he ignored it. Damn, that little loser was dramatic. Sure, if Max fell, Ted would probably split his head open, but he didn’t fall, so it wasn’t a big deal. The rest of the walk to the car certainly went without incident. Grace opened the car door for him as he placed Ted inside and put his seatbelt on him.

Max never saw Ruth climb in the car before it drove off. But he couldn’t find her anywhere in the villa, so he assumed that she left with them.

Max stood alone in the dimly lit foyer of the villa, the silence almost deafening after the scene earlier. The air felt heavier now as if the tension had settled into the very walls of the house. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he scanned the room. His initial excitement about spending the night with Grace had been tempered by the surreal events of the evening.

The baby had woken up crying a few minutes after the others had left. Grace had told him to ‘just do whatever’ while she took care of it. It made Max a little uncomfortable to think that the house was so massive that he couldn’t even hear the baby.

He wandered through the villa’s expansive rooms, noting the scattered moving boxes and the faint scent of fresh paint lingering in the air. He also looked in the liquor cabinet, expecting it to be filled with whiskey and the like, but the cabinet was empty aside from a few glass shards. It was clear that the Spankoffskis were still in the process of settling in, but the place felt oddly cold and uninviting now, the earlier liveliness replaced by a stifling quiet.

He had wandered through the living room already, noting that it was the only normal room so far: a couch, a coffee table, another couch, a TV. The walls were littered with artwork, most of it abstract, and the shelves were sparsely decorated with trinkets and framed photos of the Spankoffski family: one of Peter from school picture day, one of him on a swing when he was maybe 5 years old, and one of him with Ruth and Richie. The only things Max didn’t like about the living room were the windows, these massive expanses that seemed to invite the dark forest inside.

But as Max continued his exploration, the rest of the house felt more like a maze of half-finished renovations and disarray. He made his way down a long, narrow hallway, the floor creaking softly under his weight. The hallway was lined with closed doors, each one presumably leading to one of the villa’s many rooms.

None of the doors caught his eye, all of them overshadowed by what he saw at the end of the hallway: a staircase leading down to somewhere. His curiosity was piqued by the staircase. The idea of exploring an unfamiliar area of the villa drew him closer, despite his bad gut feeling.

He approached the staircase, the cement steps feeling terribly cold under his feet as he descended. The staircase was enclosed by walls, and the air grew cooler as he moved further down. The faint scent of fresh paint was soon replaced with a mustier, older aroma that suggested the space had been unused for some time.

At the very bottom of the staircase, he was met with a wooden door. The door looked ancient, its surface marred by scratches and the effects of time. A tarnished brass handle, shaped like a goat’s head, was the only feature breaking up the door’s weathered surface aside from the giant padlock that stopped him from opening it.

Max stared at the weathered door, the tarnished brass handle and the giant padlock sending shivers down his spine. The lock was old, the kind that seemed to whisper tales of forgotten secrets and long-abandoned places. He tugged at the handle experimentally, but the door remained firmly shut. With a sigh, he gave up, left forever curious.

As Max turned away from the locked door, preparing to head back up the stairs, he was jolted by the sudden, eerie sensation of being watched. His breath hitched, and he instinctively froze, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

He slowly turned his head back towards the top of the staircase, his heart pounding. There, framed by the dim light of the hallway above, was Grace. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, were fixed directly on him. Her presence was almost ghostly in the shadowed stairwell, her silhouette sharp and unnervingly calm against the backdrop of the stairwell's faint light.

“You’re not supposed to be down there, Maxie.” Her voice was an octave lower than her usual chirp. “The previous owner locked it for a reason.” She held the silence for several seconds. “Just look between your feet.”

Max’s pulse quickened as Grace's words hung in the air, thick with an ominous weight. His eyes darted down to the space between his feet, and his stomach churned when he saw the dark stain on the cold cement floor. The stain was irregular, with edges that feathered out, like something that had been hastily cleaned but never truly erased. It was a deep, rusty brown.

He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the growing sense of unease that crept up his spine. He had never been one to scare easily, but something about this whole situation, about Grace, about the villa—it was all wrong.

Grace’s voice echoed down the stairs. “That stain is the reason this place was cheap enough for Ted to buy. That and my dad has a soft spot for Ted, plus the previous owner reached out to my dad and there was this whole thing, I dunno.” Her tone was matter-of-factly. “The guy who lived here before the previous owner, so, like, the previous previous owner was found in that exact spot, his rotting flesh seeping into the cement. Some theorize that someone broke in and pushed the poor guy to his death. But I have a different theory.” Grace paused as if waiting for a cue to continue. “You see, I believe he did some very unchristian things in that basement, and God finally decided to give him what he deserved.”

Max’s eyes remained plastered on the stain beneath him. He was pretty sure the story made him biased, but now that he had heard it, he swore the stain was shaped like a person. But the head was splattered in every single direction. He had no doubt that Grace would know the story about this house. Her dad was the realtor after all.

“Why…” He started, looking up at Grace. “Why’re you telling me this?”

What did Grace even mean by ‘unchristian’ things? To her, that could be anything from premarital handholding to torture and kidnapping.

Grace’s gaze wavered. She moved slightly, her steps soft and deliberate as she moved away from the staircase. “Because,” Her voice was the same old chirp that he heard so often. “I want you to remember to stay safe. This staircase has no railing, and 100% of stair-related accidents involve stairs.” She giggled.

“Wha-,” Max internally cursed himself for stuttering. “What the hell, Grace,” He only whispered it, but the echo brought it all the way up to Grace. He started up the stairs, careful with each step. “That guy getting murdered had nothing to do with stair safety.”

Grace laughed, an innocent, girly laugh. “Yes, it did, silly.” She snorted, wiping a tear from her eye. “He was a nutcase, a weirdo. He was a crazy man who had a breakdown one day and fell down the stairs. That’s all.”

Max froze halfway up the stairs. Grace’s change in demeanor was almost as bad as Ted’s. It was worse. At least, Ted was clearly suffering from something with his mental health, but Grace had no business flip-flopping like this.

“So,” Max said slowly, his voice tinged with frustration, “you’re saying it was just an accident? He was just an old man who lost his mind and fell?”

Grace tilted her head slightly, her smile now more a knowing grin. “Exactly. But if you don’t believe me, you can check for yourself.” Max raised an eyebrow at her, and she elaborated. “When the place was cleared out, they forgot about the attic, so there are still a bunch of his old stuff up there: Books, paintings, drawings, journals. He was quite the prolific writer.” She tapped her foot a bit on the cement. “If you couldn’t tell, Teddy’s been really overwhelmed lately, that must be why he hasn’t gotten rid of it yet.”

Max’s eyes flicked back and forth between Grace’s unchanging expression and the dark corridor behind her. Her words seemed to float in the dim air, the macabre story she’d shared unsettling his thoughts. But something else was pulling at his attention now, something that made his pulse race anew.

There was a shadow in the dark corridor moving behind Grace.

It was subtle at first—a dark shape skirting the edges of the hallway, just outside the reach of the stairwell’s light. He sprinted the last steps up to Grace, grabbing her shoulders and yanking her behind him, so he was shielding her.

The shadow, or better yet, the person in the shadows saw him and ran.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Shaken Baby Syndrome

Great job, Max,” Grace hissed, the faint wailing of a baby resonated from somewhere in the house. “You woke the baby up!”

Try as he might, Max couldn’t find the person from the shadows. He had checked every crevice and corner, under every piece of furniture, and behind every moving-in box, but the intruder was gone. He may have been a little loud, but how was he supposed to avoid that? He was chasing an intruder!

Max straightened up, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His heart was still pounding from the chase, the frustration of his fruitless search gnawing at him. His hand was planted firmly around Grace’s wrist, having not dared to leave her all alone in the dark while an intruder was in the building.

“I…” Max began, looking around frantically, expecting to catch someone’s eyes at any turn. “I swear… I swear I saw someone.”

Grace sighed, rubbing her temples with her free hand. “You’ve been saying that for the last ten minutes. There's no one here.” She twisted her wrist out of Max’s grip. “Now, if you’re done acting crazy, I have a baby to sit.”

Max stared at Grace, his mind still reeling from the adrenaline and confusion. The wailing of the baby, now more insistent, seemed to echo through the stillness of the villa. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the unease gnawing at him wasn’t easily quelled.

“Look,” he said, his voice quieter but still edged with frustration, “I know what I saw. There was someone—”

Grace cut him off, her tone icy and dismissive. “Max, this isn’t a game. There’s no one here, and you’re just scaring yourself. Let’s focus on the baby.”

Grace’s composure and apparent nonchalance made him doubt his own perceptions, even though he was certain something had been there. He nodded, trying to shake off the lingering sense of paranoia. “Alright, fine. Where’s the baby?”

Grace smiled, “Follow me,” She chirped, bouncing away. She led him upstairs and to an inconspicuous-looking door. She shushed him quietly, even though he was already silent, as she opened the door.

The nursery was mostly barren aside from the crib in the middle of the room. In the crib lay the infant girl, crying her little heart out, a pacifier still in her mouth. Her tiny head was covered in a layer of the Spankoffski signature thick, black hair. Her cheeks were red and her little body shuttered as she tried to balance wailing with breathing.

Squished between her fat little arms was a worn, clearly very old teddy bear, its tag read Peter. Max couldn’t figure out if he found it cute or pathetic that Dawn was given Peter’s old teddy bear.

“Hey, Dawn, hey, sweetie.” Grace reached for the little girl, scooping her into her arms. “We didn’t mean to wake you up,” she patted the baby’s head. “Max is just a meanie.”

Insulted, Max put his hands in his pockets and paced slightly. Sure, he was mean, but trying to defend Grace and Dawn from a home intruder was not it. He quietly tapped his foot on the floor as he listened to Grace soothe the baby. The whole time, he stared at the wide-open door. He couldn’t bring himself to close it, but he also couldn’t bear that it was open.

“Isn’t she just a cutie, Max?” Grace asked from the crib, beckoning him over. He stayed put.

“Mhm, yeah, totally.”

“You’re not even looking at her.”

Max glanced at the crib quickly before his eyes went back to the open door. “Well, she’s definitely…” He fidgeted with his hands, searching for the right words. “…a baby.” It sounded like a statement, but to Max, it was a diagnosis.

In his very important opinion, babies were overrated. Truly. They were stinky, sticky, loud, and annoying. He was starting to understand why Ted was so erratic. If Max lived in this creepy ass house having to take care of a snot-nosed baby and Micro-Peter’s know-it-all ass, he’d go insane too. Max’s own dad may be shit, but at least he would never dump a younger sibling on him. He would still definitely dump that younger sibling.

Grace was still cooing at Dawn, completely oblivious to Max’s inner turmoil. She was a natural with the baby, all soft smiles and gentle touches, while Max felt like a fish out of water. He wasn’t cut out for this domestic stuff, especially not in a place like this.

“What’s your issue with babies?” Grace asked.

Max shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had no real beef with babies; it was just that they made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't quite articulate. They were fragile, unpredictable, and, worst of all, they demanded a level of care and attention that Max wasn’t used to giving anyone or anything.

His eyes never left the door. “I guess I’m just not really the nurturing type.”

Grace raised an eyebrow, still cradling Dawn gently in her arms. “You sure? You seemed pretty protective when you thought there was someone in the house.” She smirked.

“Yes, that’s the problem.” Max started, finally ripping his eyes away from the gaping eye of the door. “What if something happens, like, someone fuckin’ comes at me, and I can’t defend myself or fight back because ‘Oohh, shit, I’m holding my baby’. You know?” He looked at Dawn, her pacifier bobbing up and down. “And I also can’t just run away because what if it bounces too much and gets SBS?”

Grace snickered, “You’re worried about shaken baby syndrome? That sounds real nurturing to me.”

“What? I should be worried; it runs in my family.”

Grace laughed even more before she realized Max was serious.

“Wha- What do you mean it ‘runs in your family’? SBS is not genetic.”

Max huffed and crossed his arm. “Well, my sister, Dani, got it when I was 6. That’s one for two. That’s 50% and makes it genetic.”

Grace stared at him wide-eyed, mouth hanging open. “I didn’t even know you had siblings.” She mumbled like he had just dropped the biggest bombshell over on her.

“I literally just said she got SBS.” Max raised an eyebrow. “‘Cause it runs in the family.”  He felt a little uncomfortable that Grace was still staring at him like that, maybe he should explain more. “Y-You know it has, like, a 90% death rate.”

Grace looked ready to cry, which was probably just another one of her overreactions; one time, she had had that exact same reaction after seeing Max hugging Stacy in the halls. Something about unchristian touching before marriage.

“It’s a 25% death rate, Max.” Her voice was squeaky. Of course, she would the actual death rate. “Unless it doesn’t get treated.” She took a deep, shaky breath, her eyes glossy. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. “And there’s nothing genetic about it.”

With careful movements, as if Max was judging her, she placed Dawn back in the crib and immediately burst into tears.

“Whoa, hey,” Max said, taking a step closer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Her tears were falling freely now, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. Max stood there, caught between wanting to comfort her and feeling utterly out of his depth. This wasn’t the reaction he’d anticipated, and he didn’t know how to handle it. Shit, this was just an offhand comment that spiraled.

“No, Max,” Grace said through her tears, her voice muffled. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Max was feeling increasingly uncomfortable as Grace continued to sob. “Grace, it’s okay,” he said, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. “Guess I hit a nerve there. It’s no big deal.”

Not completely sure what to do, he placed his hands on Grace’s shoulders in what he hoped was a comforting manner. Then he just kind of waited until she steadied her breathing on her own.

“Sorry,” Grace stated once she was back down again. “I didn’t realize God had given you such battles.” She wiped some snot off with her sleeve. Max chose not to comment on it. “Sometimes, I forget that others have grown up in completely different worlds than I have.” She took a shaky breath. “God has always protected me, and it saddens me to hear that he didn’t do the same for you.”

Oh, the poor thing. She’d have a heart attack if she knew why Max was even here, to begin with.

“Oh, yeah, it sucks. Shit happens. Oh, well.” Max babbled. He didn’t know what to say. Even after crying her eyes out, Grace was still far more eloquent than him. There was a tear on her cheek.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought you here-” Her voice drifted off as Max wiped the tear on her cheek with his sleeve. Her face went red and her wide eyes darted between the hand on her shoulder and the one near her cheek.

Their eyes met. Suddenly, with a swift and unexpected motion, she slapped Max across the face. The sound of the slap echoed through the quiet room, leaving both of them in stunned silence. Max recoiled, instinctively taking a step back, his hand touching the spot where Grace's hand had connected with his cheek.

“How dare you!” Grace hissed, her voice trembling. “You think you can try to seduce me like that? You… you pervert!” She started toward the door. “You’re an incubus, Max Jägerman, a servant of Satan is what you are!”

She slammed the door shut, leaving Max alone clutching his cheek, the newly awoken and crying baby as his sole company. God, that stung.

He didn’t know what compelled him to stay in the nursery for so long after the baby had stopped crying. The bitch had slapped him, and he was fucking fuming. But he needed to calm himself, lest he broke his code of honor: don’t cause permanent damage, don’t hit girls, and don’t interact with the supernatural.

Grace Chasity was bad news. In the span of three hours, she had drugged Ted without his knowledge or consent, scared the living shit out of Max with her creepy stories, made him feel crazy for being worried about a potential intruder, and now slapped him out of nowhere and called him a servant of Satan.

Max had thought she was hot, forbidden fruit and stuff. But now he wanted nothing more than to get away from her as fast as possible.

Should he take Dawn with him? He pondered that question for a moment as he stood up, looking at the sleeping baby. She looked so content, her eyes close as she sucked her pacifier and hugged her teddy bear. Grace probably wouldn’t hurt a baby. Surely, she had standards.

But leaving the baby alone with Grace seemed like a terrible idea, but what the hell was he supposed to do? He wasn’t exactly a hero, and he definitely wasn’t cut out to play babysitter.

“Think, Max,” he muttered to himself, raking a hand through his hair. He wasn’t an overthinker, but he wasn’t stupid either. No, that was a lie; he was pretty stupid.

Ted clearly hadn't wanted to leave Dawn alone with Grace. The thought of Ted finding out that he’d abandoned her gnawed at his conscience. But then again, Ted was an asshole and a homewrecker, so why should Max care about him?

Max took a deep breath, trying to focus. He could just leave. It’d be easy, really. Slip out the back, make it to his car, and drive as far away from this mess as fast as possible. Grace would calm down eventually, Ted would get back, and this whole nightmare would be over. But then he thought of Dawn, so small and helpless, alone in this creepy house with that psychopath. She looked so much like Dani.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. He couldn’t leave her behind. Ted may have been a piece of shit, but even a piece of shit didn’t deserve for something to happen to his kid. “Alright, Dawn,” Max said in a hushed tone as he turned to face the baby. “Guess, you’re getting kidnapped.”

But right as he was about to pick her up, another idea hit him. Not just an idea, a detail given to him by none other than Micro-Peter.

He fumbled slightly, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He scrolled through his contacts, hoping, no, praying that he still had the number. He couldn’t remember how he got it back in freshman year, but he did. He had worked his ass off to get his grubby hands on it, for one reason and one reason only: he wanted to sign that nerd up for as many random subscriptions and porn sites as possible.

“Yes!” He whispered, fist-pumping the air. He did have the number. With bated breath, he hit ‘call’.

Max paced back and forth in the dimly lit nursery, his nerves on edge as the phone rang in his hand. He hadn’t thought about the number in years, let alone actually used it for anything other than pranks and writing it in toilet stalls. But now, as the phone rang, he couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of hope and dread. What if he didn’t pick up? What if the number was no longer in service?

The dial tone seemed to stretch on forever, each passing second ratcheting up Max’s nerves. Dawn stirred slightly in her crib, her tiny face scrunching up tension. Max glanced at her.

Finally, the ringing stopped, and there was a click on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” Richie Lipschitz’s voice was quiet, almost drowned out by the excessive noise around him. Was he on a bus? “Who’s this?”

Max paused. What was he even supposed to say? He only called Richie because Peter said he usually babysat Dawn.

“Hello?” Richie asked again, then he took on a different tone. “Ugh, Ruth, I already told you: staying silent on calls does not make you seem mysterious and interesting. Especially not when you’re the one who called!”

Max cleared his throat, trying to push down the irritation at being mistaken for Flemwad of all people. “It’s not her, asshole. It’s… it’s Max.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, long enough that Max wondered if Richie had hung up or if the line had dropped. He was about to speak again when Richie’s voice cut through, sharper and more alert than before.

“Max?” Richie repeated, incredulous. “Max Jägerman? What the hell—why are you calling me?”

Max clenched his jaw, suddenly aware of how stupid this whole situation was. But he had to think quickly. He glanced at Dawn, who was starting to stir more in her crib, her little fists clenching and unclenching.

“Listen here… fuckface.” His voice trailed off at the end, lacking bite. “I’m at Spankoffski’s place. Don’t ask why; it’s dumb.”

Max took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. He wasn't used to asking for help, especially not from someone like Richie, but he was in over his head. Dawn stirred again, her tiny whimpers reminding him that time was running out.

“I’m at Spankoffski’s house. Ted had a fuckin’ mental ass breakdown, and Grace drugged him, and now he’s in the hospital for a broken ankle.” Max swore he was usually more persuasive. “Now, I’m alone with Dawn, and I wanna leave. So, you need to get your ass over here and take over, so I don’t have to leave Dawn alone with that fucking psycho.”

Richie’s stunned silence on the other end of the line was almost palpable. Max could practically feel him trying to process everything that had just been dumped on him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was cold and angry. “What the fuck kind of stupid ass prank is this, Max?”

Max gritted his teeth, feeling his frustration boil over. "It’s not a prank, Shit Lips! You think I’d waste my time calling you for some bullshit? I don’t want to be here, and I sure as hell don’t wanna deal with Grace going full psycho mode! This is serious."

Richie was silent again, but Max could hear his breathing on the other end of the line. It was clear that he was struggling to wrap his head around the situation. When he finally spoke, his voice was more controlled, but the anger hadn’t completely dissipated.

“I’m on my way to Chicago, so I can be in some annoying ass math competition tomorrow that will get me a scholarship. And you want me to believe that you somehow weaseled your way into Pete’s home, witnessed Grace drug Ted after he had a mental breakdown, and are now taking care of Dawn on your own. And I’m supposed to just get off the bus and miss this competition, so I can come take over for you? Sure, Max, fuck you.”

Richie hung up.

 He fucking hung up on him.

“Goddamn it!” Max whispered/hissed, pocketing his phone. He stomped a little, punched the air a bit. Stupid fucking Shit Lips and his stupid fucking skepticism. He was so going to beat that nerd up on Monday. “Fuck, fuck!” He paced, trying to mute his temper tantrum.

He glanced over at Dawn, who was now peacefully sleeping in the crib. Her tiny chest rose and fell with each breath, completely unaware of the chaos surrounding her. Max’s frustration bubbled over again, but this time it was mixed with a deep sense of responsibility. This wasn’t his mess to clean up, but somehow, he’d been dragged into it, and now he had to figure out a way to deal with it.

“Fuck it, we’re back to kidnapping.”

He moved over to the crib, gently scooping Dawn into his arms. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her tiny hand clutching his shirt. The weight of her in his arms was both comforting and terrifying—he’d held his sister Dani a few times before, which had not ended well. The fragility of her small body made him feel like he was holding glass.

“Please don’t cry, please don’t cry.” Just like he had said to Grace earlier: holding Dawn made him feel vulnerable in a way he never had before. It was like the baby’s vulnerability rubbed off on him. She whimpered quietly, “Come on, please don’t cry.”

He grabbed a blanket from the crib, wrapping Dawn snugly. Then, with one last glance around the eerie nursery, he made his way toward the door. Max hesitated for a moment, listening for any sounds from Grace, but the house was eerily silent. He didn’t know where she was, and he didn’t want to find out.

He moved cautiously through the hallway, every creak of the old floorboards sending a shiver down his spine. Dawn’s warmth in his arms was the only thing grounding him in the moment. He could hear his own breathing, intentionally slow and quiet. He wasn’t good at sneaking around, despite his years’ worth of experience in it. But he made due. The hollow halls only echoed every little noise he generated.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he noticed how dark it had gotten outside. The windows framed the blackness of night, shadows playing tricks on his mind. The front door was just a few steps away, the brass handle glinting in the dim light.

He reached for the doorknob, his hand shaking slightly. As he turned it and slowly opened the door, the cool night air washed over him. For a brief moment, relief flooded his veins. He had done it. He was outside.

But as the door swung fully open, his heart sank like a stone. Standing on the porch, illuminated by the soft glow of the porch light, was Grace. Her eyes, wide and unsettlingly calm, locked onto him, a twisted smile slowly spreading across her face. Dangling around her finger, was the key to Max’s car.

“Aww, Maaax,” She drawled, her mouth turned into a sweet smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I know you don’t know much about babies, but she doesn’t need fresh air when she’s trying to sleep.”

Max froze, his grip tightening around Dawn. “Right. Oops.” Fuck. Caught red-handed.

He didn’t know his mind could race this fast. She must’ve known he was about to leave; she must have waited for him. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

“Well, then, why don’t we go back inside?” Her smile never wavered. “I made a snack”

“Yeah,” Max held Dawn a little closer. “Okay.”

Max sat stiffly at the kitchen table, his eyes darting around the room as he tried to assess the situation. The quiet of the house amplified the sound of his own heartbeat. Grace moved around the kitchen with a practiced ease, ladling soup into two bowls as if nothing unusual was happening.

Max’s eyes flicked to the door, still trying to figure out how he could get out of this. But every time he glanced at Grace, she was already looking at him, that same unsettling smile on her lips. The car keys dangled from her hand as she set the bowls on the table, her movements slow and deliberate.

“There you go, Max,” she said sweetly, sliding the bowl of soup in front of him. “I made it just for you. Chicken noodle.”

Max smiled a strained, half-hearted smile. “Thanks.”

Grace took her seat across from him, picking up her spoon with the same serene demeanor she’d had since he first saw her on the porch. Max picked up his spoon as well, putting some in his mouth. He wasn’t hungry, but he wanted to avoid being questioned on why he wasn’t eating. Besides, he was pretty sure she couldn’t have put anything in it since she was eating it herself. It tasted like nothing.

Every fiber of his being was focused on the room around him, on Grace’s every movement and the car keys that seemed to taunt him from where she’d placed them on the counter.

“I didn’t just make this soup to be nice, Max,” Grace said. Oh, fuck, she poisoned him! “I made it to apologize.”

Oh, thank goodness. Max nearly had a heart attack there.

“Well,” Grace continued, unbothered by Max’s visible, if temporary, panic. “I’m really sorry I slapped you. I’ve just been so stressed and probably a little out of it. You see, the bible says to honor thy mother and father, but I had a fight with my dad before I came here.”

Perhaps it was stupid. No, it was definitely stupid. But Max immediately found himself hoping that this was the truth. That Grace wasn’t crazy, just terribly stressed over something.

“A fight?” He asked, the tiniest sliver of hope gliding into his voice. His own fights with his dad always ended with bruises or worse, but Grace had said herself that she and Max grew up very differently.

“Yes.” Grace put her spoon down, folding her hands as she spoke. “I asked him if he would drive me here to babysit for Ted Spankoffski, and he said I wasn’t allowed to go at all. So, I asked him again, and he goes ‘NO, Ted Spankoffski is a dirty dude!’ and I said ‘1, that is not a very nice thing to say and 2, you are way too old to say ‘dude’’ and suddenly, I’m defending Ted Spankoffski of all people!”

As she spoke, she made wild hand gestures that honestly made the story a little entertaining. While listening, Max continued to slowly make his way through the soup.

Grace continued, “And dad says, ‘I bet you don’t think Ted Spankoffski’s too old to say ‘dude’’ and I said ‘Well, at least he’s not in his forties!’ and then I goofed up, Max, I goofed up big time.” She paused, fiddling a bit with her hair. “I said, ‘You’re just salty because he wouldn’t sleep with you at the Honey Festival!’ and then he got extra, extra mad at me because I wasn’t supposed to know about that. And I probably shouldn’t have let him know that I know in such a harsh way, even if he is a dirty dude himself.”

"Wow, uh, sounds like quite the argument," Max said, glancing at the car keys on the counter again, weighing his chances of grabbing them and making a break for it. But something was wrong—he felt… heavy.

“So, he threw my phone out the window and told me I was Satan's spawn, which I thought was ironic because I am his spawn, and, if anything, that would make him Satan, which he isn’t, no matter how many times Ted rejects his advances…” Grace droned on and on, never stopping to even take a breath. “So, I went to my mom…” Max didn’t catch what she said; her words were blurry. “…a nuclear missile that took out Moscow, and Dad was pretty mad about that, but not as mad as he is about their impending divorce. Because, you see, divorce is against the Ten Commandments and therefore a very big sin as opposed to blowing up Moscow…”

He blinked, trying to make sense of what she was saying, but the room seemed to be tilting slightly, and it was getting harder to think clearly. He realized with a start that his vision was starting to blur around the edges. His heart, which had been pounding just moments before, now felt like it was beating slower, dragging itself along as if it, too, were succumbing to the strange fatigue that had overtaken him.

“…and that’s when this story became entirely fabricated,” Grace concluded, analyzing the confused look on his face. “What? You didn’t actually think my father would try to engage Ted, another man, sexually, did you? You’re not very clever, are you, Max?”

She moved the soup bowl out of the way as her insults rocked him to sleep.

Chapter Text

The sky was heavy with the gray of early morning, a slight drizzle misting the quiet street. Max kicked a stray pebble along the cracked sidewalk, his backpack slung over one shoulder as he waited for the bus that should take him to school. He had been very young when his dad decided he should start getting to places alone, so this wasn’t unusual for him. The neighborhood was still waking up, the only sounds the distant hum of traffic and the soft patter of rain. Mondays were absolute ass.

A slight rustling noise caught Max’s attention, and he turned to see a man approaching from across the road. The man’s clothes were damp, his dark-blonde hair greasy, his faded yellow jacket clinging to his thin frame. He moved with a strange, deliberate slowness; his hands buried deep in his pockets.

“Hey kid,” The man’s voice was unnervingly friendly. “How old are you?”

Max shifted his weight, taking a small step back. He didn’t like strangers. Adults made him shy, “Six,” he mumbled, his voice small like he wanted the man to not hear him.

The man with the yellow jacket smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. His gaze lingered on Max a moment longer than felt comfortable, like he was sizing him up. “Six, huh?” he repeated, almost to himself. He took a step closer, his shoes scraping against the wet pavement. “You waiting for someone? Maybe your mom or dad?”

Max shook his head, gripping the strap of his backpack tighter. “The bus.” He said, breaking eye contact. “To school.”

The man took another step forward, his smile widening. “You know, it's not safe out here by yourself. Lots of bad characters around…” Max paused for a second. Lots of bad characters in the neighborhood? Oh well, the adult probably knew more about that than him. “Why don’t I give you a ride to school?”

“No,” No hesitation, his voice shaking. He glanced down the road again, hoping the bus would appear, but there was no sign of it. He could feel the man’s presence pressing down on him, his tall frame looming over Max’s small figure.

“Come on, it’ll be safer too.” The man’s smile widened as if trying to appear less threatening. It didn’t work.

In fact, it was counterproductive; Max ran. He ran as fast as his little legs could carry him, which wasn’t very fast, but he had caught the man off guard and put a good distance between them by the time the man started chasing him.

“Get back here, you little shit!” The yelling only made Max run faster.

The rain was coming down harder now, blurring his vision and making the cracked pavement slick underfoot. He could hear the man’s footsteps splashing behind him, getting closer with every step. Max’s breath came in ragged gasps as he pushed his small body to its limits, his backpack bouncing heavily against his back.

He didn’t dare look back.

Ahead, the street stretched out to touch the seemingly endless parking lot of the CCRP building. Max's heart pounded as he sprinted towards it, its large, looming structure offering a glimmer of hope amidst the growing panic. The building was a familiar landmark in town, its towering presence and expansive parking lot something Max had seen countless times from the bus window.

He had taken shelter in there a few times, so he could get out of the rain. The receptionist had always been nice enough to not kick him out, but that was as far as his kindness went. But maybe he would kick a creepy guy ou-

His heart skipped a beat as he felt his ankle twist on the slick concrete. Time seemed to slow down as his legs went out from under him. He hit the ground hard, his hands instinctively reaching out to break his fall. His palms scraped against the rough concrete, pain shooting up his arms as his chin struck the pavement with a sickening thud and his ankle complained with a nasty crunch.

For a moment, he couldn’t move, his breath coming in short, frantic gasps as he lay sprawled on the wet pavement. The taste of blood filled his mouth, the metallic tang bitter against his tongue. His chin throbbed where it had hit the ground, and his mind struggled to process the searing pain in his ankle.

His mind raced, the sharp pain in his ankle making it hard to focus. Every instinct screamed at him to get up, to keep running, but his body refused to obey. The rain poured down harder, soaking him to the bone, the cold seeping into his skin as he lay there, helpless.

He could feel the man’s presence looming over him before he saw him. Slowly, he turned his head, blinking against the rain, to see the man standing just a few feet away, his face twisted into a mix between an angry scowl and a smile.

“There we go, little bitch,” the man growled, his voice low. “Thought you could get away-”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Beside an old Studebaker, smoking a cig and looking overall displeased with the day, was a young man perhaps in his early to mid-twenties. He was tall and lean, a single thread of black hair touched his forehead, the rest was carefully slicked to the side. He wore a pretty standard office get-up that seemed impractical in the pouring rain.

His eyes locked onto the man with the yellow jacket.

“Are you deaf, shitface?” He asked. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I—I’m just trying to help the kid,” the man stammered, his previous bravado evaporating under the stranger’s piercing gaze. “He fell, and I—”

The young man cut him off by simply walking closer, flicking his cigarette away. “Come on, move.” The man took a step back and then another step and another, until he was fully running away, tail between his legs like a scared animal.

The young man watched the other retreat with a glare, ensuring the man kept his distance. Once he was satisfied, he turned his attention back to Max, who was still lying on the wet pavement, shivering from the cold and the shock of what had just happened.

“Hey buddy,” His tone was soft. “You took quite a fall there. Does anything hurt?”

The adrenaline that had kept Max running was fading, leaving him feeling small and scared, far too little to deal with something like this. His whole body trembled from the cold and the shock, and his vision blurred, not from the rain but from the tears welling up in his eyes. His shoulders shook as he began to sob, the sound ragged and broken.

The young man crouched beside Max, his office attire now drenched and clinging to his frame, but his focus remained entirely on the boy. The rain continued to fall in heavy sheets, making everything feel more urgent and chaotic even if the actual commotion had died down. Max’s sobs grew louder as the shock of the fall set in, the adrenaline rush finally giving way to pain and fear.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the young man said, his voice gentle despite the harshness of the earlier confrontation. “I’m gonna help you. Let’s take a look at that ankle, alright?”

Max winced as the young man carefully lifted his injured leg, the pain was sharp and almost unbearable. The young man’s expression grew serious as he examined the swollen, discolored ankle. He gently palpated the area, and Max flinched, his tears mixing with the rain on his cheeks.

“Yeah, that looks pretty bad,” the young man said, his voice grim. He glanced around, his gaze darting to the nearby parking lot and then back to Max. “We need to get you to a hospital.” He paused for a second, looking uncomfortable. “Hey, I know this sounds dumb because you just got yourself some first-hand experience with stranger danger, but how about I drive you to the hospital?” He looked sheepish and elaborated. “Ambulances are expensive, little dude.”

Max nodded. He had honestly never heard of stranger danger, but this guy had amazing vibes in comparison to the other guy. Soon enough, the man gently picked him up, placing him in the Studebaker’s passenger seat. He wondered briefly why this guy already had a kids’ car seat but didn’t ask.

The rest was a blur. The young man asked for his dad’s phone number, which Max didn’t know nor have, so he gave him the number for Jägerman’s landline. He didn’t miss the pitying look in the young man’s eyes when he heard the surname.

Max jolted awake with a start, his heart racing and his eyes frantically scanning his surroundings as the shrill shriek of the landline droned on and on. He was in Spankoffski’s kitchen, sitting at the table. A half-empty bowl of soup mocked him from the other side of it.

“Ugh,” He groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eye. He must have been really out of it, or really in his feels. He never, ever thought about that morning when he wasn’t.

As he tried to stand up, his legs felt heavy and his body sluggish. The room spun slightly as he tried to regain his bearings. The shrill ring of the landline continued unabated, cutting through the fog of his disorientation. He glanced around, trying to piece together how he had ended up in Spankoffski’s kitchen.

He tried to steady his breathing as he made his way over to the telephone. His steps were unsteady, each one feeling like he was wading through thick, invisible mud. He reached for the receiver, his hand trembling slightly as he lifted it off the hook.

“Hello?” Max said, his voice groggy and confused.

“Hello, is this Mr. Jägerman?” The caller asked.

“What the fuck?” Was all Max could articulate. He was very eloquent like that.

“Good, good, perfect. Uhm, my name’s Ted Spankoffski. I jus-” He stopped abruptly as if Max had cut him off. “No, no, you don’t know who I am…”

Max shook his head like a rattle, hoping it could gather his thoughts. Why would Ted call his own landline to search for Max? “Dude, you’re supposed to be at the hospital, man. Remember your fucked up ankle?”

“Well, you see, I had a run-in with your-” He was again interrupted, again without Max saying a single thing. Then he sounded more agitated. “You see, sir, I had a run-in with your son today.”

Max stood flabbergasted. He knew Spankoffski needed medical attention, but this seemed like some serious delusion, or maybe a prank. It sounded like Ted was having a one-sided conversation with himself. He was reacting to a voice Max couldn’t hear and answering questions Max didn’t ask.

Max kept quiet.

“Yeah, yeah, Max. That’s his name.” Ted rushed, “Cute kid, eh? Yeah, I think he broke his ankle. Yup, it was pretty bad. All blue and shit.” The roar of an engine could be heard in the background on Ted’s end. “Also, this total loser tried to snatch him.”

A cold shiver ran down his back. He had already heard this exact one-sided conversation, word for word, 12 years ago when he sat cried his eyes out in Ted’s Studebaker.

“Yeah, I’m driving him to Saint Damien’s right now.” Ted smacked his lips. “Then, uh, you just come and pick him up, ‘kay?” Once again, Max’s dad spoke something. “Yeah, some freak in yellow.”

The call ended. Max stood frozen in the kitchen; the receiver still clutched in his hand as the line went dead. The shrill tone of the landline had ceased, leaving only an echo of the unsettling conversation that had just transpired. The room felt too quiet as if the phone call had sucked all sound out of the air, leaving Max in a bubble of disorienting silence.

How did this sort of thing happen? Was he still dreaming?

He couldn’t conjure up a more rational explanation in his mind. It didn’t make sense that he would dream about the morning he almost got kidnapped, only to wake up and hear an exact replica of the conversation Ted had with his dad. His dad never did pick him up that day.

Something was seriously wrong.

Chapter Text

Max stared at the receiver in his hand, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The kitchen was deathly quiet, the echo of Ted’s voice still ringing in his ears. He slowly placed the phone back on its cradle, his movements sluggish and uncertain, as if he were moving through water. The conversation he just overheard couldn’t be real. It was impossible, yet it happened.

It was probably just the aftershock of thinking back on that morning. He pinched himself, making sure he was fully awake. The pain that shot through his arm was real, and so was the cold sweat breaking out across his skin.

With shaky, unstable steps he started toward the living room. He nearly keeled over every time he moved his legs.

The comfort of the living room offered no solace; instead, it felt foreign, like a place he didn’t belong. The walls seemed to close in on him, the paintings contorting. One of which, Max hadn't noticed before: a detailed goat’s head that seemed to smile at Max, showing more and more teeth the longer he looked.

He reached out, gripping the back of an armchair for support, but the fabric felt strange under his fingers as if it too was rejecting him. Continuing to hold onto furniture, he shakily made his way to the couch and sat down. He melted, fusing into the couch cushions like the corpse stain in front of the basement door. Whatever Grace put in his soup, probably the “Sleep Aid” she also gave to Ted, was strong. But at least Max woke up once if only to pick up the phone.

“Stupid fucking landlines…” He mumbled to himself as the waking world slipped away. “Old fashioned bullshit.”

It honestly made sense. Micro-Peter’s outfits were always pretty old-fashioned, with his suspenders and bowtie. And Ted was more often dressed in his office attire than normal clothes and office attire was also pretty old-fashioned.

The man watching him from the kitchen wore pretty old-fashioned clothes as well. No, it wasn't old-fashioned, just old and worn. His black suit hung loosely on his gaunt frame, frayed at the edges, and faded from years of wear. The fabric looked as if it had once been of high quality, but now it was threadbare, the deep black having lost its luster, giving it a dusty, almost spectral appearance. It was like something didn’t allow Max to see his head and face.

Max blinked, his mind struggling to grasp what he was seeing, but before he could process it, the darkness pulled him under, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

The black eye was a dark, bruised orb nestled beneath the brow, its inky depths swelling into shades of purple and green. Tiny streaks of crimson, remnants of fresh blood, painted the edges where the skin had broken. Beneath soft bedroom lights, the grotesque pattern of contusions seemed to pulse with a sinister rhythm, a stark reminder of his violent encounter with Max exactly 48 hours ago.

Peter winced harshly when his pinky made contact with the abomination on his cheek. The pain was a sharp throbbing that sent a near-paralyzing jolt through his skull. Max had taken the liberty of turning Pete’s face into his very own violent canvas, and now, Pete was reduced to hiding in stalls and checking his face in the mirror, like a discount beauty queen.

“Pete, stop touching it. You’re just making it hurt more.” Steph’s voice on his computer snatched his attention. He could barely believe he was actually facetiming Stephanie Lauter, on a Saturday no less.

“Heh, yeah, are you a masochist or something?” Ruth snickers, reminding him that he wasn’t just face-timing Steph. It was a group call.

“Might as well be,” Richie chimes in. “Normal people wouldn’t wanna live in that creepy house.”

 “Oh, will you relax?” Pete scoffed, pushing himself in his gaming chair away from the mirror, so he could move to his friends’ faces on his computer.

Richie was wearing his stupid cat ear headphones. They were green, clashing with his blue highlights, and he had set his LED lights to match. Ruth was doodling in her notebook. She always drew naked people and pretended that she was just practicing anatomy. Stephanie was putting nail polish on. She had LED lights too, but hers were a soft pink. Grace hadn't joined the call yet, and they couldn’t exactly start planning without her. Pete fit in perfectly, with his sunrise-yellow LED lights and figurines on the shelf behind him.

“It’s not that scary.” Pete started. He had a whole monologue about how not at all scary the house was. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t agree at least a little bit. He had even put a baseball bat in his room. “Sure, it feels like a home intruder could be around any corner, and it’s not very cozy since we haven’t fully unpacked yet, but it’s really not that scary.”

He would take this new place over their old apartment any day. That place was hot garbage. They only had one bedroom, so Ted slept in the living room. Also, their heating didn’t work, leading to Ted waking up with hypothermia once. So, more like cold garbage actually. It was no wonder they had to move ASAP once Dawn arrived.

Pete had often wondered what exactly Ted was spending so much money on since his income was pretty decent but he somehow struggled to pay for most things. Then it hit him. It was him. Pete was his biggest expense.

Steph snickered, “Says the guy who wouldn’t even step a foot inside the Waylon place.”

It was true, unfortunately. When faced with the Waylon place, Pete had been overcome with a near-paralyzing sense of dread. “It’s not the same. The Waylon place is structurally unsound, and I don’t want to die. Moving boxes is nothing compared to missing structural integrity. And also, we wouldn’t have so many boxes if any of you assholes offered to help!” He pointed to the tiny Ruth and Richie on the screen.

Richie put his hand to his heart in mock offense. “I do help. I watch Dawn while you guys unpack.” To prove his point, he grabbed his webcam and pointed it at the sleeping baby in the corner of his room. Richie was babysitting now right, not because Pete or Ted needed him to. He had just offered.

Pete grumbled. He had a point. Dawn was at least 30% of the reason they weren’t finished yet; Ted was 60% and Pete was the rest. Ted only made up 60% because he was clearly overwhelmed by having to care for a baby and move heavy furniture at the same time. Pete wouldn’t be surprised if he went down with stress, he certainly acted like he was on that path. Richie —that fucking nerd— had probably already done the math and concluded that watching Dawn increased the speed by 160%.

Pete had also done the math.

Ruth, however, did not have an excuse. “Hey, I mean, wasn’t Grace over there earlier today? That should count for all of us.”

“Oh, yeah, Grace was suuuuper helpful today!” Pete snarked. “They totally didn’t slow everything down or anything!”

Sometimes, Pete was convinced that the egg theory was real. He certainly found it uncanny when the other three, in near-perfect unison, said, “What happened?” Steph with gleeful interest in hearing a, hopefully, juicy story, Richie with confusion, and Ruth with a confusing level of horniness.

“Okay, get this,” Pete started, holding his hands up like he was about to perform the greatest solo performance of all time. “Ted and I were doing such a damn good job. We only needed to move, like, 9 chairs and a couch. The chairs were already moved when Grace showed up. And she didn’t even wanna be here, but her dad dragged her along. So, Ted and I start moving the couch; it’s a 2-person job anyway.” He pauses to catch his breath, he should do more cardio. “You know how the front steps are really weird and uneven?” All 3 nod in unison. “Yeah, so, while we’re moving this big ass fucking couch up those uneven steps, Grace’s dad keeps flirting with Ted.”

Again, Steph, Ruth, and Richie had the exact same reaction. “WHAT?” With varying levels of arousal. Okay, now it was getting creepy.

“I know!” Pete exclaimed, feeling very validated.

“Wh-Wha-What did- How did they flirt?” Ruth stuttered with excitement. “I need vivid details!”

“Okay, okay, listen, so Ted is holding his end of the couch, right?” Pete was smiling like an idiot. He couldn’t help it, he was telling a story and he had a whole crowd listening. Yes, three is a crowd. “And Mr. Chasity keeps being like, ‘So, Theodore…’ and he said it in, like, a seductive way, he’s like ‘Theodore, when will you let me take you to church?’ and Grace is standing behind him and she has no idea what he’s doing. So, Ted says something along the lines of ‘Take me out to dinner first,’ and he winks at him. But Chasity fuckin’ doubles down and tells him he’s funny, but not in a ‘You’re funny’ way it was more an ‘I’m in heat.’ way. I swear he was like- he- he did the-” To demonstrate, Pete brushed his hair behind his ear while giggling. It got the intended reaction from his audience. 

Ruth laughed the loudest, deciding to share her eloquent insight. “They’re fucking! They’re definitely fucking!” She giggled some more. “It’s just like in porn, dude. Repressed people are so horny!”

Steph giggled as well. “I’m sure Ted could fix that for him.”

Pete’s laughter died down, but he was still grinning from ear to ear. He shook his head, trying to contain his amusement. “Ted definitely noticed. But he also noticed that I noticed and got super embarrassed. So, he tried to shut it down, but the whole time, he was moving a couch. Anyway,  Ted loses balance on the front steps and twists his ankle.” He paused, contemplating. “Huh… I guess Grace was pretty helpful then. Since she took over for Ted after that.”

Ruth was practically drooling, jumping up and down in her seat. “Omg! What do you think those two were doing while you and Grace moved the couch?”

“I don’t even wanna think about it,” Pete mumbled. He took a deep breath, willing himself to stop talking; Grace could join the call at any minute and- Oh shit, there she was!

“Hey everyone!” She said, her little face squishing Richie’s face to the side on Pete’s screen. “What did I miss?” The poor girl’s face fell when her innocent question was met with a roar of laughter from every other person on the call. Pete could feel the FOMO radiate off her. “What? What happened?”

Wiping a tear from her eye, Steph spoke, “Oh, nothing. Pete just shared a funny story about Ted, nothing special.”

Speak of the devil; Ted was home. Pete could tell from the sound of the front door opening and closing and the sound of something shattering downstairs. He must have dropped something. Pete ignored it.

“Ooh, can I hear it?” Grace asked.

“Eh, it’s not as funny the second time.” Steph teased as Richie and Ruth snickered.

The sound of another bottle breaking caused Pete to remove one side of his headphones. Another one and another. In a way that Peter couldn’t quite describe, it didn’t sound like the glass was dropped. It was a cascade of shattering like someone was furiously throwing things to the ground. He pulled his headphones all the way off.

“Uh, guys… I think I need to check on something,” Pete said, his voice suddenly tense. The laughter on the other end of the call quickly died down, concern replacing the earlier amusement. Ted had started yelling downstairs, some uncanny mix of fury and terror.

He didn’t wait for their responses as he set his headphones down, grabbed his baseball bat, and rushed out of his room. The sound of glass crunching underfoot grew louder as he descended the stairs, and he winced, imagining the mess he was about to find.

Soon, he reached the kitchen. Shards of glass littered the hardwood floor, sparkling ominously under the dim overhead light. The remnants of what used to be whiskey bottles, beer bottles, and wine bottles mixed with shattered plates to create a hazardous maze.

Red wine dripped like spattered blood on the white cabinets, the stench of whiskey hung in the air like a pungent fog, and glass shards shone like confetti.

And in the middle of it all stood Ted, his face a mask of horror. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath, his eyes wild and unfocused. He held the neck of a broken bottle in one hand, its jagged edge catching the light ominously. Ted had seemingly completely emptied the liquor cabinet, painting the kitchen with it.

“Ted, what the fuck?” Pete breathed out, cautiously approaching his brother like he was some wild animal. His hands were bloody, punctured by shards of glass and some streaked down his forearm.

Ted didn’t seem to hear Pete at first. His eyes were wide and frantic, darting around the room as if searching for something just out of sight. His chest heaved with each breath, and the jagged bottle in his hand trembled as if it were an extension of his own fear. Blood trickled down his fingers, mingling with the whiskey on the floor, turning it into a dark, sticky mess.

“Ted!” Pete called out again, louder this time, trying to snap his brother out of whatever trance he was in. He kept his voice steady, though inside he was anything but. “Put the bottle down, okay? Let’s talk.”

The bottle shattered on the floor. Ted looked like a deer in headlights, still franticly looking around thinking that something could jump out at any moment. “There- He-” he stuttered, struggling to finish his sentence with how his voice shook. “You- You- Are you okay? Did you see him too?”

“See who?” Pete glanced around the wreckage of the kitchen, half-expecting to see something lurking in the shadows, but there was nothing there. Just broken glass, spilled alcohol, and the lingering echo of Ted's terror.

“The man, Pete! The fucking intruder!” Ted was hissing, making big gestures with his arms. “He- He was wearing this ugly fucking goat mask, and he- he- he fucking came at me!”

Pete’s stomach twisted. “A man? With a goat mask?” He couldn’t help but glance around the room again, even though he knew there was no one there. The kitchen was a mess, but it was empty. “Ted, there’s no one here. You’re the only one I see.”

Ted tried to step closer to Pete, maybe to beat some ‘sense’ into him, maybe to shield him from whatever imaginary home intruder he had dreamt up, or maybe because he just wanted a hug to make him feel safe again. Whatever his reasons were didn’t matter, as his injured ankle gave out beneath him, and he fell only to get caught by Pete.

Pete’s baseball bat fell with a loud clank, as he discarded in favor of grabbing Ted. Pete barely registered it, too focused on keeping Ted from collapsing entirely. He could feel the tension in Ted’s body, the sheer terror that was still coursing through him. His blood was getting on Pete’s sweater, but he didn’t care. He had stolen it from Ted anyway.

With more struggle than he cared to admit, Pete managed to get Ted over to the kitchen table and sat him down. “Ted, take a deep breath.” He tried to keep his voice calm and steady. “Tell me what happened.”

Ted's chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stared at Pete. His trembling hands gripped the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white, the blood from his cuts smearing across the wood. Pete kept his own breathing steady, trying to project a calmness he didn’t entirely feel.

"Ted," Pete repeated softly, "You need to breathe. Just take it slow and tell me what happened."

Ted swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he tried to force the words out. "I... I had just gotten home," he began, his voice shaky and barely above a whisper. “He was sneaking up the stairs. But I thought it was just you playing a prank or doing some weird kinky shit, so I went to grab a beer.” A tear made a streak in the wine splatter on his face. “And he fucking came at me with a knife. I didn’t know what to do, so I just grabbed whatever I could and chucked it at him. A-And then you showed up and he was gone.”

That checked out. It certainly explained what brought Ted to smash all their liquor on the cabinets. “He was just gone?” Pete asked. “Disappeared into thin air?”

Ted nodded, “Yep. Very jarring.”

It was settled then. Ted had hallucinated. Peter was sure of that. Intruders tend to not suddenly disappear. He didn’t say something right off the bat. Instead, he pulled Ted into a hug, squishing his face into Pete’s chest. It was an awkward position, but it worked.

He gently rubbed his back, “Listen, you’ve been pretty stressed lately. You haven’t slept properly.” Pete started, “You’re probably hallucinating.”

Ted ripped himself out of their hug, hissing: “I am not hallucinating!” His voice was a wheeze and his bloody hands still shook. “How are you not more scared?! You were home alone with him! He was on his way upstairs when I got home! He was on his way to you!" He took a shaky, stuttering breath, his demeanor changing from fearful to guilty. “And I would’ve just let him go up there because I thought it was you doing a stupid joke.”

Pete had to admit the thought made him deeply uncomfortable. To think that there was someone in the house with him, sneaking closer and closer to him while he was busy gossiping about Grace’s dad. A forest of goosebumps broke out on his skin.

“It’s not real, Ted.” He repeated. “Intruders don’t just vanish.”

“He cut me.” Ted retorted, hissing. “Look at my fucking arm!”

Sure enough, a deep gash ran from his shoulder to his elbow spilling blood down his hands and on the floor. It was in a strange position, certainly not a place Ted could accidentally cut himself.

Max awoke with a jolt, out of breath. “Fuck, fuck.” He repeated, his voice hoarse. “What the hell, what the fuck!”

He couldn’t possibly comprehend what was happening. Was he going crazy? Was his mind playing tricks? Never in his life had he ever had such a vivid dream. Was this empathy? At the ripe age of 18, Maxwell Jägerman was developing a sense of empathy through dreaming about himself being in other people’s shoes.

He had felt it so clearly. Peter’s fear, confusion, discomfort. He knew things he had never heard about or seen, experienced things he hadn't experienced. He knew how terrified Peter had been when he saw the cut on Ted’s arm. He could even recall the sting of the cold air in the kitchen and the smell of spilled alcohol that clung to his senses. He recalled the feeling of Ted’s blood on the previously clean sweater.

It suddenly made lots of sense why people usually didn’t go around bullying others. Empathy sucked ass.

He lay back on the couch, the pounding in his chest slowly easing. The vividness of the dream—or was it more than a dream? —was unnerving. He sat up, wiping sweat from his forehead, trying to ground himself. The realness of the dream made him question his own sanity. Had he somehow tapped into someone else's consciousness from nearly a week ago? It was a wild, unsettling thought.

He stood up and walked into the kitchen. It was clean. No blood, no whiskey, no wine, and no beer. It didn’t even smell like alcohol. Pete must have cleaned it well. Unless, of course, it was only a dream. A fucked up, weird, drug-induced dream.

He glanced at the clock. It was nearly 2 am. Thinking back on it, Grace had probably drugged him at around 8 pm.

He moved again, whether Dream Pete knew it or not, he had shown Max the exact directions from the kitchen to Peter’s room. With hurried steps, he got there within seconds, standing in front of the door, hesitating. If Pete’s room was the same as in his dream, what would he do? He’d probably just go to sleep in the park. Maybe go back to his initial plan of stealing Dawn and fucking off. At least then, they'd be out of this hell hole.

The door creaked open with a terrible screech, making way for Max. He could see it. He could see the same computer, the same figurines, the same mirror Pete had checked his bruise in. Holy shit.

The sound of the landline ringing nearly gave him a heart attack.

Chapter Text

“Hello?” Max rushed, shaking the phone a bit as if that would help. “Hello! Is anyone there?? Can you hear me?”

“Hi, erm, yes,” Peter’s voice was clear as day on the other line. “We need police and maybe an ambulance.”

Max heard Ted’s voice quietly in the background. “We don’t need an ambulance, ‘s just a little cut.”

He stayed quiet. Fool him once, fool him twice, or whatever they say. He had experienced this shit before. He wasn’t stupid enough to not recognize another case of landline time fuckery. Or maybe it was just a conveniently placed recording of the actual phone call.

“An intruder broke into our home at Moonlit Grove 1,” Pete’s voice was far too calm. It was clear he still didn’t believe that Ted had actually been attacked. Max found it slightly funny to think that, despite seeing the exact same incident, Max had come to a completely different conclusion than Pete. “He has a knife and wears a goat mask. We’ve locked ourselves in the kitchen. My brother has received a cut to his upper arm, running from his shoulder to the elbow, it’s approximately half an inch deep."

While holding the phone to his ear, Max went to the counter. He didn’t say a thing as he scanned the counter for his keys. Grace had placed them there when she gave him that shitty soup, but so far, he couldn’t find it. Little else mattered to him at the moment. Back to square one: Grab Dawn and fuck off. Maybe he could go to the school counselor Miss Holiday and ask to stay with her or ask to leave Dawn with her.

But in order to do any of that, he needed his damn car keys. This house was approximately 3 miles away from town, and just as far away from any bus stops. Not that any bus ran at this hour. He could walk that far, but walking through Witchwood Forest at night was a recipe for disaster with all the carnivorous animals and the wandering freaks. He wouldn’t want to make that walk on a normal day, let alone with an infant.

“No, no, we don’t know where he is right now.” Pete’s voice was a constant in his ear. He knew Peter wasn’t actually there or actually talking to him, but his voice was soothing nonetheless. It made him feel, well, not alone.

He gripped the phone tighter as he continued his search. The only notable thing he found was the baseball bat Peter had abandoned in the kitchen, propped up against the counter. He looked in drawers and moving boxes, on counters and tables, and even under the pillows on the couch. His keys were nowhere to be found. None the matter, he had an app on his phone that allowed him to track his keychain.

Now, if only he could find his phone.

“Yes, yes, I can describe what he looked like, well, I know he had a goat mask on.” Pete droned on, answering questions that Max couldn’t hear. He whispered, “What did he look like, Ted?” There was a small pause where all Max could hear were bits of a hushed conversation between the brothers. “Okay, so, he was around my height, so 5’11’’ give or take, and relatively skinny.”

For a mere fraction of a moment, the world paused. Air stood still and silence held its breath as Max realized he couldn’t find his keys, he couldn’t find his phone, and he couldn’t find Grace. He had been abandoned in this hellscape with no mode of escape or way to call for help.

Maybe he could use the landline, but he didn’t memorize people’s numbers. The only number he had memorized was 911, and the idea of calling that over a few dreams and creepy phone calls seemed so dramatic that he didn’t even consider it. But he could definitely call for child abandonment.

“He wore an old, loosely-fitting black suit,” Peter said. “It was kind of, like, frayed at the edges and faded.”

Old suit. Loosely fitting. Frayed edges. Faded black.

Max swore he had been in a constant state of panic since he came to the house, but nothing compared to the heart-thumping, sweat-inducing terror he felt upon realizing that the man who had watched him from the kitchen was the same man who attacked Ted.

Just above his head, he heard the floor creak.

Max sometimes found it a little interesting how different a person can become as they grow older. Max himself was a prime example. He was a far cry from the little loser who needed Ted Spankoffski of all people to protect him from a stranger. That little loser was small and stupid and ran away when things got scary.

Max was big and strong; he was probably stronger than both Spankoffskis combined. The shithead with the goat mask would be lucky to get away from him.

Peter had been kind enough to forget the baseball bat in the kitchen. Grabbing it, he held it with both hands, ready to strike as he rushed upstairs. What drove him to confront the intruder instead of just running off into the night was not bloodlust, nor was it a need to maintain his masculinity. It was something far more primal and simpler: the nursery was upstairs. Dani - Dawn was upstairs.

Otherwise, it was simple math: Ted was an injured, unathletic man in his thirties, and he managed to hold off this intruder with nothing but liquor bottles. Meanwhile, Max was young and athletic, strong with a mean swing. He could bust someone’s head open with a bat. Ironically, that was the whole reason he didn’t pursue baseball.

Adrenaline sharpened his hearing and forced his heart to pound carvings into his ribcage as he took the first few steps up the stairs. The creaks of the stairs echoed through the emptiness of the house. They grew louder and louder the closer he got to the nursery. By the time he reached the door, they were deafening.

The ghosts of his own feet on the floor drowned out every little thing in a cacophony of chaos that promised to continue forever and ever an-

He opened the door, clutching the bat like a lifeline. His breaths came in shallow bursts. There she was, alone and small in the nursery. Her tiny arms clutched her teddy bear, the pacifier in her mouth bopping up and down as she sucked on it. The little thing had no idea what kind of panic was standing over her.

Her eyes fluttered but stayed closed.

For a moment, Max convinced himself that he hadn't actually heard anything. So what if the floor creaked? It was an old house; it would be weirder if it didn’t creak. Yeah, he was certain it was just the wind and the sleeping aid Grace had snuck into him that confused him.

“Hi, Dawn,” He whispered, reaching down to caress her little cheek with his finger. She was so, so small. Once again, Max couldn’t help but be reminded of Dani. “Did you hear anyone? No? That’s good.”

In hindsight, it was scarily easy for Max to convince himself that nothing had actually happened. That the time fuckery phone calls had been a coincidence or simply his imagination, and that the man in the kitchen had been nothing more than a trick of the light. He had done some interesting drugs at a party a few weeks prior, perhaps they had lingering effects. Things like datura certainly stayed for long, maybe that was what he took.

Still, he couldn’t get his heart to stop racing, and his fingers remained frozen around the bat’s handle. He probably just needed to check and make sure that no one or nothing was inside. It could never hurt to make sure. With a mix of bloodlust and a wish to keep Dawn safe, he stepped outside, the floor creaking beneath his socks.

He took the key from the keyhole, momentarily marveling at how pretty it was. It was one of those old keys with an excessive amount of detail. The head of the key was shaped by streaks of golden metal that formed a circle with a hole, which vaguely resembled the head of a goat. Vaguely meaning that it was a triangle with two ‘horns’ sticking out.

He used it to lock the nursery.

Systematically, moved from room to room. It was a simple, methodical system that allowed him to flush out whoever could be in the house. He started with the rooms deeper down the hall from the nursery and moved up with each room. His general thought process was, that no one could sneak past him and hide in a place he had already checked. The creaky floor would give them away.

He moved with a cautious precision ; the baseball bat gripped tightly in his hands. Each step he took seemed to echo louder than the last, but he pushed through the noise, knowing that if anyone was there, they already knew he was coming. The house was eerily silent, the only sound the creak of the floorboards under his weight and the faint, irregular thudding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

Each room that turned up empty seemed to calm him down. Moving box after moving box, Peter’s room, the bathroom, a boiler room, and a bunch of other rooms filled with boxes were empty. Eventually, he was down to the last unopened door on the first floor. Taking a deep breath, Max opened the door. There was nothing much of interest in this room either. A bed, a nightstand, even more boxes. Probably Ted’s bedroom.

A large window covered one of the walls like a giant eye that only served to invite the world outside to take a peek. Upon further inspection, it wasn’t a window, it was a door that led to a rather nice balcony. It was barren aside from a small ashtray that had been placed right on the balcony floor. A rather impressive amount of ash and cigarette buds filled it to the brim. Who knew Ted was a pack-a-day smoker? Probably a recent development.

On the opposite wall, a closet loomed over the minimalist bedroom. Its tall frame played a sharp contrast to the rest of the minimalist bedroom. His gaze lingered on the closet, its dark wooden doors a stark contrast to the bare white walls around it. The rest of the room was so sparse, so devoid of personal touches, that the closet felt almost out of place as if it were hiding something that didn’t belong in this otherwise bland space.

It didn’t take a genius to know that if anyone was here, they were in this closet. With trepidation, Max stepped closer and closer until he was right in front of it, his hairs standing on ends. Before gathering the courage to open it, he decided to take a step back. That way, he could get a better swing if someone was actually in there. But maybe he should be close, so he could hit more times? But what if there wasn’t someone in there? He obviously didn’t want to just swing and wreck everything in there. Was it even a good idea to swing first and think later?

He jumped slightly when the landline right beneath him rang.

Chapter Text

A snigger came from the phone as Max held it to his ear. He hadn't bothered to check that stupid closet. He didn’t care. “Hello?” He repeated, only prompting even more stupid sniggers and giggles. Max swore to every deity out there, if this was another time fuckery phone call, he was snatching Dawn and running through the woods. Creeps and animals be damned.

Just as he was about to hang up, concluding it a prank call, — which, by the way, what kind of asshole prank calls a single father at 2 am? Sure, he wasn't the single father in question but it was the thought that counted — a voice heaved, “Have you checked the baby?”

“Wow, Steph,” Max groaned, rolling his eyes. He could recognize Stephanie’s voice no matter how much she tried to change it. “Very original. The call is coming from inside the house, bitch.”

 He could almost picture Stephanie on the other end, stifling her laughter, probably thinking she was being clever. “Aww, you weren’t even spooked at all?” She giggled slightly. She was damn lucky she was cool.

“Mission accomplished, dude.” Max groaned, leaning against the door. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a place this fuckin’ scary.”

“Ooohh, are the ghosties nibbling at your toes, Maxie?” Steph’s teasing probably should’ve pissed him off, so should the fact that she called at 2 am to prank him. But the sound of her voice — a voice, on the phone that actually responded to his — made him feel stupidly happy. He’d be lying if he said that part of the reason, he was happy to talk wasn’t that Steph didn’t seem mad at him anymore.

“Oh, shut it,” he mumbled, a small smile that Steph couldn’t see playing on his lips. “You don’t even know. I swear Grace made it a hundred times freakier with her stupid ghost stories too. I keep getting the feeling there’s an intruder or something.”

He didn’t want to tell Steph that Grace had left him alone with the baby or that he had somehow tapped into Micro-Peter’s consciousness from a week ago or that the landline kept doing this time fuckery. She had just stopped being mad at him. Telling her this would just piss her off and make her think he was playing a prank on her. No way she’d believe him.

“Hey,” Her voice was soothing in a strange way. “Just pretend it’s Richie around every corner. Then you’ll be fine.”

“Huh?” What the fuck was she on about. She was totally right though; Richie was probably the least intimidating person Max had ever met. It almost felt like she knew that he had called him earlier tonight.

“Don’t pretend you weren’t totally sucking him off at P.E. today.” She paused, “Or was it the other way around?”

“Huh?” It felt like so much had happened; he had almost forgotten that he had P.E. with him earlier today.

“I heard it from Callahan.” Steph mused. “Then Brenda verified.”

“Damn,” Max changed up his vocabulary. He couldn’t tell if Steph honest to God and believed what she was saying. “Yeah, man, best head ever. Nerdy prude, my ass.”

“Wait, for real?”

“No, dumbass. Fuck Shit Lips and not in the literal way.” Before Steph could say anything, Max decided to change the subject. “I can’t fucking believe I’m here, dude. How the fuck did Ted Spankoffski get a kid anyway? I really didn’t peg him as dad material.”

Steph half-chuckled, smoothly catching on to Max’s obvious subject change. “It’s a funny story. Wanna hear it?”

It was kind of like a dance whenever he spoke to Stephanie. They both just followed along and tried not to step on each other’s toes, motivated by the mutual knowledge that the other was the only other kid in school who could actually cause them trouble.

“Yeah, duh.”

“Well, allegedly,” She began, her voice weirdly hushed. “A year ago or something, he was involved in a scam, where he tried to convince this rich lady that he was the Hatchetfield Apeman. But she was, like, a giant furry or something and wanted to screw him, but guess what — she was already engaged!”

“mhm.” Was the only coherent thing Max could think to say. Who would want to screw the Hatchetfield Apeman? And surely, Ted wasn’t hairy enough to pass an apeman.

“Yeah, exactly.” She paused, “And now, she and her husband-fiancé-guy pay hella child support.”

“Huh,” Max mumbled, scratching his head. That certainly explained how the Spankoffskis were able to move from some shithole apartment without heating to this creepy mansion-like chateau. “Interesting. Maybe I should try homewrecking.”

“Well…” Steph’s tone changed the way it always did when she was about to correct him. “Apparently, it was actually super scary, since the fiancé was pretty pissed and wanted to off Ted and stuff. But, you know, he survived.”

“Damn,” Max looked around the kitchen. He had no idea how Stephanie would even know any of this. But he figured that word traveled fast in a town like Hatchetfield. Still, it didn’t make sense that Max hadn't heard about it until now. “Dramatic much?”

“I know, right?” Max could make out the sound of two female voices whispering in the background. “You know, I have this running theory, that men are the more emotional and dramatic sex since they’re the ones who commit murder the most.”

“Yeah, for sure.” Max drawled, he wasn’t sure he agreed, but oh well. “‘cause what is murder if not an extreme overreaction?”

That got Steph laughing. “Exactly! I mean, self-defense is always cool. But I really can’t think of a normal-person scenario where murder would be the right response.”

“I can.” For a brief second, Max thought he saw movement from outside the window. It was probably just an animal. “As revenge.”

He specifically thought about that Indian case where more than a hundred women stabbed a guy to death in court for all his… unethical deeds toward women. But he didn’t mention specifics. Steph would definitely say something about them being women and all that.

She laughed again in an almost mocking way this time. “Ah, yes. You kill me, I kill you.”

Max had meant vigilantism, like the people who beat up pedophiles, but he once again found himself just humoring Steph. “Yup, count your days! Max Jägerman the shitty ghost is coming for you!”

“Hm, yeah,” She mused, “If a ghost tried to kill me, I’d fucking cry. But you’d piss your pants.”

“Uh, no, I’d fight it.” He punched the air, even though she couldn’t see it. His breath hitched when he heard another creak upstairs. Old house, creaks happen. Chill out. He smacked himself a bit.

“You can’t fight an ethereal being, dumbass.”

“Watch me,” He moved his feet in a way that resembled a dance, willing himself to believe that his heart pounding was from exertion and nothing else. “I call it ghostbusting. Don’t steal the name, I’ll trademark it!”

He started shaking his hand which wasn’t holding the phone. Maybe he should change the subject. Talking about ghosts in the place that was very likely to have ghosts —if you don’t count the Waylon Place— did not make him feel better.

“About ghosts.” Steph mused, “What were those stories Grace told you?”

“A bunch of cliché bullshit, honestly.” Max admitted, “But I was a little spooked in the moment.”

“Oh, like ‘Ooooh, the previous owner died in this house, ooooh’ or something like that?”

“Exactly that.” He couldn’t tell if it was eerie or impressive that she pinpointed the very cliché he was referring to. “She also talked about how much a lunatic he was. Like, uhm, doing satanic shit in the basement and writing a billion diaries and leaving them in the attic.”

“Omg,” Her voice suspiciously excited. She had an idea. Fuck. “There’s an attic?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“With old diaries?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said?” He didn’t need to wonder where she was going with this. He recognized her tone.

“You should totally go up there.” And there it was: the idea. “And, like, read some of that stuff; I wanna heeeeaaar.”

Max absolutely did not want to go up into the creepy attic of a creepy house. Nope. He was pretty stupid, but he wasn’t suicidal. But he couldn’t just say no, it was never that simple with people like Stephanie Lauter. “Y-You know,” He nearly cursed himself for stuttering and masked it with a cough. “You know I’m dyslexic.”

She didn’t buy it. “Okay, sure, says the guy in honors English.”

“I barely passed that class,” Max whispered. He was certain there was still a sound upstairs.

“Excuses, excuses,” Her voice was mocking. “Are you scared, Maxie? Scared of Micro-Peter’s house?”

The attic was a claustrophobic enigma. Every dust-covered book and cobweb-laden corner held a promise of an answer to a question that no sane person wanted to ask. Max picked one up, flipping through yellowed pages and scanning smudged writing. The speed of the flipping pages and the dimness of the fickle little lamp from the attic ceiling combined to make it impossible for Max to read anything. His very real dyslexia didn’t make it any easier for him either.

“So?” The landline stuttered slightly with Stephanie’s voice. “What’s up there?”

Max picked up another book, blowing some dust off it, only for it to somehow land back in his face. He sneezed and coughed. It might’ve even gotten in his eyes.

“S-Shit, dude.” He wheezed, putting the book back down and picking another up. All he needed to do was read a few paragraphs out loud for Steph, then she’d have no grounds for accusing Max of being scared. She had located a sore spot by mentioning Peter. If Micro-Peter’s loser ass could live in this freak house for two months, then Max could spend a few minutes in an old attic.

“What was that?”

“Dust,” Max’s voice was hoarse as he wiped his nose quickly, blinking rapidly.

“Oh, so you’re scared of dust now, huh?” Steph teased her voice a crescendo due to the static. “Is that why you’re stalling, sweetie?”

Max rolled his eyes so hard, she could probably feel it through the phone. She always called him sweetie when she was trying to be condescending, and it never failed to get him a little worked up.

“Oh, shut up.” He scoffed. “I’m just looking for something I can actually read. This guy’s handwriting is not comic sans.”

He squinted at the page in his hands, the cramped, slanted script twisting in ways that made his head ache. Whoever wrote these must’ve been as crazy as Grace said—or at the very least, had a terrible grasp of penmanship. He turned the page again, trying to find a section that wasn’t smudged or scribbled over. But it was all the same like someone had written in a panic, desperate to get every word down before something terrible happened, or better yet, with terrific excitement for something to come.

“Oh, here’s something.” He rushed, putting the diary closer to the light of the tiny lamp. “It, uh, it says… the title is ‘Do ut des’ and, uhm, okay, so I can’t actually read the whole thing after all. But it starts with…” He squinted, reading out loud was never something he felt comfortable with, not in class, not in creepy attics. “Uhm, ‘May he bring joys and blessings… this great gift…’ and I guess it just kinda becomes a bunch of rambling and a lot of scribbles and doodles. I mean, this guy was clearly crazy.”

He waited forever before Steph responded, there were still voices whispering in the background on her end. “Well, don’t leave me hanging, babygirl. I wanna hear the ramblings. Sounds cult-y.”

Max stayed quiet for a long time, trying to read the words in his head before saying them out loud. The letters floated around the page and tangled like vines over the line dividers. Steph had patiently waited. “So, uh, it says, uhm, ‘He will walk through halls and halls and halls and halls-’ it says ‘halls’ a lot, so I’ll skip that. Then it says ‘Once he grabs his head and turns and turns and turns and turns’ You know the drill, he turns a lot. ‘The box will creak and screech and he unleashed.’” Max paused, pondering what he had just read. “You’re right, very cult-y shit.”

Max suddenly found himself quite glad that Grace had left her massive crucifix on the kitchen table downstairs. It somehow felt safer with it there. If not for its religious meaning, then for the fact that it was a metal crucifix the size of a small baseball bat, and Max had left his in the kitchen. Clearly, the madman who lived here previously had tried to summon a demon or something.

“Max,” Stephanie’s voice was quiet. “Does it say who ‘he’ is?”

Max’s eyes immediately went to the bottom of the page. Sure enough, the page ended with a tribute to the rambling man’s god. Once again, he spent forever reading it, allowing several minutes to snail past him before he spoke again, this time stumbling over his words. “Uhm, it says it’s meant for ‘The weaver of impossibilities, the granter of wishes, the bastard of time and space: T’no-’”

“Don’t say his name, Max!” Steph’s voice was panicked to the point that it almost seemed exaggerated. Only further accentuated by the fact that she was still talking oh-so-quietly. “Names are powerful.”

Max’s breath hitched. A million questions whirled around his head at once. How did Steph know that? What did she know? Was he in danger? Was Dawn in danger?

Stephanie spoke again. “Do you remember that one time at my house? I had thrown a party and you were super drunk and walked into my dad’s office.”

“Yeah,” It was a whisper. He barely remembered. He had thought it was the bathroom.

“We found this freaky black book.” Max didn’t remember that part. “I took it to my room for a few days and read in it a little, but my dad got super mad at me for it.” Stephanie elaborated. “Among other things, he said to never, ever say the names in that book. He said they all have a nickname you should use instead.”

Max hated how much his voice shook, “Then what’s this one’s?”

“Tinky,” Steph answered, her voice serious even though it sounded like a joke. Max could barely hear it, but he was certain the voices in the background with Steph’s voice were whispering again. “Do you remember the drawing of a goat you saw in that book?”

Max’s body froze in a way it never had before. The goat, the fucking goat again. His heart pounded against his ribs like a drumbeat echoing in the attic’s oppressive silence. The tiny lamp flickered, its light waning as if in response to the sheer weight of the words he’d just spoken. The whispers in the background of Steph’s call grew louder, swelling into a dissonant chorus that clawed at his nerves. His breath hitched again, caught somewhere between panic and disbelief.

Before he even had a chance to speak, the tiny lamp went out, leaving him in pitch black with nothing but a beeping phone. He had been hung up on.

Chapter Text

Max slammed into the floor with a resounding thud, his back taking most of the impact. For a few eon-long seconds, he lay there struggling to breathe. The beeping of the phone was still his only company in this awful, lonely house.

In a panicked frenzy, he had tried to hurry back out of the attic with all the grace and glamour of a terrified jock and ended up falling down the pathetic ladder. Pathetic or not, falling on your back hurts like a motherfucker, and Max was already struggling to breathe before this display of utter idiocy. He truly felt like some old lady at that moment.

It wasn’t just the attic; the whole house was pitch black and silent. Not a single cicada outside or a mouse scuttering inside. Just the sound of his own wheezing breath and heartbeat in tandem with the beeping phone.

He groaned quietly as he got up on all fours, and then on his feet. He had experienced far worse than falling on his back. He had been pushed down a flight of stairs, broken a leg on the receiving end of a bad tackle, and even took a baseball bat to the head once. Safe to say, he had experience.

The pain soothed him like an old friend, it was tangible in a way he couldn’t explain. It certainly allowed him to start thinking a little more rationally. The power had gone out. No big deal, old house after all. Stephanie had probably just lost connection when she hung up. Or maybe she just didn’t want to talk anymore. She had done that before.

Max blinked, again and again, willing his eyes to adjust to the dark. What are you even supposed to do during a power outage? Picking the phone off the floor, he was pretty sure he could see some things. The large windows on nearly every wall gave way to a nice amount of moonlight, but he was still mostly left in the dark.

Every shadow looked vaguely human, sneaking around, elongated by the moon.

He stared at the shadows creeping across the walls, each one taking on shapes that his mind couldn’t quite ignore. The moonlight that filtered through the large windows painted distorted, spectral figures, their dark forms twisting and slithering along the walls like something out of a nightmare. It was just shadows, he told himself—just his brain playing tricks in the absence of light. But then one of them moved.

Not just a flicker, not just the way a tree might sway in the wind outside and cast a fleeting, restless shade. This shadow shifted with intent, separating itself from the others, sliding across the hallway.

Max would’ve left and never looked back, maybe slept in the park and chilled out with the cool homeless guy. But he couldn’t do that, not when he knew what that shadow, that person, that thing was moving toward: the nursery.

Almost as if it knew it had been caught, the shadow sped to a run. For a split second, Max’s legs refused to move, paralyzed by the sight of the dark figure darting toward the nursery door. But then instinct kicked in, and Max found himself bolting after it, his feet pounding against the hardwood floors, adrenaline pushing him forward.

"Hey!" Max shouted, his voice cracking, bouncing off the empty walls. The shadow didn’t slow, didn’t hesitate; it only seemed to move faster, its shape fastening over as it neared the nursery. Max's mind raced, fragmented thoughts colliding as he pushed himself harder. What was he chasing anyway? Tinky? Some other demon? A human intruder? Maybe the goat-masked man?

Oh, how Max hoped it was something tangible. Something in the category of things that could be beaten up. He was armed with nothing but a phone and his fists but those were more than enough for anything in the ‘can be beaten up’ category. And who knew if ghostbusting could be done with fists? Time to find out.

Sounding small and impossibly far away, Dawn began to cry. Her little lungs struggled to keep up with the level of distress she displayed. The sound caused Max to run faster, the nursery felt so, so far away and his strides were infinitesimal. His lungs burned with exhaustion as did his throat. The hallway seemed to stretch forever and ever as he attempted to at least catch up with the thing closing in on Dawn.

It moved horrifyingly fast, a dark blur with only its feet illuminated by the minuscule lighting sneaking in from under the doors to the many rooms lining the hallway. It ran with the precision and speed of an athlete, each stride perfectly calculated, each movement a seamless extension of the last. Each step, however, held a level of panic.

The nursery door loomed ahead, locked and closed. The sound of Dawn traveling under the door alongside a small sliver of moonlight. The creature or person or whatever it was, reached the door, pushing and pulling the door handle over and over and beating at the door, before fiddling with the lock and slamming the door behind itself. The whole thing seemed like a sped-up version of itself.

Max nearly ran nose-first into the door, barely managing to skate into it and slam his shoulder hard against the wood. Desperately, he tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried again and again, egged on by the sounds of the baby inside. “Shit, shit,” He hissed, slamming his fists into the door. He hoped that maybe the door was weak and would break down or fall off its hinges but that was fruitless.

He punched, kicked, and punched again for what felt like hours. Nothing. The hinges were still intact and not even a creaking noise had been caused by his fists. His breath came in ragged gasps as he stared at the impenetrable door, his heart hammering in his chest.

In what he could only describe as momentary insanity, he started scratching on the door like a desperate animal. His fingers, hands and arms seemingly moved on their own, filing his nails down to the tips of his fingers and taking skin with it until his fingertips were nothing more than skinless, bloody nubs. Then he stopped, resignation washing over him.

The hallway around him felt like it was closing in, walls narrowing and stretching as the adrenaline coursed through his veins, heightening every sensation. He pressed his forehead against the wood, the cool surface doing little to calm the frantic thoughts racing through his mind. Dawn’s cries from the other side cut through him, a terrible reminder of his inability to protect her.

She was crying, and Max was nearly about to do the same when he felt a weight in his pocket. He had locked the nursery earlier. With a key. He felt around in his pocket and sure enough. There it was. With shaky hands and far too slow movements, Max ripped the door open, letting it slam into the hallway wall and bounce back as he rushed inside, ready to attack. He still had the landline phone in his hand, though it was a little battered after his fight with the door, he still decided he could use it like it was a weapon. Like a brick, but small and less heavy.

His eyes darted wildly around the room, searching for any sign of the figure that had so desperately tried to get inside. But there was nothing. The nursery was empty, save for the plain crib in the corner, its white bars glowing softly in the faint moonlight filtering through the window. Dawn’s cries echoed off the bare walls, a sharp reminder of the stark emptiness surrounding them.

Max’s breaths came in heavy, ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he scanned every shadowed corner, every crevice. But it was just a small room, the walls painted a soft, neutral color with no decorations, no furniture besides the crib. There was nowhere to hide. He walked over to the crib, his hands trembling as he gripped the sides and looked down at Dawn. Her tiny face was scrunched up, her cries loud and insistent, tiny fists clenched in distress.

Quickly, he closed the nursery door and locked it. Then he walked back over to Dawn and picked her up with all the gentleness he could muster. Her little body wriggled, and her cries only lessened slightly, but she was otherwise unharmed.

“Hi, Dawn,” Max whispered, holding her to his chest with one hand, the phone in the other. “Did you see anyone come in here?”

He was humoring himself. Of course, the baby wouldn’t be able to tell him what had been in there. His hands shook worse than a leaf in a storm, barely able to hold Dawn steady as he cradled her against his chest. His hold tightened as he tried to will himself to stop shaking.

The phone was placed on the floor when he once again started wrapping Dawn in blankets and anything else that could protect her from the cold. Something had been in here. Something had without a doubt been in here, and whatever it was concerned Max far more than any possible wildlife or strangers or cold weather. He was back to square one all over again: grab Dawn and fuck off.

As he gently wrapped her in just about anything wrap-able, he quietly shushed her, not wanting to draw any more attention from the intruder. It worked a little, but babies generally don’t take well to being shushed, so she only got a little bit quieter.

He could call the police. 911 was the only number he had memorized, and he did bring the phone to the nursery. Something—or someone—had been in here. He’d seen it, heard it, felt the urgency in its movement, but now the room was as still as death. That was as good a reason to call the cops as any.

But it seemed stupid to stay in this house while he did it. Yes, very stupid. Oh, someone’s in my house, lemme just stay in here while the dispatcher yaps! Fuck that, he was out of here and so was Dawn.

With clumsy, still shaking hands, he picked her up fully and took the phone in his other hand. Then he started toward the door, his legs shaking and his heart still pumping. He tried not to think about what would happen if he and Dawn couldn’t make it outside. If someone caught them.

On a normal day, Max could probably wreck just about anything he deemed a threat (or not enough of a threat, fuckin’ loser). But today, he was holding a baby, which should not be shaken or generally involved in fighting. He was pretty good at sneaking around, so he could probably get out without being seen. The only problem was that it was so dark, he could trip over something and make noise.

But all his thinking went straight out the window when he saw that first flicker of movement. The door handle was pulled. He hadn't even placed a hand on it, just stood in front of the door watching as the intruder pulled the handle from the other side. It was locked, thank God.

Max managed the smallest sigh of relief when it couldn’t come inside again. But it was shattered when Dawn started crying harder. The handle started moving erratically, up and down and up and down in a panicked repetition seemingly fueled by the wails.

A voice on the other side of the door hissed something, spurring on a wave of pounding on it. The hinges nearly shook and the entire door rattled violently. Max’s heartbeat echoed in his ears, drowning out everything else except Dawn’s soft whimpers. The erratic pounding on the other side grew louder, more desperate as if whatever was out there couldn’t bear the thought of being kept out.

He backed away from the door, holding Dawn tighter against his chest, her tiny body trembling in sync with his. The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in as that relentless pounding continued. Each slam felt like a countdown, ticking toward a moment when the door might give way. Sure, it didn’t give way when Max wanted inside, but maybe he had loosened it for this thing/person/malevolent being.

Max’s brain raced, trying to calculate the chances of escape. Could he make it out the window? No, they were on the second floor, and the drop would be too risky with Dawn in his arms. Maybe he could push some furniture against the door—but there wasn’t any furniture besides the crib.

The thought of calling 911 crossed his mind again, but the idea of standing still and waiting for help while something—someone—was outside the door felt ludicrous. Whatever, he had no other choice.

He grabbed the phone on the floor, holding Dawn even closer to his chest than before. It was hard to see in the dark and his shaky hands made typing difficult, but he did eventually manage to type the three numbers in question. However, right as he was about to hit the call, the phone rang.

Frantically, he hit the hang-up button once, twice, three times, but the damn thing picked up anyway.

“Fuck off! Fuck off!” He whispered as he hid behind the crib. The second to last layer of defense between Dawn and the thing outside. Himself being the last. “Hang up, motherfucker!”

Dawn’s shrieking, the door rattling, and the new voice of the asshole on the other line mixed together into an awful cacophony of noise that rattled Max's nerves to their core. His pulse thundered in his ears, and his breathing grew shallow as panic gripped him like a vice. He stared at the phone in his hand, his fingers frozen over the screen, unable to shut it off as the unknown caller persisted.

“He’s gonna take her away!” Ted’s voice was clear as day. Not distorted, not inhuman. Just Ted. He was whispering and yelling, his tone hissing and begging. “Please, please,”

“Motherfucker! Hang up!” Max yelled into the phone, knowing fully well this wasn’t Ted in real time. He’d be damned if that time fuckery phone call thing fooled him again. He hit the hang-up button over and over again, the monotone noise in tandem with the relentless pounding on the door. “Shut up!”

“No, you shut up!” Ted yelled back.

That stopped Max completely in his panicked tracks. His thumb hovered over the hang-up button, frozen in time. Ted had responded to him. Yelled back at him. “You can hear me?” Max gasped. Dawn had calmed down ever-so-slightly, the sound of her father’s voice probably helping a bit. “Can you actually hear me?”

“Come on, asshole, hurry up!” Ted was clearly desperate, possibly on the verge of tears.  “I don’t have all night.”

Okay, that didn’t answer the question. Maybe it was just a coincidence that Ted yelled at whoever to shut up after Max had said the same. Still, it would be a wild one.

“Hey, seriously, can you hear me? What the hell is going on?” Max's voice was shaky but firm as he gripped the phone tighter. The merciless pounding on the door continued in a wild chorus.

For a moment, there was nothing but static on the other end, a deep crackling noise that made Max’s stomach drop. And then Ted’s voice came through again, clearer this time but still frantic.

“He’s coming.”

“Who? Who’s coming?” Max’s pulse raced, his mind refusing to believe that Ted was actually talking to him. “What the fuck am I even supposed to do?”

“Come on, I know you have a key!” Ted had gotten angry, still desperate though. “And turn on the light.”

There was a cold weight in Max’s stomach. He was burning and freezing, his was pale and flushed. Ted wasn’t responding to him. He was just the ghost of a conversation stuck on loop. He wasn’t really there, which meant Max was truly alone. Alone and unable to call 911 while someone was breaking the door down.

His hands trembled as he looked down at Dawn, her soft breaths barely audible over the chaos. The weight of the phone in his hand felt useless now, like dead weight in a fight he didn’t understand. The door behind him rattled violently, every impact making his muscles tense with fear.

He started hitting the hang-up button again, repeating the motion like a pulse of adrenaline. Maybe just maybe, he could finally finish the conversation and actually call emergency services.

“The power’s out, asshole.” Max could still pretend he was having a real conversation. “I can’t turn the light on.”

“Stop talking.” He was staticky, each word punctuated by it.

“This is all your fault,” Max meant it, though his words lacked bite. “I wouldn’t be here if not for your stupid baby.”

“Be quiet.”

“You put her here!” There was a loud crashing sound. Max didn’t dare look back, but he knew the door had cracked. “You bought this house!”

“Shut up.”

“Why’d I even stay?” If he had his hands free, he’d smack himself or cover his face or something. “I hate kids! I hate them so fucking much!” He couldn’t even protect his baby sister, how was he supposed to protect Dawn after that?

Ted didn’t respond this time — not that he ever did — there was only static. For a moment, Max thought the call had ended, until heard the words, barely audible over the static. “You owe me.”

He knew Ted wasn’t actually talking to him. But damn, did it feel like he was talking about that morning with the man in the yellow jacket.

“I don’t owe you shit, old man.” Max’s voice was quiet, tired. “Everything would’ve been better if you never showed up in the first place. I know you know that.” He had often wondered what would’ve happened if Ted never intervened that morning. He always concluded that it couldn’t be much worse than his current life.

There was a long silence as Max waited for Ted to say something random. He wasn’t talking to Max after all.

Wood splintered, Dawn’s cries intensified, and Max’s heart pounded in his chest as he realized that whatever was outside the door was almost through. The doorframe cracked under the relentless assault, and Max’s frantic thoughts raced through his mind. With no other options and the fear of what was to come, he knew he had to act quickly.

But his body was betraying him, just like that morning 12 years ago. He found himself unable to move.

The phone line crackled violently, and then Ted’s voice cut through the static with a tired, almost melancholic edge. “Just turn on the light.”

Everything stopped. As suddenly as it started, it stopped.

The frantic pounding ceased, and the room fell into an eerie silence, punctuated only by the soft beeping of the ended phone call and the whirring of the lamp above Max’s head. It had turned on by itself. Max sat frozen behind the crib; his breath visible in the dim light.

Chapter Text

Slowly, cautiously even, the nursery door opened, letting a stream of light into the otherwise dark hall. Max made his way through and down the hall, holding Dawn so close to his chest he worried she would suffocate. He needed to get out as fast as possible, and the stairway was just a little further down.

The lights were on in only the nursery and no sounds could be heard other than Max’s breathing and Dawn’s soft whimpers. This was it; this was their one chance of escape. Suddenly a sharp pain shot through Max’s foot and up his leg, making him stumble. He just barely managed to regain balance before he dropped Dawn.

A small figurine of some superhero character lay motionless on the floor. Its arm had snapped off when Max stepped on it. “What the…” He had seen that figurine in Peter’s room. Why would it be out here?

Looking around, he noticed the other things: posters, figurines, pillows, an old plushy, cracked insulin vials and a broken strip of an LED light lay strewn around the hall, making a trail back to Peter’s room, right next to the nursery. Something had ripped Pete’s room apart.

Max didn’t dare look inside to check. Instead, he hurried along closer and closer to the stairway.

His heart raced as he neared the stairway, every step carefully calculated to avoid making noise. The scattered remnants of Peter’s belongings only deepened the pit of dread growing in his stomach. Who had been in Pete’s room? Was it the same thing that tried to get into the nursery? He kept his gaze fixed forward, refusing to glance at the bedroom door, his imagination running wild with what might be lurking on the other side.

As if she too sensed the mounting tension, Dawn’s whimpers got louder as they reached the stairs. The stairway was a horrific hall of darkness, leaving the possibility of anything or anyone standing at the end of it. For a moment, Max wondered if he had possibly gone blind. He took the first step; it felt cold under his bare foot. Step after step creaked as he tried to hurry down. Every step felt like the countdown to something awful, and he nearly tripped at several points and started holding on to the railing. His whole body felt weak; something was forcing him to stay. It felt like the steps twisted beneath his feet, trying to keep him upstairs, trying to keep him in the house.

Barely a quarter down, he froze. There it was, the smallest little shuffle. A whisper of movement, not behind him. In front of him. Whatever was in the house was walking right toward him. It was going to meet him on the stairs.

Though he wanted to scream and yell, he managed to keep his mouth closed, literally biting his tongue and drawing blood. Slowly, he backed up, step after step. The creaking of the stairs had increased to an agonizing shriek. With each painful step backward, Max’s mind raced through every possibility—how to run, how to hide, how to protect Dawn. Could he fight it? Should he fight it? He couldn’t see what was coming up the stairs, but he could hear it. The footsteps grew louder and louder as they came closer to Max.

Finally, he reached the top of the stairs, keeping his eyes trained on the darkness below him. He kept backing away; his hair stood on end and his legs trembling. The air felt thick, almost suffocating, as if the house itself was closing in on them. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but where? He was stuck upstairs.

He took another step back, his foot meeting something small and cold. Before he could process what it was, the world tilted sharply.

His foot had landed on one of Peter’s cracked insulin vials, and the glass cracked and spun beneath his weight, sending him crashing to the floor with a loud, sickening thud. His body hit the ground hard, knocking the air out of his lungs. Dawn let out a startled wail as Max instinctively clutched her tighter, shielding her from the impact. Pain shot through his back, his elbows, and his foot which was now punctured by a shard of glass. But worse than the physical pain was the sharp rupture of sound that echoed through the hall, his fall shattering the eerie silence.

Then, Dawn cried. The loud, ear-piercing wails of a baby with no other ways of communicating her discomfort.

He almost immediately tried to get up and run for the nursery, i.e. a room he knew had a lock. But the sharp pain in his foot kept him stuck longer than expected. The footsteps grew louder and closer until finally, Max heard a gasp and a recognizable voice:

“Holy shit, Dawn!”

The lights turned on, revealing none other than Lipschitz standing by the light switch, a look of concern and anger on his face. Within seconds, he took Dawn from Max and did his best to calm her down.

“Shit Lips?” Just as Max let the two words spill over his lips, his mind flooded with a jumble of questions. “Wh-What are you-”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Richie hissed, staring daggers into Max. “I know you don’t like Pete, but this is way over the line!” Richie kicked him. He actually kicked Max in the leg. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as the glass in his foot, but it was the thought that counted. “What kind of psycho endangers a baby to get back at someone? You’re sick!”

Max just sat there stunned. Mostly because he had never in his life expected Richie Lipschitz of all people to have the balls to kick him, let alone yell at and insult him. This was Shit Lips, after all, the loser who once threw his own clothes in a toilet and flushed it because Max had told him to.

“What?” Max’s voice was smaller than intended.

“‘What’? What the fuck do mean ‘what’?” Richie started pacing with Dawn trying to calm her down while riling himself up. When he didn’t receive a response from Max, he started toward the nursery. Max hobbled behind. “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?”

Max was starting to see what Richie was talking about. Or what Richie thought he was talking about. All of Pete’s precious, nerd memorabilia lay strewn through the hallway and his expensive medicine was reduced to shards of glass on the floor (and inside Max’s foot). Not to mention, that Max had, from Richie’s perspective, just been sitting around in a completely dark house and doing fuck-all to help the hysterical baby he was taking care of.

It didn’t take a genius to see how suspicious Max looked. But alas, Max hadn't done those things and he refused to waste time taking the blame.

“Listen, Shit Lips, we need to get the fuck outta here, it’s not sa-” He tried to reach out and grab Richie, but the little fucker was fast.

“No, you need to get the fuck outta here, Max.” Richie continued walking down the endlessly long hallway, Max struggling to keep up on one and a half feet. Once they reached the nursery, Richie finally stopped, staring at the door. “What the hell is this?”

The door to the nursery, devoid of any sign of forced entry, was covered in dozens and dozens of scribbles scratched into the wood as well as bloody fingerprints. They looked vaguely similar to the scribbles that Max had seen in the old diary in the attic. However, these scribbles came together to form a massive spider over the door.

The scribbles had a crude quality to them, like someone had scratched with their fingernails. Max looked down at his hands. In the rush and panic of the last hour, he hadn't noticed it, but his fingertips were bloody and his nails crudely short. It was quite nasty to look at.

“Listen, I dunno, it’s-” Max cut himself off this time. Something had ripped Pete’s room to shreds, left the remnants around the hallway, and broken into the nursery while Dawn and Max were in there. The fact that Max was even entertaining the idea of reasoning with Shit Lips that he wasn’t the one at fault seemed ludicrous. They needed to get out of this house.

He grabbed hard onto Richie’s arm, prompting a small yelp of pain. The wooden floor creaked as he dragged Richie and Dawn back down the hall. His foot ached and bled everywhere and Richie repeatedly tried to pull his arm out of Max’s grip, but he pressed on, determined to get them out.

However, when a well-timed tug from Richie coincided with a particularly painful throb in his foot, he lost balance, losing his grip and nearly falling on his ass.

“Fuck, come on, Shit Lips!” He tried to grab him again but was dodged.

“I am not going anywhere with you,” Richie was starting to back away, back to the nursery. He was starting to sweat, and his voice trembled slightly. He was scared. It must’ve finally dawned on him who he was talking to. Little loser. “A-And I dunno what you’ve convinced yourself happened, b-but you’re gonna pay for the damages here, a-and-”

Max snatched him again, this time slamming him against a nearby door. “Listen here,” He hissed, but his mind blanked after that. He didn’t have time to convincingly explain what had happened, so his only option was to threaten the nerd into compliance. But for once he couldn’t think of anything threatening. There was not a lot of threat to gather from a jock who could barely walk. “That’s, uhm, that’s a pretty face you got there.”

Yes, okay, that was vaguely threatening. Surely, it got the point across.

Richie had certainly gotten the point, based on how his eyes widened. Scared, like Max had seen him so many times before. Max was a head taller than him and had him fully trapped against this door. Yes, yes, it was working.

“Uh, thanks?” Richie whispered, very unconvinced.

“How did you get here?”

“In my uncle’s car.”

“Do you have the keys?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good, perfect.” Max grabbed Richie’s arm again, gentler this time. “Now, don’t you fight back.”

He started walking, ignoring the pain and blood from his foot. It could wait. Richie held Dawn in one arm and was softly pulled along with the other. A stale tension hung between them, a small fickle truce that should hopefully last until they were both safely home.

“Richie,” Max whispered, using his actual name for emphasis. “There is something in this house. I don’t know what it is, but it’s hostile as fuck.”

He avoided mentioning what Steph had said about a thing named Tinky. It seemed like bad rhetoric to talk about Teletubbies right now.

On the other hand, there was some good rhetoric in his timing. His statement was certainly accentuated by the loud crash coming from inside Peter’s room. Max started running, thanking God that he didn’t check in that room when he first noticed that it had been ripped apart.

He pulled Richie right behind him as he hurried through the hallway, not daring to look back. The crash from Peter's room echoed through the house, followed by a blood-curdling howl. Richie's grip on Dawn tightened as they raced down the stairs.

"What was that?" he gasped, his voice trembling.

Max didn't answer. He just kept running, his heart pounding in his chest.

Soon, the sounds left Peter’s room and became a cacophony of awful footsteps behind them, following them. Lights flickered, the hallway elongated, and the intense smell of something rotting seemed to catch up to them.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Max hissed as he sped up even more, he could tell Richie was about to lose his footing and fall, but he couldn’t slow down. Not when that thing was coming closer.

Finally, they reached the end of the hall and made it to the stairs, they nearly stumbled but kept going anyway.

The stairs seemed to stretch on forever, each step a struggle against the darkness and the unseen terror that stalked after them. Max could feel Richie's body trembling behind him, and his own heart pounded in his ears.

The slamming footsteps behind them grew louder, closer. The air was thick with the stench of rotting meat, and it seemed to grow stronger with each passing moment. It filled every little crevice. Max swore he could taste it, his eyes watered with the sting of it, and he could barely breathe, as if two hands of stench had wrapped around his neck and squeezed.

He stumbled and nearly fell, but managed to regain his balance. He glanced back over his shoulder, and his blood ran cold. Whatever it was, it was massive, cloaked in shadows, and had two horns the size of branches sticking from its head.

He started jumping over several steps at a time, hoping and praying that Richie could do the same without shaking Dawn too much. Max wasn’t sure he could mentally handle another case of SBS after what happened to Dani, but there were no other options than to jump here. Dawn quieted down when she sensed the fear in the adults surrounding her.

He had miscalculated, Richie could not jump several steps like Max could. With a sharp gasp, he fell, Dawn in his arms. He crashed hard into Max, who barely managed to catch him. He would’ve cussed him out for it, but there wasn't enough time. Instead, he just steadied him back up and started running again.

Like a beacon on the horizon, the bottom of the stairs was within reach and by extension the front door. By the time they had made it to the first floor again, Max placed a hand on Richie’s back and pushed him in front of him.

They continued running, Max in the back this time. They ran through the hallway with the basement door. The front door was in a back passage that led to the very hallway they were running. Once they reached the end of the hallway, Max briefly looked down at the giant extra stairway that led to the basement door and nearly froze.

The basement door was wide open. An eye to a deep yellow room.

He quickly turned to his right and opened the door to the back passage. There it was, their promise of hope in the form of a simple front door.

“Come on, get outside!” Max hissed as he pushed Richie towards it, turning around to look at whatever was following them. Someone had to distract that thing while Richie fiddled with unlocking the door.

The thing was shrouded in shadows, its body leaning forward like an old man. Large horns protruded from its head in two massive towers, and its eyes, small and steely, stared at him with a yellow hue. Max watched frozen as it shifted and changed as it got closer and closer. Its body shrunk; its horns vanished. In front of him stood a man in an old worn-out suit. He recognized his face.

“Dad…?” he whispered; his body suddenly frozen. Somehow, he would’ve preferred the yellow beast from earlier. It had nothong in common with his father, but the face was impossible not to recognize.

Someone’s hand grabbed his collar from behind and pulled hard. He closed his eyes and nearly choked as he was forced outside.

A single stream of light forced its way into his eye. He was outside. He knew that. Richie had pulled him out. But still, he couldn’t help but notice the lack of sound, no breeze, no bugs, no animals. What surrounded him held no scent of the forest.

He opened his eyes, feeling the relief preemptively. But it quickly died. He was in the back passage of the house. He looked at the doorway he'd been pulled through. The same back passage stared back at him, devoid of monsters. The house had doubled.

Chapter Text

“Does this feel alright?” Richie asked, his newly sterilized tweezers practically ripping the tendons in Max’s foot out.

They had already put band-aids on all of Max’s fingers. He didn’t know how to explain to Richie that he had a moment of insanity and tried to scratch his way through the nursery door. Nor did he know how to explain why those scratches were also cult-y scribbles that looked like a spider. So, he didn’t explain. He just told Lipschitz to figure it out himself. 

Max laughed a little, he couldn’t help it. “Sure,” he mumbled between chuckles. “It feels fuckin’ amazing.”

They weren’t sure how long they had been in this mirrored house. They had checked it over three times for any sort of intruders or demon creatures, but they were completely alone. After that, they put Dawn to sleep and even took the time to talk to each other. Well, more like interrogating each other.

“Why are you here?” Max would ask.

And Richie would answer with. “I got a call from Ted.”

“What did he say?”

“A bunch of cryptic shit.” Richie would respond. “He was scared some guy would take Dawn away. I thought he was talking about you. But the whole thing was so confusing, it was like he was having another conversation on the side.”

Eventually, though, they managed to get just about everything out in the open. Why Grace wasn’t here, why Richie was, what Max had experienced before Richie showed up, and even what Steph had said about Tinky and the black book. Now, they were left with nothing but the sound of Max’s far too labored breathing and heavy subjects that neither wanted to talk about.

“Oh, sorry,” Richie said as if that would make the glass less painful to remove. “I’ll try to be gentler.”

“If you go gentler, you’ll stop completely.” Max was sitting on the toilet lid, his foot placed on a bathroom stool where Richie was playing nurse. Not that Max could do it himself; his hands hadn't stopped shaking for a solid hour. Something about watching a demon creature morph into your dad will do that to you. Curse Shit Lips and his steady hands.

There was a long silence as Richie worked. The only sound was the soft clinking of the tweezers and the occasional grunt of pain from Max.

“Sorry about earlier today. Or, well, yesterday.” Richie muttered, not making eye contact.

“It’s cool. I kick people all the time.” Max shrugged, feeling a little out of breath. Honestly, he had almost forgotten Richie kicked him until he apologized for it.

“No, not that. Well, that too, but…” He paused, making eye contact and then quickly breaking it. “I mean, sorry about the relay race.”

“Huh?” Max swore he was in better shape than this, but he could not for the life of him catch his breath. He had been unable to catch it since the thing had demon creature chased them outside and inside and all over the place.

“We placed second.”

“Right, and?”

“And, so, we didn’t win.”

Max scratched his head and tilted it to the left, inquisitively looking at Richie. He had the little H&M twink pegged as a math-and-anime nerd, not a linguistics-and-poetry nerd, so it didn’t surprise Max at all that it was incredibly difficult to understand what the loser meant. But it honestly felt like Lipschitz was intentionally being hard to communicate with.

It took Max a solid minute of looking at Richie to finally understand what he meant. “Oh, that wasn’t your fault, though.”

Richie’s face flushed a deep shade of red. “Yes, it was. I was objectively the slowest runner on our team. You know the chain and the weakest link and shit.”

Max answered back, mimicking Richie’s voice and adding a nasal tone for creative liberty, “Objectively, I can say with near 100% certainty that you were mayhaps the slowest runner in the team, and yet, somehow, didn’t take the longest. Also, watching Attack on Hero Academia every night before bed might be why you run so goddamn slow.”

One look at Richie’s face was all it took to conclude that Richie didn’t find Max’s impression of him nearly as hilarious as it was.

He looked thoroughly unamused. “Then explain it. How could I be the slowest runner, but also not take the longest?”

Max knew why Richie didn’t know. The nerd had left to go shower immediately after running his quarter which was in the very beginning of the race. “Well, some idiot fell. Fuckin’ dumbass.”

“Oh,”

“Yep, the real loser, eh?” Max winced again, why were there so many individual little pieces of glass in that damn foot? “Two left feet.”

“Wait, but who fell? Brenda or Brad?”

Max put his hand to his chin, pretending to recall something far away. “Yeah, who was it? Who was it? Oh, right, it was me.”

Richie actually looked up for once, finally making eye contact and keeping it. “Really? How?”

Max was just about to make some snarky comment about gravity but bit it back. “I dunno, man, I guess I just got hungry and thought the floor looked real tasty.”

Richie let out a half-snort, half-laugh, quickly covering his mouth as if embarrassed for finding Max’s sarcasm funny. “Well, I hope it was a good meal.”

“Delicious,” Max replied, shaking his head. “So good I saw God. God’s a woman, by the way.” He paused; he wanted to make Richie laugh again, just to see if he could do it. “Anyway, I’ve been enlightened to the meaning of life and the universe: the meaning is… well, I forgot.” Richie stifled a small laugh. Too small, mission not accomplished. “Whatever, God told me to finish the race and I was like ‘Why?’ and she says, ‘You made a mathlete run for this shit.’ And I guess she had a point. Anyway, you actually saved the race and I should start a cult.” Once he was finished his half-joke, half-monologue he had to take a solid ten seconds to just breathe. God, he needed to do more cardio.

Unfortunately, Richie didn’t find Max as funny as he should. He didn’t laugh, only smiled and said, “You’re dumb.” And not very funny either, clearly. His tone didn’t indicate that it was meant as an insult, but Max knew better than to expect a nerd to be aware of their own tone of voice.

“Thanks,” Max said, then mumbled. “That’s better than stupid. ‘Cause it’s, like, a… it’s, like, a spectrum, you know?”

“You’re on the stupid spectrum?”

“No, it’s the ‘Not Smart’ spectrum. Because words hurt, Miss Holiday told me tha-” Max hissed slightly when Richie removed one final piece of glass and then started spraying disinfectant on his open wound. That shit hurt

“Shit, sorry,” Richie stopped momentarily, giving Max a moment to breathe then sprayed again. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Apologies without intent for change are meaningless and manipulative.” Max was holding onto the toilet seat for dear life. Richie’s life specifically, ‘cause Max had to stop himself from enacting his ‘self-defense’. He wasn’t used to disinfectant. “She also told me that one.”

“Yeah? You give out a lot of apologies? I sure haven’t heard one.” The sass with which Lipschitz spoke was unlike anything Max had ever heard from a nerd. Surely, tales of this evening would be retold at Richie’s eulogy. If he lived to tell the tale.

“She wasn’t talkin’ about me!” Maybe Max got a little defensive. “She was talking about…” He paused and cleared his throat. “No one.”

“Well,” Richie sprayed some more disinfectant on the glass wound and put some gauze on it, holding it there with his right hand. “No one sounds like an ass. Could you hand me the bandages?” He extended his left arm, ready to receive them.

Max reached over the sink and snatched the bandages from where Richie had put them. Doing so made it very obvious how much his hands were still trembling. He ignored it, and so did Richie. He handed over the bandages with a bit more force than intended, almost smacking Richie in the face. He didn’t seem to mind, too focused on carefully wrapping the gauze around Max’s foot.

“There,” Richie said, securing the bandage with a small, tight knot. “All done.”

Max took his foot off the stool, wincing as the movement sent a sharp pain shooting up his leg. "I’m never running again," he muttered, half-joking, half-serious. He leaned back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. His breathing was still labored, each breath feeling just a little too shallow like he wasn’t getting enough air. His chest tightened with the sensation, but he tried to ignore it. “But I should do more cardio.”

“Max, I don’t think this has anything to do with cardio,” Richie stood up, looking down at him with sympathetic eyes. “I’m in worse shape than you, but I’m not out of breath and shaking.”

So, he had noticed. “Shut up, this is normal. I get like this a lot.”

Richie sat down on the stool Max had had his foot on. They were on eye level. “And when do you feel like this?”

Max blinked away; his chest started hurting. “I dunno, before games, sometimes at practice. If we lose a game, that sort of stuff.” Sometimes, when he and his dad fought or in those somber hours afterward.

Richie’s gaze softened, his brow furrowing. “And how does it feel, when you ‘get like this’?”

Max wiped some sweat from his brow, his trembling fingers seeming to blend with the air. Did his vision always have black spots? “I can’t breathe, I shake and sweat, sometimes my eyes get blurry.” His chest tightened more. “It feels like I’ll die, but I won’t die, so I ignore it ‘til it goes away.”

 Richie’s expression grew more concerned, his eyes scanning Max’s face for any sign that he was downplaying what was clearly serious. “Max, that sounds like a panic attack… or, or at least like you’re very close to having one.”

“Fuck, no, I’m not panicking!” His voice was slightly louder than expected. “I’m not even fucking scared!”

He had every right to be scared, which he wasn't. But he still had every damn right to be; he was stuck in this terrifying house with a vulnerable baby and a weak nerd, and he had been chased around and haunted for the better part of six hours.

But if anything, he was angry. Angry with Grace for luring him here and leaving him here with a baby and no mode of escape, angry with Richie for not showing up earlier when Max called him, angry with Stephanie for luring him into the attic and hanging up on him with he clearly needed her to stay on the line.

But most of all he was angry, no, furious with Ted Spankoffski for making him feel like he owed it to him to stay here, like he had to protect Dawn because he had been protected so many years ago. Not to mention how much Dawn looked like Dani, thus giving Max two reasons to stay and protect her. He had been completely useless at the job so far, only succeeding because the nursery door was apparently made of unbreakable wood or, very breakable hallucinatory wood. He didn't know.

He was pissed. He was a failure. And he couldn’t even breathe properly.

“You may not feel scared anymore…” Richie gently grabbed Max’s hand, like he would break if he wasn’t careful. The hand was soon placed on Max’s chest, feeling his heart hammering away in an overworked loop. “But your body is terrified.”

“Damn,” He looked down and his hand. Pale. “What the fuck am I supposed to do then?”

 Richie stayed quiet for a moment, looking at Max like he was trying to figure out what to say. Then, after a deep breath, he spoke softly. “We need to get you calm, Max. Your body is freaking out, even if your mind doesn’t want to admit it.”

Max wanted to snap back with some kind of sarcastic retort, but he felt his heart racing under his hand, hammering faster than it should. The reality was setting in—something was seriously wrong, and it wasn’t going away with a joke or a smirk.

“I’m not freaking out,” Max muttered, trying to push himself off the wall, but his legs felt weak. “I’m just… tired.”

“Yeah, okay.” Richie shifted on his feet, putting his hands in his armpits. “Uhm, we could start by focusing on your breathing.”

Max sneered, feeling his body grow hotter. “You’re fucking joking. I haven’t focused on anything else for thirty fucking minutes!”

Who was the nerd to accuse him of having a panic attack anyway? That stuff was reserved for soldiers, SA survivors, and nerds who couldn’t handle their pathetic lives.

Richie flinched and backed away slightly. “I’m not joking.” He whispered, almost as if to keep Max at bay. “I heard that you’re supposed to take deep breaths.”

“I can’t!” Max raised his voice. “I physically fucking can’t do that! I already told you that! Which part of I can’t breathe, do you not understand?”

Richie blinked, his eyes wide, as Max’s words echoed through the small bathroom. Max felt his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, but the anger kept him upright. He wasn’t going to let some nerd who didn’t know what it was like trying to lecture him about how to breathe.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry?” Richie reached out to touch Max but immediately retracted it like he was dealing with a scared dog. “Let’s try something else. You’re tired, right? Why don’t you take a nap? It’s- It’s…” He looked down at the watch on his wrist quickly. “It’s 4.30 a.m., that’s a pretty good time to sleep.”

“No,” Max couldn’t just go take a little nap like some toddler. He had a nerd and a baby to protect. Was Richie serious?

“Why not?” Oh, so he was serious? “It’ll make you feel safer.”

“I don’t want to feel safer, we’re not safe,” Max had managed to lower his voice, but he was still hissing. “Did you forget we got chased by a fucking demon goat?”

He realized stupidly that his hand was still on his chest feeling his heart going in overdrive. His palm was slick with a thin layer of shiny sweat as he removed it.

Blue eyes bore into him then quickly broke away; Richie looked at the door. “Nothing’s happened since we got to this mirror house thing.” The mirror house was what they named the house that had stumbled into. “I dunno how to explain it, but I think whatever chased us is stuck in that house, so we’re safe in this house.”

“Oh, wow, such great logic! You think we’re safe because nothing has happened in one single hour.” Max gave Richie a slow round of applause, his hands still shaking. “Oh, oh, give it up for Lipschitz everyone!”

Richie flinched at Max's sarcasm, the jab hitting a nerve. “Okay, I get it, you’re mad,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But we need to calm you down. Why won’t you sleep?”

“Because,” Max crossed his arms. “I don’t wanna.”

“That’s childish. Gimme an actual reason.”

“Grace drugged me, and I’ve already had a six-hour nap.”

“Sure, I believe that.” Richie snarked, getting annoyed and annoying. “Seriously fess up.”

Max felt another surge of anger, which quickly deflated. He was, in fact, exhausted, even if he actually did have that six-hour nap. “Fine. I don’t wanna sleep because I’m afraid I can’t protect Dani if something happens while I’m out.”

Richie’s expression softened, his shoulders lowered and he took a step closer. “You mean Dawn.” He paused, choosing not to further question Max’s slip-up. “We can work with that.” A moment of silence passed them by as Richie thought of something. “We could move a mattress into the nursery.”

“Yeah?”

“That way, you can be close to Dawn while you sleep.”

“Well, duh.” It felt a little bit like Richie was treating him like a volatile child, but oh well, at least he was focused on problem-solving. “But what about you?”

“What? What about me?”

“Where will you be?”

Richie raised an eyebrow, his expression mostly confused. “Well, where do you want me to be?”

Max had taken to muttering. He didn’t have the energy to be angry or volatile anymore. “In the nursery. Too.”

The unspoken implication that Max wanted Richie nearby so he could protect him as well sent Richie’s eyebrows shooting up to his forehead in surprise. “Okay, okay. Sure. I guess I could sleep, too” He said, “Uhm, should we, should we grab two mattresses or…?”

Max rubbed his face slightly with his hand, leaving a slightly sweaty streak on his cheek. “As long as you don’t kick in your sleep, we can share.” The nursery wasn’t very big after all. Not much room for extra mattresses.

“I don’t. Do you?”

“You might get a black eye.” He really hoped Richie picked up on the joking aspect of that sentence, given their general relationship.

The nerd chuckled and reached out to help Max up. “I’ll take my chances.”

A small surge of panic rushed through Ted as he looked around the car. It was akin to a simple case of checking your pocket only to not find your phone or wallet, except this one was more worthy of genuine panic.

“Fuck, where’s Dawn?” He rushed, slightly too loud.

Pete, who had been scrolling quietly on his phone, looked up, perplexed. “Uh, we left her with Richie.” He looked back at his phone only to immediately look up again, even more perplexed. “Did you actually forget that? Also, eyes on the road, dumbass.”

“Right, right,” Ted let out a small laugh. Maybe he was just a bit on edge and slightly stressed. But who could honestly blame him? He was a parent now, single too, so being stressed was his natural state of being and would stay that way for at least 18 years.

His grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel, as he thought about it for longer than his usual 5 milliseconds. He had always wanted to have a family and kids, so getting Dawn wasn’t terrible for him, but it seemed everyone around him believed him to never want anything to do with kids. Still, he would’ve hoped to be married at the same time.

“Where’re we going anyway?” Pete asked, pocketing his phone for good.

“I dunno, dude.” Ted sped up slightly as their Studebaker reached the edge of witchwood, wafting up dust and rocks on the dirt roads. “Mark told me to meet him at some address and bring you along, so that’s what we’re doing.”

“Hmm,” Pete mused, half-heartedly. “I should’ve written a will, you know, in case we get murdered.”

“Funny.” Ted didn’t laugh. “So Ruth can get your Digimon cards?”

“Absolutely.” Pete showed no signs of irony. “And Richie gets the Pokémon cards. They need to stay separated.”

In truth, Ted had no idea why Mark wanted to meet him here. Though he held enough trust in the man’s Christian values to not immediately assume he would get axe murdered. But then again, Mark was cheating on his wife with a man, so who really knew?

The dust kicked up behind the Studebaker as they sped down the narrow, winding road. He tried to shake the gnawing feeling that had been building in his gut since they left. Maybe it wasn’t about the location or the odd request to bring Pete along, but the weight of everything else.

The car hit a bump, jerking him back to the present. The forest around them grew denser as they approached the edge of Witchwood, the infamous woods that no one liked driving through after dark.

"Eyes on the road," Pete repeated, a little softer this time, though with the same sarcastic edge.

“They are.” Ted retorted, “They’ve been.”

“I just don’t wanna die, ‘cause you hit a tree.”

“Dude, can you your get mind off death for 5 minutes?” Ted physically forced himself to loosen his grip on the wheel. “We’re not getting murdered, and we’re not hitting a tree. Don’t you have anything else to talk about?”

“Fine, um,” Pete rubbed his eyes, thinking. “Uhm, I, well, you mentioned you wanted to move?”

“Yeah, now that Dawn’s born,” Ted brushed a lock of hair out of his face. “We need something bigger and, uh, generally more fit for… human habitation.”

It wasn’t a secret their current apartment was shit. A hole of garbage in a garbage apartment complex. One time, they didn’t have running water for a week, and another time Ted got hypothermia indoors. Aside from that, it was simply too small. For the past however many years, Ted had slept on the pull-out couch in the living room, so Pete could have the one bedroom they had. Lastly, there was the simple fact that he received a surprisingly large sum in child support and could very much afford to level up.

“Valid.” Pete decided. “Have you looked at anything? Location, size, price.”

“Uhm, there’s this complex near CCRP I looked at.” He turned left as the GPS said. They were half a mile away from their destination. “But the building itself is very, eh, brutalist, you know? Like, all concrete.”

“Gross.”

“Exactly, and the rent was really high. Besides, I’m 35 I don’t wanna rent, I wanna buy.”

“Smart.” Pete put a finger to his chin. “But you then gotta make sure it’s not somewhere with a super high property tax.”

“Yeah, or somewhere that needs a lot of repairs.” The more he thought about it, the more overwhelming the idea of moving seemed. Especially while also having Dawn. “But that’s okay. I’m sure I could get Mark to help me find somewhere. He’s a realtor, you know?”

“Of course, I know.” Pete sneered, “Grace never shuts up about. She’s so annoying about it as well.”

Finally, they reached their destination. Marked by Mark Chassity’s baby blue Toyota and an unidentifiable black Rolls Royce in the driveway, their destination was a beautiful villa. Illuminated in the yellow and orange of the setting sun, the house stood like a beacon in the middle of the forest, its grand architecture contrasting with the dense, encroaching forest.

Pete and Ted stepped out of the car, making their way toward the looming artwork of a building. The villa’s gorgeous stone façade seemed to beckon them closer. As they ascended the front steps before the door, Ted noticed something he had never seen on a real house, in real life: a door knocker. It was a beautifully crafted knocker shaped into the head of a goat and coated in a layer of gold that unfortunately had yellowed with age.

He grabbed it gently and knocked on the door.

With a loud crash, the door swung open, sending both Ted and Pete several steps back — a reaction they had jokingly referred to as The Spankoffski sprint which was also known as the Get Away asap method.

Mark Chassity stood smiling at them in the doorway, his teeth the same perfect white as the rest of his life. “Ted!” He exclaimed, approaching them and snatching Ted into a crushing hug. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Ted returned the hug, albeit with a bit of stiffness. The hug wasn’t unwanted, far from it. But it was surprising. Mark’s excitement caught him off guard and it wasn’t ordinary for him to simply hug people, especially ‘adulterers’ like he (ironically) had labeled Ted once. Much like all physical contact from Mark, it was heated and lasted a smidge too long.

“We saw each other two days ago,” Ted retorted, trying to pull out of the hug but immediately being pulled back in. They had seen each other at one of their semi-regular rendezvous. It hadn't been anything special except Ted had vented to him about buying a home over a post-coital cigarette. “What’s the occasion?”

He knew this fancy villa didn’t belong to the Chassity’s. No, they lived in the suburbs like every other perfect Christian nuclear family. They drove a Toyota, said grace every night at dinner, and cheated on each other regularly. They did not live in giant villas with gold-belated knockers.

Instead of responding, Mark grabbed Ted’s hand and pulled him inside. Pete awkwardly trailed behind.

High ceilings and large windows greeted them inside, where a yellow-upholstered staircase led them to the second floor. Yellow was a strange choice of color for interior design, but it seemed plastered everywhere in a way that Ted found simultaneously comforting and unsettling. Walls, carpets, and even paintings had the same color in different shades.

But it wasn’t just the yellow color, everything seemed out of place. The large windows were too modern for a villa that seemed to emulate this classic, old-world charm. The furnishings were mismatched, as though someone had thrown together pieces from different time periods without much thought. The yellow, while bright, clashed awkwardly with the ornate woodwork and deep reds in the rugs and furniture. Even the rooms couldn’t seem to decide how big they were, feeling as though they stretched and retracted almost unnoticeably.

The warmth of his hand in Mark’s ceased once they reached a ladder leading to the house’s attic.

“They’re here!” Mark called, his excitement nearly reaching childish levels.

“Oh lovely,” A man responded from the attic. Within seconds he was sliding down the ladder like some cartoon firefighter. If only he had a pole instead. “Hello, hello.” He reached a hand out to shake Ted's.

Hesitantly, Ted and Pete both shook the stranger’s hand, saying their greetings as well. They were still highly unsure of what they were doing here.

“I am Roman Murray,” The man said. He looked odd, his mustache too light for his face and his face too young for his age. “I own this house. I’m in the process of moving out.”

Ted smiled and nodded, unsure how this knowledge pertained to him or Pete in the slightest. If anything, he was becoming more and more certain that they had been brought here to get axe murdered. This certainly seemed like the type of place he would be brought to to be a sacrifice for a cult.

He eyed the man warily. His mustache was almost translucent, barely visible against his pale skin, while his hair had streaks of gray that seemed too premature for his otherwise youthful face. He was wearing a tailored suit that felt out of place for someone lounging in a dusty attic.

Beside him, Pete did not share his concern, far too enamored with the grandiosity of the house’s interior. What else could be expected from a teen who had lived his whole life in his older brother’s dingy apartment?

“Okay?” It felt like Ted had taped his smile on, to keep it in place. “That’s great for you…?”

Upon reflection, he noted the moving boxes and the scattered remnants of what had once been a home. Some boxes were haphazardly taped shut, while others lay open, revealing half-packed items—a faded tuxedo, a stack of old books with titles that didn’t appear to be English.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Mark slapped himself then walked closer to Ted, his hands on his shoulders. “I asked you to come here because I convinced Roman to sell you this place before it came on the market.”

Ted’s fake smile dropped so fast he didn’t even have time to register it. “Huh?”

He eyed the room pathetically, looking for Pete as if to communicate his disbelief. He mostly just wanted his opinion. Deferring to his little brother over which house he should buy himself was pretty damn sad. But Pete was nowhere to be found, having wandered off to marvel some more at the pretty place.

“It’s, uhm,” Ted mumbled, having just realized that Mark expected an actual response. “That’s nice. But it seems…” How could he possibly communicate that this house was giving him the creeps without hurting Mark’s feelings? “…a little out of my budget.”

Mark was a stupid, sweet, naïve, gullible man with VERY BIG feelings. Ted had no doubt he genuinely wanted what was best for him. But any idiot should know that Ted couldn’t afford this mansion of a villa.

“It surely isn’t,” Murray smirked; his eyes locked on Ted. “Your presence here is more than enough.”

Surely, he didn’t understand what Ted had said at all. Unless he wanted to move out and for Ted to just squat here. Seemed like a lot of legal trouble. Without elaborating, Murray started walking, beckoning them to follow.

He took them on what was essentially a tour of the house. Ted found himself trailing behind Mark and Roman as they moved through one set of labyrinthine corridors after the other. Every room they entered seemed more unsettling than the last.

Roman spoke of his home with a detached enthusiasm that didn’t do anything to sell the place. On its own, the house was admittedly beautiful, but a faint stench of decay begged to differ. Not to mention, the eerie feeling Ted got when he realized that they still hadn't run into Pete.

Once they reached yet another hallway with a billion rooms on each side, Ted grabbed Mark’s hand and dragged him into one of the rooms. Inside the room, Ted shut the door quietly and took a deep breath, trying to make sense of the growing unease twisting his stomach.

Unable to think of a better thing to say, he simply hissed, “What the fuck, Mark!”

“What?” What a dumb, stupid man. He looked like a kicked puppy.

“Who the hell is this guy?” He hadn't meant to swear in front of Mark, and he nearly braced himself for an entourage of scolding. “How’d you even meet him?”

Mark’s expression quickly turned from general upset over being yelled at to excitement. Truly like a puppy. “We met at church. I mentioned you wanting to buy a home and he mentioned that he wanted to sell his home. You know, win-win.”

“Win-win?” Ted was about 5 milliseconds about to rip his hair out in frustration. “Mark, he's gonna wear our skin! Where’s your survival instinct?”

Oh, God, where was Pete? For all they knew Pete could’ve already been killed or taken or skinned alive. Shit, Ted’s mind raced with worst-case scenarios. What if Pete had stumbled upon something he shouldn’t have? What if he was trapped in one of the many rooms they had just passed, helpless?

In a terrible twist of irony, the door swung open and Pete stumbled in, “Ted, this place is awesome.” He held up seven fingers. “So far, I’ve found 7 radiators and they all work. It’s crazy.”

“Holy shit,” Ted was dry heaving. When he became so out of breath was beyond him. He wasn’t used to getting this worked up in his own thoughts. Maybe he was just sleep-deprived? That was something that happened to new parents. Yeah, he was sleep-deprived. “Thank God, Pete.”

Pete’s face shone with far too much excitement. Of all the things Pete could focus on, the radiators were not what Ted had expected. He should’ve been enamored with the sheer size or fanciness of the place, not the working heating. But then again, functional heating wasn’t exactly something Pete was used to.

“See? Pete likes this house, that should count for something.” Mark said, turning out to be a terrible realtor. “And Murray is not a murderer just because he wants to sell you his house.”

Before Ted could respond, Pete chimed, far too excited for Ted’s liking. “He wants us to buy this house?”

“No-” Ted tried; he really did.

“Yes, and he’s willing to cut a deal so it’s cheaper.” Mark cut him off.

“Sure,” Pete said, “but why us?”

“Probably convenience,” Mark brushed him off. “It’s -”

“God’s will.” A voice cut Mark off. Standing in the door, the silhouette of Roman Murray cast a dark shadow into the room. “God told me to move out of this house, god told me to go to church, and god brought Mark to me.” Murray stood with an almost eerie calmness, his expression inscrutable, making Ted feel as if he were being judged on some divine level. “Come along.”

He moved again, and once again, everyone followed along. After several long seconds of walking the winding halls, they reached a dingy set of stairs, leading to a basement door.

“This house was a gift to a god,” Murray started walking toward the door. “The previous owner had it built for that purpose. But when the time arrived for the reception, he tried to take it back and was punished accordingly.” At the base of the stairs, Murray stopped, looking down at a stain. “He locked the basement door but fell back down the stairs on his way up. He lay there for many weeks until his rotting corpse seeped into the cement right here.” He took a deep frustrated breath. “We never did find the basement door key, not even on his body.”

Ted felt a chill race down his spine. The dim light of the hallway cast long shadows that seemed to stretch toward him, intensifying his unease. “Punished?”

He didn’t need a verbal answer. The stain was quite self-explanatory. It nearly looked like a body outline, except with a splattered head. He swallowed some spit.

“Yes, harshly but not harsh enough. You see, god doesn’t take, he gives and he receives gifts. So, when my old friend tried to take it back, it saddened him greatly.” Roman blinked and shook his head. “Anyway, that is the real reason I want to sell at such a cheap price. I cannot with good conscience sell a house with an inaccessible basement and a morbid stain like that. Not at a normal price at least. Besides, the property tax on a place here is very low for the same reason.”

That story didn’t in the slightest make Ted want to buy this place, but it soothed him in a way. The idea that Roman’s intentions weren’t nefarious or murder-y made him feel far better. Even if Pete visibly couldn’t care less and Mark wasn’t listening at all.

He hadn't realized everyone was expecting him to say something until all eyes were completely glued to him and Pete asked, “So, what do you wanna do?”

What did he wanna do?

“I wanna fucking leave.” He didn’t even think about it. It just came blurting out of him like mouth diarrhea. “I don’t want this house, fuck this shit.”

He could see the disappointment on both Pete and Mark’s faces, though neither spoke. Pete did open his mouth to protest but shut it again quick. He nodded to himself, looking at the floor.

Ted let out a breath, glancing back at Roman, who regarded him with the same inscrutable expression. There was no anger or disappointment—just a calm acceptance that made Ted feel more nervous than any protest would have.

“Very well.” Roman took a business card out of his breast pocket and handed it to Ted. “In case you change your mind.”

Ted snatched it, fully intending to throw it in the garbage. “Where’s the exit?”

Thankfully, neither Roman nor Mark tried to do anything as Pete and Ted left. Nor did the house attempt to pull any stunts. When they finally reached the front door, Ted didn’t hesitate. He pushed it open and stepped into the cool, fresh air, almost laughing at the sheer relief that washed over him.

It was like the oppressing atmosphere inside failed to carry itself with him outside. His body felt light and his mind clear. He could barely understand what had made him so uncomfortable about this place, to begin with.

As the fresh air filled his lungs under the starry night ceiling, he felt an absurd urge to just laugh, to shake off the dread that had clung to him like a shadow inside the house. Pete was already walking toward their car, muttering about something Ted couldn’t quite catch, but he could see his brother wasn’t as relieved to be out. They reached the Studebaker in silence, and as they buckled up, Pete cast a sneering side eye at Ted, waiting for some kind of explanation.

Ted could practically feel the judgment rolling off Pete as he slipped into the driver’s seat. Pete’s silence wasn’t the quiet of relief, but rather the charged quiet of unasked questions and simmering disapproval. Finally, Ted huffed, gripping the steering wheel with a humorless laugh.

“What? You want me to apologize for not buying the cult mansion?”

“Would it kill you to think about it for, like, two seconds?” Pete’s voice held a mix of annoyance and disbelief. “That place was incredible! And we’d never have to worry about freezing to death with those radiators.”

“I just…” Ted tried to form the sentence in his mind first, but however he put it, he couldn’t phrase his dislike of the house in a way that didn’t make him sound like a scared child. “You know, property tax.”

“Sounds like you just don’t wanna move.”

“Why wouldn’t I wanna move?”

Pete side-eyed before taking his phone out, indicating that wasn’t going to listen to whatever reply Ted would come up with later. “You’re picky.” He mumbled, “The place near CCRP is too brutalist, this place is too… something. You don’t wanna rent, but you can’t find something with high property tax or too many things to be repaired.”

He put his earbuds out of his pocket and put them in before Ted could respond. Conniving little brat.

Ted clenched his teeth, gripping the steering wheel as Pete all but tuned him out. A mix of frustration and guilt gnawed at him. He knew he was picky, but it wasn’t as if he’d dragged Pete to ten houses only to say no each time. This was the second, and it wasn’t his fault that both places felt… wrong. One was a bleak concrete box and this one?

There wasn’t technically anything wrong with it.

He tightened his grip on the wheel even more as he stared out at the road, his mind racing. Maybe Pete had a point. He wasn’t just picky—he was downright paranoid, or at least that’s how it felt now, away from the house. Roman and Mark weren’t axe murderers, and the house, though creepy, didn’t actually do anything to them. The worst thing he’d had to worry about was a stain and a locked door.

Through his peripheral, he snuck a glance at Pete. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew Pete deserved better than what Ted had been able to provide. He deserved a place where he didn’t have to spend half the winter wrapped in blankets or rationing hot water as they had done for years. He deserved to have his own room without feeling like he was forcing Ted onto the pull-out couch. And this house could actually provide that, and it was being handed to them on a silver platter.

“Fuck,” Ted muttered to himself. He hadn't even considered Dawn.

Chapter Text

Max awoke with a gasp, momentarily feeling choked and ready to fight only to punch out and hit nothing of interest. His fist met a wall, sending a throbbing pain through his arm. The lingering adrenaline coursed through him as he sat up, disoriented and cradling his poor hand. The nightmare had been so vivid—Dawn, Richie, a mansion. Then Ted, Pete, and Grace’s dad, looking at the same mansion. It felt so real he almost expected to be somewhere else entirely when he opened his eyes. But the familiar dimness of his room gradually came into focus, bringing with it the stillness of the morning.

It was raining outside, making the sunlight through his windows seem grayer than anything else. His medals and awards lined the wall opposite his bed, glinting faintly in the grayish light filtering through the window. They'd usually bring him comfort, reminders of the hard work and endless drills that had led him here. But this morning, they seemed dull, almost mocking, as if asking what all that effort was really for.

With tired, sore legs, he walked across his room, flicking the lights on. Not that it made a big difference. But at least the yellow hue of the lamp gave the room a semblance of the color it lacked today.

Max rubbed his hand, wincing as he flexed his fingers. The ache settled in—a sharp reminder of the panic that had woken him. He could still feel the remnants of the nightmare clinging to him, thick and sticky, refusing to let go. It was as if he had actually been there, chased and drugged and trapped. It felt so real; he found himself wondering at what point he had fallen asleep yesterday.

A sudden beeping answered him: his alarm blared obnoxiously, the same way it did every morning before school. Today was Friday.

Begrudgingly, Max silenced the alarm and put his clothes on, muttering expletives under his breath as he considered what this said about him. What kind of person had such long dreams? Was Dawn even real? That was a creepy thought. He surely didn’t think about Ted Spankoffski long enough to create a child of his in his head, but the evidence was undeniable. Though he could’ve sworn he only ever thought about Ted when he was really drunk, and that was always about the man in the yellow jacket.

Perhaps his mind was trying to pay him back in its own vicarious way? Oh well, Max didn’t care anymore. He didn’t have any debt, and he certainly didn’t want to pay it back. If he had it, that is.

Before he could wallow too long in his own thoughts, a voice bellowed through the house.

“Max!” His dad. How lovely. “Pick up your fucking phone, you idiot! It’s driving me fuck nuts!”

Max winced at his dad’s voice unceremoniously cutting through the house. He looked over at his nightstand, where his phone would usually be charging between a pair of socks that he honestly should have put in the laundry weeks ago and a porno magazine that he had placed there 2 years ago and never removed. But his phone was nowhere to be found.

He checked his pocket too. He had left his phone in there once when he went to bed, so it wasn’t a terrible guess. But his hand found nothing but the cold metal of an old key that surely didn’t fit in any door at his house.

This old-ass key from his pocket looked like it had been taken right out of his creepy mansion nightmare. It was gilded metal. The head of the key resembled a goat's head.

Was he going crazy?

First, he had dreams about Richie and Ted, a combination he never expected. Then he couldn’t find his phone, and he was carrying weird keys around. He was 18 for God’s sake, he never let his phone out of sight. Scowling, he scanned his messy room for any sign of his phone, shoving clothes and random papers aside. Fuck, where was it?

His only hint soon came in the form of a high-pitched ringing from somewhere in the house. Finally, the dots connected. His phone was ringing somewhere in the house and his loser dad was more inclined to yell at Max than to just hang up.

He gritted his teeth, clenching his injured hand as he stomped out of his room, muttering curses under his breath. The faint, high-pitched ring was coming from somewhere downstairs, adding to his frustration with every step.

“Great,” he mumbled. “Fuckin’ awesome.”

He half-jogged down the stairs, following the sound. It was coming from the kitchen, which made zero sense because he’d never leave his phone there. Shoving aside a few half-empty boxes of cereal and dirty dishes, he finally spotted it, wedged between the countertop and the toaster.

The caller ID was someone in his contacts: Shit Lips.

“What the hell?” He mumbled. The whole thing confused him. Since when did Lipschitz have his number? A few seconds passed before Lipschitz hung up again. This was mindfuckery at its peak and he would’ve picked up but the nerd stopped calling.

How ironic was it to have a nightmare about him only to be called by him the next day?

“Who was it?” His dad’s voice boomed from the living room.

“Some nerd,” Max yelled back. “I’ll have to kick his ass.”

As he spoke, he changed the name from Shit Lips to Richie in his contacts. He just felt like it and he lived in a free country.

Max pocketed the phone, still scowling. Richie calling him was a bizarre coincidence that he didn’t have the energy to dwell on right now. But as he replayed the nightmare in his head, one detail kept sticking out: Dawn. The baby that somehow managed to be the catalyst for why everything went wrong in the first place.

Without fully realizing why, he found himself wandering to the edge of the kitchen, where he could see his dad’s legs on the coffee table and the ring of beer bottles surrounding him like little cultists around a pentagram. Max hesitated in the doorway, feeling like an idiot even considering the question, but he needed to ask.

“Hey Dad,” He stated, feeling a little dumb for needing to stand this far away.

“The fuck do you want?”

“You know Ted Spankoffski?”

“No.” Short and sweet. A little curt like he was pissed that Max was even talking to him. “Seen the slut around. Ain’t he a hooker?”

Max gritted his teeth, his dad’s tone doing nothing to quell the gnawing curiosity. He shoved his hands in his pockets, half-turning as if he was done, but something made him push a bit more.

"I dunno, maybe, well… do you know if he’s got kids or anything? Like, a little girl maybe?"

Despite only being able to see father’s legs from this angle, he could tell he was getting irritated. “Spankoffski’s too young for kids.”

“He’s, like, 30.”

He half-expected to be yelled at for talking back, but a third voice joined their conversation. Max hadn't even realized his dad had a guest over.

“35.” The voice said. “He’s 35.”

Max froze, his heart thumping as he processed the new voice—a casual, almost amused tone that seemed too familiar to be comforting. He didn’t even have to look up to know that something was off. His mouth went dry, and his fingers instinctively curled into fists, the dull ache in his hand spiking as he clenched it.

Where did he recognize that voice from? Surely, somewhere bad, given his reaction to it.

He stepped into the living room, noting the tension in his dad’s body. It was like he refused to look at him, staring instead at the dirty window on his other side. Right next to him, looking completely out of context sat a man. He wore a wide smile that bared a set of large yellowish teeth. His dark-blond hair was greasy and his frame thin.

Despite being indoors, he wore a jacket.

It was the man in the yellow jacket.

Despite 12 years having passed, the man hadn't aged a day.

“What the-” Max never finished the sentence, too stunned to speak. Memories flooded his mind of that morning: the rain, the gray clouds, the desolate street. The number of times he had pondered what would have happened if Spankoffski hadn’t taken a well-timed smoke break in the rain was not healthy for Max’s mind.

“You’re right.” The man said, his smile stretching over his cheeks. “He does have a kid now.”

This was impossible. It wasn’t real. Simple as that.

There was no conceivable way that this man he had run into twelve years could now sit like a guest on his couch. Untouched by time.

“Dad,” he croaked, a pathetic, one-syllable plea. But his father was of no use nor help, staring out the window like a statue. Only occasionally did his angry eyes find Max as if to scold him for something he could never really figure out.

“She’s a special kid,” The man in the yellow started to laugh, an awful hiccupping noise that seemed to choke and delight him. “Across every universe, every timeline, every dimension, there is only one little Dawn. In my woven tapestry of reality, she is but a single little thread, so dearly loved and so terribly fragile.” The man was thrown into a hiccupping fit, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets, his breathing erratic. His tongue, slimy and long, licked a snail trail around his lips.  “She’s a limited edition Spankoffski. My sweet, precious collector’s item.”

The world grew larger around Max as he slowly backed away, each step shorter than the last. The walls grew taller and the floor longer. Larger than before, the man stood up. Despite his monstrous size, he appeared to fit the proportions of the rest of the living room.

Breathing heavily, Max looked at his hands. They looked younger, less ragged, and softer. The room wasn’t growing larger, he was growing smaller, shrinking into the same weak little kid from all those years ago.

“How-” he tried to speak but clasped a hand over his mouth immediately. His voice was younger too.

This was a nightmare. Surely, just a terrible, terrible nightmare, and soon, he’d wake up in his bed and be glad that none of this ever happened. With a hammering heart, he shut his eyes tight, wishing himself awake as his whole body trembled.

“My Teddy bear knows,” Colossal feet slammed into the floor as the man came closer, the roaring of his steps nearly drowning out the sound of Max’s pounding heart. “He knows, he must know that his little girl is special. That’s why he never let me get close to her, he was always there or Petey was there, and they distract me by being there because they are just my favorite people in the whole wide world!” There was a manic happiness in the man’s tone, like a small child speaking of his favorite cartoon. “I got so desperate, Maxie, I even tried to kill him myself. I tried to stab my beloved Teddy bear.”

Max’s breath hitched as the man in the yellow jacket leaned closer, the stench of his breath, like decay and rot, forcing its way up his nostrils. Every instinct screamed at Max to move, to run, but his feet were frozen, sinking into the carpet as though it were quicksand. He couldn’t open his eyes, fearing that he’d never wake up if he did.

“But that just made him more scared,” the man continued. He was right in front of Max, his body twisting as the sounds of bones cracking and sinew snapping filled the air. “He took the nursery key, and he keeps it in his pocket all the time. All the time.”

His body and mind younger, and more vulnerable, Max was reduced to tears. Hot wet drops forced their way through his squeezed-shut eyelids, making streaks down his cheeks. He tried to cover his ears but the resounding, manic voice of the man kept forcing through.

He didn’t understand why he was doing this, why he was here, why he was lying to him. He knew Ted hadn't taken the nursery key, because Max had used it to lock the door. Max had held it in his hand and marveled at the craftsmanship.

Max had put it in his pocket. He could feel the weight of it in there.

The key also meant he wasn’t dreaming. It was evidence, a physical manifestation of the world he had come from. His breath hitched as he reached into his pocket, feeling the cool, hard metal of the nursery key pressing into his palm. It was real. Solid.

“I’m not lying, Maxie,” the man’s voice took on a softer tone, as the vile noises stopped, the man’s transformation complete. As though reading Max’s thoughts he continued, “He took it. But my house is funny like that. Some keys for some rooms and other keys for others.” Despite his eyes being closed, Max could tell the man was reaching a hand out. “Give it to me, please. I ask nicely.”

Max’s grip tightened around the key, the cold metal biting into his palm. There was no way he was handing it over—not to him, not to anyone. His fingers clenched tighter, defiant, his small, trembling body refusing to give in.

He forced one eye open, looking at the thing in front of him. Two colossal yellow eyes stared back at him. They gleamed with an unnatural intensity, their strange glow casting the shadows of the room into sharper, more menacing shapes. His pupils were black squares, almost too large, like doors to different worlds. In one of the doors, a single little white light peered through, like a keyhole through a door.

Horns like twisted branches protruded from its head, a dark crown. The creature loomed over him, its grotesque features pulled into a disturbingly eager grin, revealing jagged teeth that seemed too large to fit its mouth. The stench of decay intensified as it leaned even closer, its forked tongue flicking out briefly, tasting the air between them.

It dawned on him then how silly he had been. Of course, this creature wasn’t the man in the yellow jacket. He had simply been too caught up in his fear to recognize it. The truth was, the man in the yellow jacket was a weak, pathetic excuse for a person, a misfit who ran off the second someone his own size challenged him. But in Max’s mind, he had been so much more than that.

This creature towering over him was something else entirely. A twisted, monstrous embodiment of everything that man had tried to be, everything Max’s fear had built him up to be.

“Are you… Tinky?” It was a whisper, a pathetic little murmur.

It laughed again, a painful hiccupping fit, each sound clawing at Max's insides as the creature's grin spread wider, jagged teeth catching the dim light. “Ding, ding, ding! You’ve guessed it!” T’noy Karaxis announced with a cruel joy. Max was face-to-face with T’noy Karaxis. It leaned in, looming closer until its rancid breath washed over him, each exhale thick with the smell of rot.

“Why did you draw that spider?” The laughter ceased, replaced by absolute disdain. “You scratched it into the nursery door with your nails. You filed down your fingertips. Why did you do that?” The already humongous eyes widened and the creature took a step back, mumbling more to himself than to Max, “Did she take over?”

“Who…?” Max tried to speak, but his voice was once again nothing more than a pathetic murmur. He couldn’t feasibly explain why he scratched that spider into the door.

Tinky murmured loudly, incomprehensible sounds in a language Max didn’t understand. Its hulking form shuffling back and forth as if struggling with an answer. Max could barely breathe, still clutching the key in his pocket, his heart pounding with a desperate need to escape.

“Stupid, fucking bitch!” T’noy Karaxis shuffled faster and faster until it was running around the room, ripping furniture apart and smashing windows. It ripped Max's dad apart and out spilled feathers and stuffing. It tore through the room, its hulking form crashing into walls and shattering glass as if each movement was a reaction to some unseen fury. The air filled with the sound of splintering wood and scraping claws, a cacophony that pounded in Max’s ears. He pressed himself against the wall, desperately making himself invisible, his hand still wrapped around the key in his pocket.

The creature’s rampage was both terrifying and bizarre, each violent act seeming more like a desperate ritual than mindless destruction. Its enormous hooves slammed against the walls, leaving deep, jagged gouges, while its jagged teeth gnawed at the remnants of the shattered window frame. It muttered furiously in that same indecipherable language, words filled with venom, as though cursing the very air.

Then, suddenly, T’noy Karaxis stopped mid-lunge, his head snapping toward Max with a disturbing clarity. A smile, almost friendly but with a sinister nature, stretched across his face. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

Max’s blood ran cold. T’noy Karaxis's face twisted with an unsettling calm as the walls trembled, deep cracks splintering outward like the roots of some sinister tree. The floor shuddered. The cracks that snaked through the walls grew wider, splintering further as if a giant child was destroying its dollhouse. The very air around him grew thick and suffocating, each breath a struggle as the room groaned and shivered.

A panicked voice called out to him, “Max? Max!” And the house shook harder.

Suddenly, the floor gave way beneath him, crumbling like dried leaves, and Max plunged into darkness. His hands flailed, grasping at empty air, the sensation of free-fall twisting his stomach. There was nothing to hold onto, only an endless, chilling void below.

He fell and fell, spiraling down through the dark, the remnants of the house fading away above him. Shadows swirled around him, shapes and whispers, haunting fragments of the nightmarish creature’s words echoing in his ears. Every second stretched into eternity, his heartbeat a drumbeat of terror echoing through the abyss.

With a final, gut-wrenching jolt, Max’s eyes flew open, his body jerking upright. He was on a stale, thin mattress in a mostly barren room aside from a crib. His mouth tasted like bile and his whole body was overheating.

Richie was sitting on his knees, eyes filled with panic that slowly melted away as he stared at Max. He was almost inspecting him.  

It was all real. He was back in the nursery.

Richie looked like he was on the edge of breaking down, his hands hovering close, uncertain. “Max… you’re—you’re okay. You’re back. Are you… you’re okay, right?”

Max’s throat hurt in a very particular way and he sent himself into a coughing fit. The burning sensation in his throat was like when you accidentally inhale a drink. It didn’t take long to realize why it felt that way. There was a small puddle of vomit next to him. He had puked in his sleep.

He coughed and coughed, barely given a chance to breathe. Before he knew it, he was crying too. His throat burned, his lungs felt like they’d been scalded, and the acrid taste in his mouth from the vomit twisted his stomach further. His body was a chaotic mess, his mind a whirlpool of fear, and he couldn’t stop the tears that started to fall.

“I… I wanna go home.” He pathetically whimpered, which was weird, because Max had never wanted to go home in his entire life.

Breaking down in front of Richie was the last thing Max wanted, but he was too exhausted to hold it together. Richie, on his knees beside him, looked both stricken and uncertain, his hands hovering as if he wanted to help but was afraid of making things worse. It took him several long seconds before he gently pulled Max into a hug.

Chapter Text

Max knew he had thrown up in his sleep. Richie explained that when he woke up, he found Max convulsing in a strange way that seemed like a seizure. He had been choking on his vomit until Richie had turned him to the side. Yes, he did thank him.

The thought that he had been that close to dying, by drowning in vomit wasn't simply vile , it was terrifying. T’noy Karaxis had said he didn’t want to talk anymore and immediately Max started seizing and choking. It was surely intentional—an intentional, horrifying attempt at Max’s life.

The theory quickly fell from his lips the second Richie had told him. Saying that then prompted him to tell Richie everything that had happened to him since he got here. Sparing no detail, not even the details from the weird consciousness-hopping dreams or the time fuckery phone calls.

Richie was smarter than Max and if either of them could figure out what was happening and what to do, it was him. But he needed all the hints.

A good cry, a hug, and a near-death experience were all it took to spur into action. He was done waiting around for something scary to happen, or hogging the phone for something to calm him down. It was time for action.

“H mm, maybe we should start with the attic, ” Richie said.

Immediately, Max responded, “ Fuck no, I don’t wanna go back up there, ” It was more of a whimper than a demand or a statement.

“O f course not, ” Richie stood up. He didn't look at all like he had expected anything else from Max. “ You should stay here. Keep Dawn safe .”

Max was left in the dimly lit room, the lingering taste of bile still sour in his mouth, and a shiver running through his body. The stench of his puke still lingered, wafting around the room. Richie had tried to clean it earlier but got distracted by Max’s crying info dump.

Something stirred, slightly in his peripheral, sending a spike of adrenaline through. But it was just Dawn, stirring in her crib like any other baby. Just a baby, Max told himself. She was just a baby, sleeping . Like Dani.

Sleeping.

In a flash, Max was on his feet, two hands around Dawn’s tiny belly, picking her up. “ Hey, wake up! ” he whispered, shaking her very gently . She made a little disgruntled face but didn't start crying. Her eyes, big and confused , stared into Max’s .

He placed a hand under her head and the other under her back, then he lifted her to his chest, holding her body against his.

“Hi, Dawn,” He made his voice higher pitched than usual, like you do with babies. “I know you wanna sleep. But you can’t do that right now, okay?” He paused as if waiting for a response, but all he received was baby babble and little fingers trying to grab at his shirt, his hair, and his face.

He paced back and forth, cradling her against his chest as she babbled. She was very talkative. At the ripe age o f…e h, who knows?, she was already telling him a grand story about … something. Whatever babies talked about. Did she even form thoughts? Did she even know she was alive?

Max continued pacing, the soft weight of Dawn against his chest strangely comforting in a way he hadn’t expected. Soon her story ended, and she started inspecting Max. He slowed his pacing, feeling Dawn's little hands gently touch his face, as if she was trying to figure out who he was, or perhaps how he worked. She studied him with wide, curious eyes, her gaze intent and steady, even for such a young baby.

Tinky had called her special. He said there was no one like her across timelines, dimensions, and all that jazz. Maybe he was onto something? Perhaps it was a metaphor? But then again, Tinky said a lot of things that didn’t make sense to Max. For one, the spider scratches in the nursery door made zero sense to Max. Right now, he could feel the tightness of the Band-Aids on his fingertips. He couldn’t see how that could mean anything other than temporary insanity. His mind was an unstable mess at the moment and he wouldn't try to deny it.

Thoughtlessly, he shifted Dawn in his arms, holding her with one hand while the other went to touch the key in his pocket. The metal burned cold against his fingers, a stark reminder of the terror he felt when faced with Karaxis.

He wanted to cry again, to curl up into a ball and hope everything would simply go away. But he couldn’t do that, not when he knew it would only lead to a worse outcome.

As he shifted Dawn once again in his arms, something in the room seemed to shift with him. A soft click echoed from the hallway—the door creaking open. Max froze, instinctively tightening his hold on the baby.

“M ax? ” Richie’s voice called out from the doorway. Max turned to look at him. He was standing right outside the nursery door, looking at Max. “ You said, Tinky talked about a key. Can I see it ?”

Max’s heart skipped a beat, his grip tightening around the baby in his arms as his pulse quickened. Richie’s words hung in the air, sharp and precise, cutting through the haze of Max’s thoughts. A key. The key in his pocket. Dawn sat frozen in his arms , the hairs on her nearly stood straight.

“T he key? ” Max asked, stupidly. “ Yes, yes, you can see it! You can have it !”

Driven by a selfish desire to not hold or look at or even be near that awful thing which clearly put a target on his back, Max started toward Richie.

His steps were quick, almost frantic as he moved toward Richie, his arms still tightly cradling Dawn against his chest. The coldness of the key in his pocket felt was a weight he couldn’t carry anymore. As he reached Richie, Max pulled the key out of his pocket with trembling fingers. However, the teeth seemed to catch on the cloth of his pants pocket, forcing him to look down as he fiddled with getting it out.

He stood inside the nursery, Richie stood right outside.

“J ust, uh, wait a sec, ” Max mumbled as he tried to free the key from the polyester strings that seemed to cling for dear life.

“C ome on, Max, ” Richie’s voice was irritated. “ I don’t have all year, dumbass .”

Caught off guard by the sudden insult, Max looked up at Richie, ready to insult him right back and harder. It wasn’t the first time Richie had insulted him tonight, but this was just uncalled for. However, he noticed something; a small slip of the mask. Richie’s eyes were blue. Max had noticed that many times over the years, often taken aback by it like the sky had fallen and landed right in the nerd’s face, twice. It was pretty, if a little intense.

But there he stood, right outside the nursery, eyes green like the snaking trees of Witchwood forest. The kind of green that could only occur if a perfectly vibrant blue had been intercepted by a sickly jaundiced yellow.

Max's breath caught in his throat; his eyes fixed on those illness green ones staring back at him from what should have been Richie’s face. He took a shaky step back, holding Dawn closer against his chest, feeling the tiny, warm weight of her body.

“What’s wrong?” ‘Richie’ asked, his voice too smooth. It didn’t have the same cracks that Richie’s did.

“I - I just- ” Scouring his brain for any possible thing to say or reason to give, Max couldn’t conjure up a single thing. “ I- You -”

He took another step back, then another until his back was pressed up to the wall. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he’d fall right through and get out of this place. He held Dawn impossibly closer, squeezing her harder than he probably should.

He expected laughter , howling, turbulent laughter as the thing pretending to be Richie noticed his obvious distress. For all Max knew, nothing stopped it from walking right in and doing what it wanted, be it taking the key o r taking Dawn o r killing Max or all at once.

But no laughter filled the room. ‘Richie’ simply scowled and walked away from the wide-open door, its footsteps echoing down the hall.

“ I ’m back! ” Richie walked right into the nursery, arms filled with at least a dozen books, “ I took just about everything that didn’t look like a basic bitch diary. God, that man writes a TON! ” He clearly had more to say, but he shut up the moment he saw Max.

Like any stable and rational person, Max was staving off another one of his episodes. The ones Richie called panic attacks, but Max was still certain was more a physical illness or something. Whatever it was, it sucked. Not trusting himself, he had placed Dawn back in the crib, then simply sunk to the ground, breathing heavy, body hot and cold, head spinning.

“M ax? ” Richie took a step closer, “ Are you okay ?”

It suddenly struck him that maybe, this wasn’t the real Richie either. What if the fucker from before had just come back?

Max jumped to his feet, ready to fucking attack. His pulse pounded, and an icy dread swept over him as he tried to make sense of the situation. Richie scurried out of the nursery, making sure to get some distance from Max. The real Richie would probably act this way, but the memory of those sickly green eyes outside the door haunted him. He forced himself to look at Richie—this Richie—and search for any trace of that otherness.

He seemed perfectly Richie-like, you know, the same way the fake Richie seemed.

“Y ou stay far away from me! ” Max’s voice cracked, but he steadied himself, putting as much distance as he could between him and the approaching figure.

Richie took another several steps back , he was practically just walking down the hallway. His eyes were wide with shock. His arms sagged slightly under the weight of the books as he took in Max’s wild, defensive stance.

“W hat? ” he uttered, mostly confused but perhaps a little scared. His voice cracked. “ Why ?”

“N ice try, Tinky! ” From his spot, Max examined Richie. The eyes were the right color this time, and he couldn’t immediately notice any other flaws. “ I know you’re not Richie !”

“U h, yes, I am, ” Richie retorted, taking a step closer only to immediately go back . “ Why the fuck would I be Tinky ?”

Max scowled, his mind racing, piecing together fragments of the night while battling the onslaught of panic still clawing at his chest. “You think I’m stupid?” He glared up at Richie, or the thing pretending to be Richie, ready to throw out the first insult that crossed his mind. “Like I can’t tell when I’m being messed with?”

Richie looked genuinely rattled, shifting his weight uncomfortably and running a hand through his hair. “ Max, I don’t know what you saw, but I promise you, it’s me. Why would Tinky—or anything else—show up with a pile of books to help you ?”

Max’s eyes darted from Richie’s face to the books in his arms, his suspicion wavering just a bit. It was Richie-like to bring books to anything. Richie-like being a synonym for the nerdiest shit Max had ever seen . “ I don’t know, ” Max muttered, still clutching his knees to his chest, his heart pounding. “ I don’t know anything right now. I just saw … you, or someone like you. But not you. I don’t even know that you’re you ... you know ?”

Richie looked genuinely sympathetic at Max, gently placing the pile of books on the floor, only to pick one back up. A pristine, white book that seemed almost ethereal compared to the others. “ I can prove that I’m the real Richie .”

There was literally nothing Max wanted more, so he obviously said, “ Yes , okay , okay, sure, prove it .”

Richie started flipping the pages in the pretty book, as he did so, he spoke, “You said you first learned about Tinky from a diary in the attic.” Dust sprung up from the paper, creating little clouds around him. “So, I obviously went to look there, to see if I could find something to learn more. Apparently, Tinky isn’t the only supernatural being that exists, and they’re not all malevolent.”

He beckoned Max closer with the swing of a hand. While every cell in his body told him not to, Max decided to follow anyway. The page he flipped to had an illustration on it ; a spider, made up of tiny scribbles. It was the exact same carving Max had made on the door to the nursery.

“I t says here, ” Richie started, “ that this is a protection spell. It harnesses the power of ‘ The Queen in White’ to protect any area and anything inside that area from beings with malevolent intent. Max, if I'm not the real Richie, I won't be able to walk through this door. ”

Cautiously, Max took the book from Richie’s hands, reading over the text. Indeed, Richie’s summary was quite precise. As he read, the words of T’noy Karaxis echoed in his mind: Did she take over?

As he read, Richie stepped into the nursery.

Perhaps filing down his nails and fingertips on a wooden door wasn’t simply an act of temporary insanity. Quietly, he muttered, “ I told you God is a woman .”

Max gingerly turned the page, his eye drooping and his head lulling. He had been reading for three hours subjectively, and forty-five minutes objectively. Despite having passed honors English (which he bragged about a lot), his reading speed was still that of a snail. A very intelligent snail, given that it was able to read, but a snail nonetheless.

It didn’t help that every shadow, every flicker of the nursery ceiling lamp sent a shudder down his aching body. He had found himself impossibly aware of it; the stinging in his foot where the glass had penetrated his skin, the ache in his back from when he fell from the attic, every sharp stab of his lungs when he breathed too deep, also caused by falling from the attic.

But he was especially aware of the tightness of the Band-Aids on his skinned fingertips. They were proof that this ‘ Queen in White ’ was real, that there was a benevolent being out there willing to help them, and so he had to keep reading. Maybe somewhere in this pristine white book, he’d find something. He turned to a new chapter named:

‘D o Ut Des

The Queen in White (godly name unknown) punishes where her brothers reward. To be a follower of the Queen is to devote oneself to a life of torment and hardship, for her benevolence is never shown unequally.

Nibblenephim, the one who feasts in the dark, compensates its followers with worlds of riches and treasure, lives of luxury and bliss to satiate any greed and gluttony. Wiggog Y’wrath , the king in black, gives power beyond comprehension; the followers of Wiggog have evolved humanity from the dust where they came to the ash they will become. They are the beginning and they will be the end .’

Max frowned at the page, the words sinking in slowly. A life of torment and hardship. Great, just what he needed—more of that. But he couldn’t help being intrigued by this Queen in White, who offered protection but expected resilience and sacrifice in return . He supposed he already experienced it; protecting the nursery in return for his fingertips being filed down on a wooden door. Her ‘ benevolence ’ sounded brutal, a contract that demanded grit and offered nothing more than the knowledge that you’re a ‘ good guy ’ in return. It sounded like the author wasn’t a big fan of The Queen in White.

He skimmed over the next few lines, not particularly interested in how these other Gods operated with their followers. He only picked up on the most important bits about each God; Pokotho, the singular voice, offered fame and fortune, an immortality of sorts, and Blinklotep, the watcher with a thousand eyes, offered knowledge of everything that has been, is, and will be.

Max's eyes kept drooping as he skimmed over the ornate descriptions of gods and goddesses, the high-sounding rewards they offered feeling almost laughably out of reach. Fame, fortune, power—none of it made sense for someone just trying to survive the night without another panic attack. He wondered briefly if he should try to make a deal with one of these gods , just to see if they could give it something in return for getting Tinky to back off. But they’d probably expect something worse in return, like ' Start World War 3! ' or ' Become a mathlete for a month !'

But then he froze, his breath catching as he saw it: T’noy Karaxis.

The mere mention of T’noy Karaxis sent an icy wave through his body, jolting him more effectively than any energy drink could. He forced himself to focus, his eyes skimming over every word with grim intensity like he was trying to extract venom from the page (with his eyes for some dumbass reason).

T’noy Karaxis. The God of Time and Space. His fingers twitched over the page, feeling the tug of dread prickling up his arms. Tinky had haunted his dreams, invaded his sleep, and dragged him through half-conscious memories that he’d rather let rot in his brain. And now, reading about him, he felt that familiar chill crawl up his spine, the reminder that he was being watched, manipulated.

He forced himself to keep reading.

‘ T ’noy Karaxis is not merciful. He grants the illusion of freedom while ensnaring his opposition in the webs of their own choices and regrets. He makes them prisoners of time, trapped in the echoes of their past, unable to change the path they walked or the mistakes they made. Adversaries of T’noy live many lives, but their path remains a circle. Followers of Karaxis are rewarded with avoiding this fate. A shapeshifting trickster of boundless patience, T’noy never takes without being given .’

The urge to cry was back in full force. Fuck, was this who he was up against? He unfortunately recognized everything written about Tinky. All night, Max had been forced to relive some of the worst experiences of his life and even shit from other people’s lives , and it was all thanks to that motherfucker keeping him stuck in the past. This being who couldn’t take the key from him by force, but could create an entire house to keep him trapped.

It suddenly made sense to him why Tinky hadn't simply killed Ted when he tried to. He couldn’t. Since he only received, he literally couldn’t take Ted’s life not when Ted so clearly didn’t want to give it up. The thought somehow calmed Max a bit. After all, Tinky hadn't been able to kill Max either, because Richie was there to save him.

He gently moved Richie a little bit. He had fallen asleep on Max's shoulder a while ago, which had initially made Max incredibly uncomfortable (though he didn’t do anything about it) since who knew what Tinky could do to him while he slept, but after few minutes Max concluded that he simply had to keep an eye on him, then he’d be safe. He would never admit it out loud, but he did also enjoy the feeling of having the nerd that close. Sue him, he needed some source of comfort.

He moved Richie so that instead of leaning on him, he was now lying in his lap . A tricky operation, but a successful one. Riche stayed asleep and Max got to feel blood rush to his arm again. He shook away the tingling in his fingertips then let his hand rest on Richie’s shoulder, gliding it up and down his arm.

He knew now, that Tinky had a weakness: he couldn’t take things by force. That was something. He decided to keep reading, looking for more of such weaknesses. He could already conclude that Tinky was able to invade his mind and use his memories against him. But it seemed like they had to be at the forefront of the mind for Tinky to see them. So that was also a weakness.

‘ To be loved by a God is a tremendous privilege only reserved for the most devoted of followers. This is a consensus among all the gods, Queen in White and Lords in Black alike. Except for T’noy Karaxis. T’noy Karaxis, unlike others of his ilk, does not desire devotion — rude, isn’t it, Max?’

Max stopped reading, blinked, rubbed his eyes, shook his head, looked back at the page, and repeated that action another few times. But no matter how many times he did it, the conclusion was still the same. His name was written in the book. It was a question directed at him.

‘Rude, isn’t it, Max?’ He read on, ‘This book was written about me and for me; it’s even my signature color. Yet Tinky has taken over it. But I suppose it was in his house after all.’

With a thud, Max slammed the book shut. He was clearly sleep-deprived and hallucinating. Oh, who was he kidding? He was obviously not sleep-deprived , he had just been sleeping. Whatever. He didn’t care , actually .

The book landed hard on the floor, kicking up dust and shooing away spiders. Max would pick it back up later, but for now, he would give himself a moment to breathe. If Tinky wanted to break him down, mess with his mind, and make him surrender, the most important thing he’d focus on was keeping Max on edge.

So, of course, Max was going to calm the fuck down, through sheer force of will.

And by focusing on something else.

He placed his hand on Richie’s back, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt.

Chapter Text

Max had decided to stop looking at Richie. That nerd was compromising his plans to calm down. In fact, having him sleep in his lap was counterproductive as well. It turned out, that when Max wasn’t focused on reading, he was focused on Richie, and Richie was surprisingly noisy while he slept. He didn’t snore, but he whimpered in a way that made Max nervous. Not that Max was afraid that Richie was getting smacked by Tinky, but it physically felt like nerves since his heart rate sped up. Again, not calming down.

And so, he shuffled ever so lightly away from Richie, moving an unused book under his head to use as a pillow. Brute forcing his way to calm down was not working. Richie was fucking it all up. Usually, cuddling with someone was calming for Max, one time Jason and Kyle had basically crushed him while watching a movie; he had never been so relaxed before in his life. But Richie did not have the desired effect.

It wasn’t fear. Richie was fine. There was no reason to think otherwise. And yet, every soft whimper he made gnawed at Max, making his heart race and his face heat up with a restlessness he couldn’t shake. He clenched his jaw. This wasn't helping.

So, that was why he shook Richie like a nerdy ragdoll.

“Wha…” Richie’s voice was thick with sleep, his eyes fluttering open. He rubbed the remaining sleep out of them groggily as he sat up. “Hello…?”

“You need to calm down,” Max stated, plopping down next to Richie. “We are going to calm down.”

“Mhm, okay.” Richie took this as an invitation to lean against Max’s shoulder. Reduced to a pillow once again.  

Max huffed but didn’t push Richie away. He leaned back against the nursery wall, the cracked paint cool against his aching shoulders, and resigned to the fact that Richie was apparently determined to stay attached to the sleeping realm. Richie’s weight was familiar now, and though Max would never admit it, there was something reassuring about it—like a tether to reality when everything else felt so impossibly fragile.

“What were you dreaming about?” Max asked, his voice casual but quieter than usual.

Richie mumbled something incoherent, still half-asleep. He shifted slightly, burrowing closer like he was trying to find the right spot. Max rolled his eyes but let him stay, his own exhaustion keeping him from protesting too hard.

After a pause, he shook his shoulder a little bit, forcing Richie awake. “I’m serious, loser,” he pressed, “You were whimpering like a kicked puppy.”

Richie blinked at Max, his eyes glassy with sleep. “Was I?” he murmured, voice slurred and confused. His lips curled into a small grin. “I guess it fits the theme. What was it you called me? A two-legged chihuahua?”

“One-legged. I like dogs,” Max mumbled, honestly surprised Richie remembered the details of an insult he had hurled at him however many hours ago. It felt like half a day had passed, but with the god of time and space messing with them who knew how long it had actually been? “But I’m serious though, are you okay?”

Richie quit leaning against Max, instead using his arm to sit up fully. “I’m fine,” he muttered, “It wasn’t very scary. Tinky clearly doesn’t know me at all.” The last part was obviously a joke, but Richie’s delivery made it fall flat.

Max didn’t respond, he just stayed silent, waiting for Richie to get uncomfortable in the silence and rat himself out. “Y-you know,” Richie tried and failed to not stutter. “If he really knew me, he’d put me in Corpse Party or… or a Junji Ito manga, but he didn’t do that so it’s all good.”

Truly, a stupid statement. At this point, Max knew better than anyone how Tinky messed with his targets; twisting time and using their traumas against them. Richie wasn’t Tinky’s main target, Max was, given that he had the key that Tinky so clearly wanted and was seemingly the one who had to hand Dawn over. But surely, Richie was affected too.

But what traumas did Richie have? Did he have any that were severe enough to actually be used against him?

“Oh,” The realization hit Max like a bullet train, and he had to divert his eyes to a completely different corner of the room. “Right, yeah, okay. Not scary.” He was stupid, genuinely the most ridiculous idiot. Of course, someone who had been bullied for the better part of a decade had trauma. “My bad.”

Richie nodded, “Yeah, not scary at all,” He leaned on Max again. “Because, I’m smart, Max. I know that you know that. I could tell the difference.”

“How?” Max looked back at Richie.

“You were in my dream, you know that,” Richie stated, very matter-of-factly. He omitted the part about what Max was doing in the dream. “And you didn’t make sense to me, because you were saying things you wouldn’t say and doing things you wouldn’t do.” He placed a hand on Max, “But the final straw was when you made a Made in Abyss reference; I know you’d never watch that. It’s all in the details.” He was absolutely right; Max didn’t even know what that show was. “Besides, I noticed that you and all the other people around only seemed to know things I had thought about not too long ago. Like, Tinky could only see things that dominate your thoughts.”

“Okay, smart ass,” Max huffed, a little jealous. God, he wished he could see through Tinky’s tricks like that. “I think he started talking to me through that book.”

“Really?” Richie took the white book and opened it. “How? Where?”

“Yeah, literally wrote to me, even used my name,” Max hesitated, needing to remember the chapter name. “Uhm, Do Ut Des was the chapter I think.”

“I give so you may give,” Richie muttered as he flipped through the pages, eyes skimming the text.

“What?”

“That’s what it means; Do ut des, I give so you may give.” Richie looked at him like he was confused that Max didn’t already know that. “It’s a Roman saying about giving to the gods in order to get gifts in return.” Richie was sharper than Max for sure, within seconds, he had located the spot. He read aloud, “‘Rude, isn’t it, Max?’ Ooh, chills, huh?”

He smiled and looked at Max like the sentiment should be shared, but Max was dumbfounded. This was not a good thing; it showed that Tinky was the one orchestrating what was written in this and all the other books and that none of the information in them could be trusted.

“Yeah, chills. In a bad way, right?” he asked, shooting Richie a look that was supposed to say something.

“No, dude,” Richie scooched closer, sitting thigh to thigh with Max and placing the book between them. “Look what it says.” Max knew what it said. He had already read it. “This obviously isn’t Tinky, dummy.”

“Yeah, no. That’s Tinky.” Max deadpanned. Richie swayed, seemingly unable to just sit still. Max had to grab his side and hold him closer.

“They’re literally saying, ‘This book’s supposed to be about me. But Tinky took over,’” retorted Richie.

“Yes, that’s a very Tinky-thing to say.” Max shot back. “I don’t trust it; it needs to burn. In hell preferably.”

“Max, please,” Richie started making puppy eyes at him. Typical, honestly. He couldn’t come up with a good retort so he resorted to begging. Max had been right to compare him to a one-legged chihuahua; he was about as charming as one. Good thing Max had a soft spot for dogs. “You know, that Queen in White lady made you scratch that symbol on the door, so why not trust that she’s the one talking through the book?”

Max had already given in at ‘please’, but as he looked into the blues of Richie’s eyes, he noticed something. This wasn’t just about random writing in a book. It was hope. Richie was hoping that finally, something bigger than them would help, something benevolent would step in. In the span of a few hours, their worldviews had been shattered; they had learned of dark gods and protection spells and sacrifices. Max had taken it well, having always considered himself agnostic despite going to church every Sunday. But Richie probably needed the safety and comfort of a divine protector. Who was Max to deny him that hope?

“Fine…” he muttered, watching Richie light up like a puppy about to get a treat. He clutched the book like a Holy Grail, his excitement radiating off him. He let the book stay open on the page with Max’s name, beneath the initial comment, the page was blank like someone had erased everything that was there before. “So, what, do we just ask it questions?”

A small, delicate script began to form in the blank part of the page. It was like someone was writing on it in ink.

‘No need for questions. I already have so many things I need to tell you!’

Max felt his hair rise. He wanted to chuck this book across the room, but Richie was the one holding it and he couldn’t bring himself to rip it from his hands.

‘Let’s start small; please call me Webby. ‘Queen in white’ is my title, not my name. That’s like calling Wiggly ‘the King in Black’ or Tinky ‘the bastard of Time and Space’. Such a mouthful.’

Max’s stomach churned as the words appeared, one by one, like a creeping horror. Webby. The casual tone didn’t help. But he couldn’t help but glance at Richie, who was too absorbed in the book to notice Max’s growing unease. Not to mention, Webby had supposedly kept Tinky out of the nursery this whole time, so she couldn’t be evil per se.

‘Secondly, I’m sorry about your hands, Max. I didn’t want you to get injured, but I was in a rush to cast my spell and ended up hurting you. Again, I am sorry. I hope you see the bigger picture.’

The words stopped. Silence stretched. Richie elbowed Max in the side. Oh shit, he was supposed to respond.

“Uh, it’s cool. I needed to cut my nails anyway.” He didn’t know what else to say.

The message wasn’t just from some casual, benevolent force. The tone, the words, the deliberate way they’d been written… it all felt far too calculated, far too designed to disarm them. Still, Richie’s optimism was infectious and Max couldn’t help but share it.

Before he could think of something else to say, the page shifted again, the ink flowing like a gentle wave, as if the book itself were alive.

‘Thank you for your understanding. I sympathize with your situation. Neither of you asked to be here and to be pitted against Tinky. Of all the lords in black, he is the trickiest.’

“I know that…” Max mumbled quietly at the book as if some elder goddess would care how annoyed and anxious he was. All he did was catch Richie off guard. Maybe he shouldn’t take his paranoia out on the one being helping them.

‘I usually do not involve myself in Tinky’s schemes due to the small scale of them. They only affect Ted and occasionally Peter Spankoffski, which is a reasonable sacrifice all things considered. But now he has endangered too many people for me to stand idly by.’

Max’s foot tapped anxiously on the floor. Now it seemed like Webby was speaking just to speak. Did she even have something to say or do that could help them? They could certainly use it.

Richie was entirely absorbed in the book, his expression glowing with a mix of curiosity and something else—hope, Max realized again. Richie had been desperate for something, anything, to believe in. And now, it seemed he found it in Webby’s words, like a lifeline tossed to someone drowning.

Max ran a hand through his hair, trying to suppress the unease that gnawed at his insides. It was one thing to deal with Tinky—he kind of knew Tinky’s methods, twisted as they were—but he just felt like everything was about to go wrong.

‘Max, you have a key in your pocket.’

Indeed, he did. Not a surprise to anyone, honestly. He pulled it out, looking at the goat’s head it formed.

‘That key opens exactly three doors in this house: the door to safety, the door to the black, and the door to freedom. You need to find the door to freedom — the way out— or behind the door to protection before I destroy this house. If you’re not out by the time I put my plan into motion, you will be considered a sacrifice for the greater good. You know that the nursery door is the door to safety, but the other’

The words stopped. Max felt his heart rate spike, why did the words stop? He wanted to shake the book, rip it to pieces. Webby was going to destroy the house, whether they got out or not. If she could just do that, why not do it when no one was home? Or do it a lot earlier? Max took a deep breath, needing to give this goddess a break. She probably had her reasons, maybe she wasn’t able to before. Maybe Tinky was distracted now because of Richie and Max. Who knew?

But still, he couldn’t get over why the words stopped.

His grip tightened on the key as his pulse quickened. The words in the book had stopped, just when it seemed like they were about to offer some crucial answers. The silence stretched out, the room feeling suddenly colder, darker like the shadows were closing in around them. Max glanced at Richie, who was still absorbed in the book, seemingly waiting for the words to pick back up.

He wanted, no, needed to know what the doors to the black and to freedom were. Surely, the door to freedom would lead them outside, back to their everyday lives. But the door to the black?

“Why’d it stop?” Max muttered under his breath, his eyes flicking from the key in his hand to the book in Richie’s lap.

“I dunno,” Richie whispered, the oppressive silence seemingly forcing him to be quiet.

Almost as soon the words were spoken, the writing picked right back up, the script bigger this time. More rushed:

‘Sorry about that. I lost connection. Where was I? Right, the doors. Yeah, I don’t actually know which doors those other two are, but knowing Tinky he’s probably smart enough to hide them in plain sight. In fact, Tinky’s so proud of his hiding spots, he’ll let you walk right through if you can figure them out. Knowing him, he’s probably shown you both doors already.’

Max took a deep breath. He did have a door in mind, but he wasn’t sure. “What does the door to the black lead to? What the fuck does that mean?”

‘It leads to the black, dumbass. That’s where my brothers live. By opening the door to the black you will unleash not just Tinky but all the lords in black into the world, giving them unimaginable power, not just over this world but all of them. For now, Tinky is able to open it, but he is confined to the house. However, were it to open fully…’

The ink stopped flowing again, leaving a chilling emptiness on the page. Max's grip tightened on the key, the weight of Webby’s words pressing heavily against him. Unleash unimaginable power? Over all worlds? He turned the key over in his hand, the goat’s head emblem feeling ominously cold. Max had been such a silly fool. He knew this whole time.

He knew that dreams were rarely a reliable source for information, but it seemed too convenient that Murray would explain to Ted (in Max’s dream which was honestly more likely to be shifting consciousness or prophetic visions or some shit) that the guy who lived here before Murray had locked the basement door with a key that then disappeared from his deceased body. Perhaps Webby had taken it and then put it in the keyhole of the nursery door when Max wanted to lock it.

It had to be Webby who did it since Tinky clearly wanted that key for himself.

Max’s jaw tightened as the realization settled over him like a suffocating fog. The basement door. It all lined up too well—the way the old key had vanished with the house’s previous occupant, the dream where Murray had let slip its importance, and now Webby’s cryptic mention of Tinky hiding things in plain sight. If that door led to either freedom or the black, then there was no wonder why Tinky wanted that key so much.

‘My theory is that the basement door is the door to freedom,’

What in the ever-living shite? Okay, so, Max had started trusting Webby a little but that shit was all the way gone now.

“The basement!” Richie practically yelled into Max’s ear, his face alight like a firework. “That’s the way out.”

Max blinked, startled by Richie’s sudden outburst. “What? Did we read the same thing? It’s definitely not the way out.”

“Yeah, it is, just- It literally says so.”

Max interrupted him, counting all his arguments on his fingers, “Some guy died after locking the basement door, that door was wide-fucking-open when Tinky was chasing us, there’s a corpse stain right in front of it. That shit spells doom, dude.”

“Or maybe that’s just what Tinky wants you to think.” Richie was pouting, his cheeks puffed out just enough to notice. He was pretty cute. “Sounds more like that guy died while trying to get down to the door, you know, so he could unlock it.”

“He was lying on his back; he had been on his way up.” Max accentuated his point by pointing up. He didn’t know that for sure, but Murray had said he was on his way back up.

“You don’t know that for sure.” Damn, caught lying. “And…”

The words stopped. Richie noticed it first, then Max. The flow of inky letters had started anew on in the book. The words spelled,

‘Remember, Tinky is a trickster.

Tick tock, boys.’

Max’s stomach twisted as the inked words flickered to life once more. The message hung in the air, almost too perfect a timing as if it had been waiting for them to argue, to question each other. All it took was one look at Richie to understand; they had interpreted these words very differently.

“See?” Richie pointed to the words, “Tinky wants you to think the basement door’s bad, so we stay away!”

With no smarter retort, Max stated, “I’m not going down there,” No time for excuses or reasons. What reasons could be good enough to question a literal goddess? “Absolutely not. Never.”

Max was a very, very weak man.

A weak man, now standing at the top of the stairs leading to the basement door. He should’ve known this would happen. Hadn't he always been weak to puppy eyes?

Richie stood on his left side, clutching Dawn tightly, a mix of excitement and nerves playing on his face. If only Max could be that positive. He’d be unstoppable. But no, he was busy looking around every corner and flinching at every sudden noise or flicker of light. They had left the nursery and with that allowed every little evil in this house to close in on them. Not even God could protect them now, where ever she was.

Richie moved onto the first step, but Max immediately grabbed his collar and hauled him back. “You stay here,” It was a split-second decision. Not in a million years would Max allow Richie and a baby to walk first into what might be the end of them. “I’m going down there, and if anything happens, you haul ass. You got that?”

Richie blinked up at him, startled, then frowned. “Okay. I got it,” he said with a nod.

Before Max descended the stairs, he thought about saying some final goodbye type thing. An ‘I’m in love with you’ or ‘…I’m glad you’re the one I got stuck here with’ or something equally sappy. But Max wasn’t built for that. His throat tightened just thinking about it, and the words tangled up in his chest like thorns. Not to mention, it felt too final, like he was insisting that this was the wrong door. It would probably just piss the nerd off.

Still, he needed to say something, “Richie,” he said, after taking the first few steps. “I don’t think you’re a loser. At least not… anymore.”

Richie smiled, “Yeah? We had to fight God together for you to realize that?”

Max huffed a laugh, “We didn’t fight shit.” Then he resumed his descent, each step taking him closer and closer to the basement door. The key weighed heavily in his pocket, almost burning his skin.

He wasn’t just some teenager in some town anymore. He was a pawn in a battle between gods, a foot soldier in a war much bigger than himself. That was why he wasn’t surprised when something, a string perhaps, snagged his ankle, making him lose balance. The perfect little accident to stop him.

He tumbled (honestly pretty embarrassing after his mini-speech to Richie) and fell, reaching the bottom of the stairs by slamming his face and head into the door. The last thing he noticed was the crunching sound of his nose breaking against the hardwood before he was ripped from consciousness, the world descending into darkness.

Chapter Text

Max woke with a start, his head throbbing in sharp, rhythmic waves. The sterile smell of antiseptic hit him first, sharp and clinical. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, far too bright, casting everything in the room with a harsh, white glare. He squinted, his head aching every time he moved. He struggled to breathe, partly because his nose was stuffy, like he had a cold, and partly because of a strange weight on his chest.

His body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and whatever cocktail of painkillers they’d pumped into him. For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, his mind scrambling to make sense of where he was.

A hospital.

He squinted at his chest, eyes landing on Richie’s form lying on it. He unfortunately shot right up to a sitting position the second he noticed Max looking at him. “You’re awake!” he stated, seemingly opening the floodgates to a whole slew of fussing on his end; a series of “Does anywhere hurt? Are you thirsty? Should I get anything? Are you sure you’re awake?”

Without Richie lying on him anymore, he was starting to feel cold. His head was spinning, and his mind was sluggish. “Barely,” he croaked, his voice raspy. “What… happened? What did you do?”

He remembered falling down the stairs, and he would certainly be kept awake by embarrassment for many years to come. But he could not for the life of him figure out how he ended up in the hospital.

Richie leaned forward, a sly smile playing on his lips. “Exactly what you told me to do; I hauled ass, your ass specifically, through that basement door after you fell.” The smile faded as Richie placed a hand on Max’s arm, giving it a comforting squeeze. “I’m glad you’re okay, mostly.”

“Mostly? Mostly okay, or mostly glad?” Max asked. From what he could tell, his nose wasn’t broken. It was gross and snotty but not broken. Otherwise, his injuries were minor, among them were the puncture wounds in his foot, his lovely new concussion, and his special edition Queen in White ‘Just a little bit off the top’ manicure. “Well, I guess we can’t all be in your pristine condition.”

He immediately cringed after saying that. It was meant to be flirty, but it was just weird.

“Yeah, well,” Richie started, “I guess we didn’t all take a nosedive down a flight of stairs.”

“They don’t call it a flight for nothing. I fucking transcended.”

Richie stifled a little laugh, and because Max was cold (and for no other reason), he snaked a hand around Richie’s back and nudged him slightly. He wanted him to lie back down. And only because he was cold, of course.

Strangely enough, it worked. Richie took the hint and lay his head on Max’s chest. Fuck, yes. Max fist pumped, mentally.

“You transcended, all right,” Richie finally muttered, words muffled by the cloth of Max's shirt. “Straight to the ER.”

Max let out a small laugh, wanting to comment on how long it took for Richie to think of that, but he didn’t. Instead, he just asked for more details on what happened after he fell.

According to Richie, the second Max fell, Richie had stood motionless at the top of the stairs, his feet seemingly stuck to the concrete floor. Perhaps it was panic, but he could not move. It wasn’t until he heard a noise behind him that his body started cooperating again.

But instead of walking, he turned his head, looking over his shoulder. His breaths were ragged, and his face was pale; cold sweat streamed down his back. A pair of eyes stared back at him, a beast of teeth and fur, only its head visible from the darkness. It smiled at him and laughed, a freaky giggle as Richie called it.

Holding Dawn forced him to slow a little, but he still sprinted down the stairs, jumping three steps at a time until he reached the bottom where Max had knocked his dumbass out.

Richie paused, his words hanging in the air like a fragile thread. His hand idly fidgeted with a loose string on the blanket covering Max, eyes distant. “When I got down there, you weren’t exactly… responsive,” Richie muttered, his voice quieter now. “I thought…” He shook his head, as if to clear the thought away. “You hit your head hard, and there was so much blood. And then the—”

Max groaned, partly from the pounding in his head and partly to interrupt Richie’s spiraling. “You’re killing me with suspense here, dude. Just tell me how badass you looked saving my life.”

That earned him a small smile. “It wasn’t that badass,” Richie looked away. He started to sit up, but Max made it very clear he didn’t want him to. “Just imagine my graceful self dragging you through a basement door with these bad boys.” He flexed his twig arms and relished in Max’s laugh.

“Awesome, sounds pretty badass to me.” Max could feel the weight of the key still in his pocket, and he wondered briefly if it was more of a symbolic thing. Maybe you just need to hold the key to get out? Richie clearly hadn't taken the key out of Max’s pocket. Unless he put it back in.

“Whatever you say.” Richie mumbled, “Then I called Pete and cussed him out. Then I immediately felt bad for cussing him out, but, oh well, he came to pick us up and took us here. Ted’s getting his ankle fixed a little bit down the hall. He has Dawn now.”

“Nice,”

Max wanted to say more, maybe thank Richie for getting him out or apologize for being so useless in the end. But the loud slamming of a door jolted his attention elsewhere. It slammed against the wall with a force that rattled all nearby medical equipment. Max flinched, instinctively bracing himself against the noise, while Richie shot up like a startled deer.

A billion different scenarios ran through Max’s head. First, he expected to see Ted, absolutely furious at them for endangering his child, but Dawn showed no signs of having been in danger; Max had made sure of that. Then he expected Pete, pissed at having his room destroyed, but Pete would never have the balls. Maybe it was Grace, having sensed premarital hand-holding from miles away and come to fix that.

But alas, he didn’t expect to see his father, red-faced and scowling, storming into the room, yelling profanities and getting spit everywhere.

“What in the name of God have you done this time, Max?!” his dad bellowed, eyes wild with fury. “Do you have any idea how much this hospital bill’s gonna cost me? I told you to stop fucking around, but no—here we are again! Get ya’ ass in the car!”

Max just sat stunned. He knew logically that he should be upset at being yelled at (with an audience, no less) and at the lack of concern for his safety rather than money. But he wasn’t even upset.

His dad had come to pick him up.

Several days passed before Max could go back to school. Who knew concussions meant you have to do literally nothing for days on end? That was actual hell in Max’s book, but he finally finished his at-home-prison sentence on Tuesday and was allowed back to school on Wednesday. He had only missed two schooldays, but he had missed out on his entire weekend being stuck at home. Again, literal hell. Okay, hell was an exaggeration. His dad hadn't been a massive asshole, so it had been relatively okay.

But on the other hand, Max had to survive several days sniffling like a crying child, because his nose would not calm itself down long enough to realize that he did not have a cold.

The more time passed, the harder he found it adjusting to the fact that they had escaped that house. He was out, and everything was back to normal. Except for him.

And Richie.

He found that he missed Richie terribly. Not in a clingy way like he’d never see him again, but he simply wanted to be around someone who understood. He couldn’t talk to his dad, even if he had been slightly nicer to him these past few days, and Kyle and Jason had tried to ask what was wrong, but they wouldn’t get it. Jason was a Christian (most of the time), so he would probably have a mental breakdown if Max told him what happened. Meanwhile, Kyle was an atheist, but not a cool I-don’t-believe-in-God way, more of a you’re-stupid-if-you-believe-in-God-and-any-proof-of-the-existence-of-God-will-give-me-a-mental-breakdown way. So, really, Max was doing the world a service by not causing Jason and Kyle to go full meltdown.

He also somehow made the mistake of mentioning the funky goat key to Kyle, who really wanted to see it. So, Max showed him. Then he wanted to touch it and hold it. Max had to stop him. That shit was weird.

He ended up telling both Kyle and Jason what happened with Grace, that she slapped him, drugged him, and abandoned him at a creepy house with no phone or car keys. Not all the other stuff. They were about as sympathetic as you’d imagine two idiots to be. They had both insisted that Grace should get some kind of retribution, but Max was at a point where he wasn’t sure Grace was ever in the house or if she was Tinky messing with him. But he still had an inkling feeling that yellow fucker wasn’t done.

At school, he went to Richie’s locker immediately, where he found the nerd rummaging around.

“Hey,” Max greeted, his stomach doing flips. Had Richie fixed his hair differently? It looked nice. “Uhm, hi.”

“Hey,” Richie’s greeting was a little different than Max’s. Why was he talking like he was addressing an injured child? “Your dad was being a real dick. Are you okay?”

Dumbfounded, Max stared at Richie for a moment. “Uhm, yeah. I’m just glad he came to pick me up, you know? He was actually a lot nicer than usual.”

“I guess,” Richie hesitated, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve missed you at school, which is weird because I usually do my best to avoid you at school, but you know.”

“Yeah,” It seemed Richie was also struggling without someone who could understand what he’d gone through. “Did you tell anyone about what happened? It’s not like it’s some top-secret info.”

“Yes, I told Ted and Pete, they deserved to know,” Richie took his phone out and opened his WhatsApp, which he turned to show his group chat with Ruth and Pete.

It read.

Richie: Yo house is haunted af

Pete: Slay

“Wow,” Max deadpanned, that awful inkling coming back to him. The yellow fucker. “What a convincing explanation you gave him.”

“Yeah, but Ted believed me.” Richie shrugged, “So who cares? He’s the one who owned the house.”

It seemed a given that Ted would believe him. Since Max had somewhat hopped into his mind, he knew better than anyone just how uncomfortable Ted had been in that house. He also knew that the only reason he was willing to put up with living there was that Pete wanted to live there.

A small spike of jealousy struck Max. Pete didn’t even appreciate how good he had it. Not everyone had a guardian who actually cared about them. Max’s dad would never even consider spending a day in a place he didn’t like to make Max happy, and Ted wasn’t even Pete’s dad!

Max shook his head. He could wallow in that later.

“Do you…” He hesitated, realizing that he was still standing in the hall, looking down at Richie in full view of everyone. It felt exposed. It felt vulnerable. “Do you feel it too?”

“Feel what?” Richie’s head tilted like a puppy, his baby blues staring holes into Max. Perhaps he didn’t.

“Like you’re still in the house.” Max looked at his hands, avoiding Richie’s gaze. His hands were undoubtedly there, they were real. His small scars from falls and his cuts from back when he thought throwing knives was a smart idea were still very much there. He sniffled. God, please, make his nose chill out.

“Like PTSD?” Richie stood straighter. “I mean, a little bit, I guess. Actually, no, I don’t have PTSD. But I keep wondering how we got through the door without actually using the key, you know?”

“Yeah, I thought about that too.” Max reached into the pocket of his letterman. He still had the key on him, having never dared to take it out, afraid of what could happen if he left it out of sight. The way things were going, with the inkling, Max might have to keep the key in there for the rest of his life.

Richie marveled at the key, the pretty details, and the intricate goat’s head it formed. He reached out to touch it, but Max pulled it away.

“What?” Richie again tilted his head to the side.

“Sorry, I just… I feel like it’s a bad idea for you to hold it.” Max paused, putting the key back in his pocket. He knew he trusted Richie more than he trusted Kyle, but he had his reasons to treat them the same. “I feel like it kinda put a target on my back.” He meant when they were in the house. A target on his back when they were in the house, but he still didn’t want to risk it.

“Oh, okay,” Richie nodded, “But isn’t that technically stealing?”

“Why would it be?”

“Well, it belongs to the house and therefore it belongs to Ted,” Richie said, his big eyes looking over Max as if analyzing him. “I mean, if anything, we should give it back to him.”

Max was slowly deflating. He was alone. “Okay,” His voice was a whisper, a pathetic wheeze. “I want to go see Ted.”

CCRP was depression incarnate, a seventeen-floor concrete box of misery and crushed dreams surrounded by a parking lot the size of three football stadiums and a school. Max wondered briefly how they would find Ted in there, but it seemed Richie had no qualms finding the right way. The thirteenth floor marked tech support. Richie claimed that Pete had told him which section Ted worked in, so that checked out.

They hadn't just left school to go see some middle-aged man. In fact, it took two weeks for Max to muster up the courage to go see Ted. It seemed trivial to most people, but to Max it was very important. He had talked to Ted technically three times in his life: that time he bought vodka for Max and Kyle, that time he got drugged in by Grace while Max happened to be there, and when he saved Max from getting kidnapped.

He knew it was strange to put the man on the pedestal he had placed him on, but he wanted so badly to make a good impression. He wanted Ted to like him. Even if Ted wasn’t Ted. It took courage to meet someone like that.

In the two weeks Max spent on gathering that courage, nothing much had happened; his dad had gotten increasingly friendly, Max’s nose had remained a sniffling bitch, and Richie had become flirtier. Speaking of, Richie was holding his hand, half-pulling, half-walking with him to the office door that read: T. Spankoffski.

“You ready?” Richie asked, smiling.

“As ready as I can be.” Max sighed. Not a day had gone by that Richie hadn't either asked to go see Ted or to see the key.

The door to Ted’s office swung open, revealing a cluttered workspace filled with blinking screens, scattered papers, and tangled wires. Ted, a lanky man with a perpetual look of mild annoyance, looked up from his computer, a frown creasing his forehead.

“Richie,” he began, “visiting hours are over.”

“This isn’t prison, Ted,” Richie groaned, moving to the window and pulling the curtain to the side.

“Sure, feels like it,” Ted spun around in his chair, his ankle in a new white cast. “You know, they don’t do paternity leave here? Not progressive, fuck ‘em.”

Somehow, the sight of Ted’s ankle in that cast took Max aback. It was crazy to think that something as simple as an ankle injury could be the catalyst for everything that happened to Max and Richie. Max suddenly wanted to go home, really badly.

“So, Ted,” Richie started, not paying any mind to Max. “Max here has a key, and we want you to look at it.”

“A key? Are you serious?” Ted turned back to his computer, where Max could see he was playing Stardew Valley as a character named ‘Petey’. Cute, either Ted had named himself after Pete, or he was playing on Pete’s server. “I’m at work, kids.”

Alright, they tried. Max turned to leave, but Richie grabbed him. Fine.

“Seriously, Ted,” Richie pleaded, “It’s from your house.”

Ted let out a very excessive groan and paused the game. He leaned back in his chair, his black hair hanging over the backrest. “Alright, lemme see.” He said and gestured for Max to give him the key.

But Max only walked a little closer, holding the key out in front of Ted. “Can’t you see it while it’s in my hand?”

“Uh, no?” Ted sneered at him like he was an idiot, and in Ted’s eyes, he probably was. “Fucking give it here.”

“Take it,” Max baited, dangling the key in front of Ted’s face.

He didn’t take the bait. “I am not playing tug-of-war with some teenager.” He concluded, getting back to his computer. “You either give me that key or you can leave.”

“Okay, okay,” Max relented, “I’ll give you the key. If you can tell me something.”

Again, Ted shot him the most annoyed look Max had ever seen. “You want me to play games with you so that I can inspect the key you want me to inspect?” He asked. Max nodded. “Alright, tell you what?”

“Anything, literally anything. As long as we both already know it.”

Ted rolled his eyes, already fed up with Max. In the corner of his eye, Max could see Richie facepalm.

“Your name is Max Jägerman,” Ted decided to say.

“Not specific enough,” Max concluded, slightly embarrassed to go back on his word so fast. “Something else, something more personal.”

“Personal?” Ted mused, then he groaned again. “Uhm, we, as in you and I, met for the first time out here, in the CCRP parking lot.”

“When? What was happening?”

“I dunno, eleven/twelve years ago. A man was trying to snatch you.” Ted spoke with such casualness. You’d almost think wasn’t talking about one of Max’s most traumatic memories. In the corner, Richie gave a small start at the knowledge. It wasn’t every day he learned that someone had almost been kidnapped.

“Then what?”

“I ripped him a new one.”

“Why were you out there?”

“I was smoking.”

“The weather?”

“Rain.”

“What was he wearing?”

“A yellow jacket.”

“How did you feel about that day?”

Ted paused, eyes widening. He’d been caught off guard, somehow. “I, uh,” Ted mumbled but stopped speaking. He didn’t know.

Max stood up straight. It was wrong, it was all wrong. It was too correct. Everything Ted said was exactly how Max remembered it, and he couldn’t wrap his head around it. It didn’t seem right that they would remember that experience in the same way without the smallest deviation in detail.

Max clutched the key harder, feeling the teeth dig into his fingers. “Sorry, I have to go.”

With that, he rushed out of the office, out of the department, out of the building, and all the way home.

Richie got Max’s number recently, which was quite a stupid move since he has now started using it. Ever since Max stormed out of CCRP, Richie had called and texted nonstop, asking if he was okay. A valid question, but an unwanted one nonetheless.

He both was and wasn’t okay, he simply needed to sort some shit out. Which was why he chose to stay home from school for another week. He had been in his room doing quite literally nothing for that week, but he could’ve sworn he was getting more shit done than he would in school. At least now, he wasn’t moving backwards here.

Richie called him again, and he hung up.

Anyone who knew Richie knew that he was persistent. Not that Max had much experience from recent years, but he had been very close with him back in kindergarten. When they first met, Max had been four years old at most. He remembered looking at Richie’s eyes and thinking they were the most beautiful things he had ever seen. That was also why he immediately beat up another kid for throwing sand in Richie’s face. After that, Richie had been insistent that they should be best friends forever. Safe to say, he and Richie had been very close for a few precious years.

Richie called again. This time, Max picked up with a sigh. No point delaying the inevitable.

“Max, finally!” Richie half-yelled into the mic.

“Hi,” Max mumbled, his voice tired. He was still fucking sniffling.

 No need to beat around the bush, Richie hurried to speak. “Max, I think you need to see a therapist.”

“You think so?” Max looked around his room, the grays and shadows closing in on him. He hadn't slept in a long time, maybe two days. Who knew? But he couldn’t just go to sleep. He needed to keep watch.

“Yes, I think so. And you know I didn’t want to tell you over the phone, but your dad won’t let me in the house!” Max could hear Richie pacing on the other end. “I’m really worried about you. It’s clear that you’re suffering some trauma… thing!”

Max didn’t say anything. For several minutes, he simply allowed himself to listen to his heartbeat and the sound of Richie breathing. “I know. I’ll go. But won’t you tell me something first?”

He felt a strange sensation in his body; his eyes were watering.

“Tell you what?” Richie asked, suspicious.

“Anything,” Max whispered, a pathetic plea. “Something so I know you’re you.” There was truly nothing he wanted more than for Richie to prove him wrong. Prove to him that they had gotten out. He wanted so desperately to believe every little thing that was told to him. His voice trembled. “Please?”

“Uhm,” Richie’s voice shook a bit, “When, uh, when we first met, you beat up a kid for throwing sand at me.”

Down his cheek, a tear streaked, and then another. His hands, trembling despite his best effort to control them, clutched the edge of the phone. It didn’t make sense. It was simply too perfect that Richie would mention the one thing Max had just thought about. Without responding, Max hit the hang-up button.

Max’s phone lay on his bed, the screen dimming after he ended the call. He sat frozen, the weight of Richie’s words pressing down on him like a storm cloud. The newly-birthed silence of the room gave way to the same profound loneliness that he had been much too aware of these past weeks. His chest heaved with each breath as he clutched the phone to his side, trying to steady himself, but it felt like the world was closing in on him, the air thick with the remnants of his panic. He sniffled, for the millionth fucking time.

He supposed he had known since he awoke. But now it truly, finally dawned on him that he was completely and utterly alone.

The quiet of the house was interrupted by a soft knock at his door. Max’s heart skipped, and he immediately wiped his face with his sleeve, attempting to pull himself together. The last thing he wanted was for his dad to see him like this.

“Max?” came his dad’s voice from the other side, gruff but softer than usual. “You alright in there?”

Max froze for a moment, struggling to regain control. His hands were still shaking, but he held them tightly together, squeezing his knees. “I’m fine,” he croaked, his voice rough from the tears. “Just tired. I’m fine.”

The door creaked open slightly, and his dad’s face appeared in the doorway, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room. He looked Max over for a moment before stepping inside, leaning against the doorframe. There was an unusual softness in his gaze, but Max couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eye.

“Go away,” Max mumbled. It lacked bite. No wonder his dad didn’t leave.

“Why’re you crying?”

Max’s throat tightened at the question. He looked away, his gaze fixed on a nondescript corner of the room. “I’m not,” he lied, his voice a hoarse whisper. His sleeve was damp from wiping his face, and the tears still clung stubbornly to his lashes.

“Okay,” Dad’s voice was back to his usual annoyance. “Your face is just perpetually red and puffy. I forgot.”

It sounded like a joke, but his dad turned to leave. Max stared after him, caught off guard. His dad's words lingered, half-sarcastic and half... something else. Was that his way of trying to lighten the mood?

“Dad…” Max started, trying to compose himself quickly. “Do you remember that time I broke my leg and had to go to the hospital?”

Dad nodded. “Yeah. Pretty expensive.”

“Heh, yeah.” Max wiped his eyes and nose. Still sniffling like a cold loser. “And what about that time I split my head open on a rock? Or when Kyle punched my tooth out? Or when I broke my hand punching a locker? Or when I twisted my ankle really bad? You remember those times?”

He received a nod.

Max had always made a point of not thinking about his dad. He was mean and scary, and he would be far too delighted to know that he was given a space in Max’s thoughts. Not someone Max should ever have bothered with thinking about, because to think about him would be attention he could have spent on something else.

It was just like Richie said in the nursery. Some things dominated the mind, and the things that dominated the mind were the things Tinky could play with.

“I thought you’d like this place. People here like you, Richie likes you. You could stay like this,” Dad sounded annoyed again. Angry even. Furious, stomping steps came closer, until he was standing right in front of Max, towering over him. Sinew snapped and groaned, bones crackled and creaked. “Why’re you bringing this up, Max?”

“Because,” Max looked up. Yellow eyes with black pupils like doors stared back. “My dad has never once picked me up from the hospital.”

Chapter Text

Max fell for a long time, the world stretching and twisting around him. There was no ground, no up or down—just an endless, sickening drop through shadows and fragmented memories. Tinky’s yellow, ingressive eyes haunted the periphery of his vision, but every time he tried to focus on them, they vanished, leaving behind a void.

Then, with a sudden, stomach-lurching stop, he plummeted into an ice-cold ocean of black liquid. The sky above held nothing but an obsidian abyss, hoisted up like a projector screen. Around him, sending wave after wave of shivers through his trembling body, black water clung to his skin.

Max gasped, his chest tightening as he struggled to break through the suffocating, viscous darkness that surrounded him. The black liquid weighed him down, its icy chill seeping into his bones. He kicked his legs, trying to swim, but the more he moved, the deeper the water seemed to pull him, dragging him under as if it were alive. He tried desperately to gasp for air, but the water ran into his open mouth, tasting like rotting meat and smelling much the same.

Then he noticed something. The water wasn’t pulling him. In his panic, he hadn't realized that the thing pulling him under was nothing more than something wrapped around his leg. It looked like a vine, or sea algae, as far as Max could see, which was already strange, since there was no light source above the water.

He kicked and kicked, trying to get the grip on his ankle to loosen, until he saw the light. His head submerged, he couldn’t breathe, his lungs burned and begged, but there was nothing to do.

The light grew brighter, pulsating from somewhere beneath him, a faint, eerie glow that cut through the darkness like a beacon. Max’s vision blurred as the grip around his ankle tightened, the water thickening, suffocating him with its unrelenting cold.

Two bright, round lights stared at him, barely illuminating the beast they were attached to. They were the eyes of a creature much, much larger than Tinky. A creature, whose green tentacle was now wrapped around Max’s ankle, pulling him further and further down.

He couldn’t breathe. Panicking even more, he flailed, hoping, praying even, that this was just another one of Tinky’s mindfucks for him.

Max’s panic grew with every passing second, his limbs all over the place, his mind was a chaotic whirlwind of terror and confusion. He didn’t even understand why he had started falling in the first place. He honestly just expected Tinky to give him another seizure or something, not send him plummeting into the gaping mouth of this creature in this black abyss.

Black abyss?

Max nearly unleashed all the air he had trapped in his lungs, wanting to gasp but being unable to. Tinky had sent him to the black. Not only sent him to the black, but straight to some other god that was clearly bigger than Tinky. He had gone straight to his brothers.

The tentacle tightened around his leg, pulling him further into the cold, suffocating darkness. His thoughts scrambled, trying to piece together anything that made sense, but it all felt like a blur of fragments—shadows, memories, and the weight of panic that seemed to swallow him whole.

The creature's eyes, huge and unblinking, stared at him, two luminescent orbs that reflected the fear in his own wide pupils. Max couldn’t understand. He’d been prepared for Tinky—prepared for his relentless tricks and mind games. But this was different. This wasn’t Tinky. This was something older, something far more Lovecraftian. What could be older than the god of time and space?

Finally, the tendril stopped dragging him further down, and a voice spoke to him. “Hello, Maxie, welcome to Drowsy Town,” the creature spoke. This unfathomable god that stared at him spoke. That single sentence sent a chorus of laughter howling through the dark ocean, shaking the very core of the black.

Another voice, something far away and yet close by, small and large, boomed, “What a grand performance, Maxwell! You’ve really angered Tinky now!”

A third voice, this one all around him like an omnipresent beast, spoke as well. “Yes, quite the entertaining spectacle.” This voice was subdued, robotic even, as if the speaker rarely used it and often forgot how to. “What a display of will power.”

Lastly, someone spoke from right behind him. “Yum, yum!” He could feel it. It breathed down his neck.

Max’s chest tightened, his heart slamming in his ribs as the laughter echoed through the abyss, a cacophony of voices that seemed to reach into his very soul. The tendril around his leg loosened slightly, but the cold pressure of the water pressing in from all sides was overwhelming. He could hardly tell if he was still sinking or if the creature was simply holding him suspended in this suffocating dark void. He needed air, every moment was a struggle not to release his dwindling supply of oxygen.

The voice that welcomed him to ‘Drowsy Town’ was surprisingly high-pitched and child-like, like an adult mimicking a baby.  Or like a god addressing a mortal. He knew which one this was; Wiggog Y’wrath was described as an underwater creature. Could it get more obvious?

“Quiet now, Nibbly,” said the first voice, the creature’s voice. “Let’s not forget why I brought him here.”

Trying to gather everything he knew, Max realized that he did know who these voices belonged to. He had read a few sentences about the remaining four lords in black, even if Tinky had taken over the book. Still, he didn’t know which was which.

Clearly, the one who wanted to eat him was Nibbly, who laughed and laughed then croaked, “Heh, heh, silly Tinky.” Max could only see Wiggog, even then, only the vague outline of him. But he still got the uncanny feeling he was being watched.

“Silly, Tinky, indeed,” groaned the Wiggog Y’wrath. “Impertinent, childish, stupid T’noy Karaxis thinks he can trick his way out of my ‘Do Ut Des’ rules by simply never taking. Such an incessant child.”

What? Despite his general (and very consistent) panic, the statement confused him. This whole time, Max had thought of Tinky’s inability to take, whether that was taking Dawn or the key, as a weakness. But Wiggog made it sound like an active choice on Tinky’s part, like the act of not taking was a point of pride for him, a testament to his skills as ‘the trickiest’ lord in black.

Black dots speckled his visions. No, wait, not dots. Eyes. Rows and rows of eyes all focused on him, tiny pupils zeroed in from their places in the humongous irises. The robotic voice spoke again, “I wouldn’t mind if Tinky failed. It’ll be fun to watch. He stole my idea, after all.”

“Shut it, Blinky,” Wiggog spoke, “‘Plain sight’ was never your idea. And I would certainly rather watch him succeed.”

“‘Plain sight’ was my joke,” Blinky said, its tone sharpening as though relishing a petty argument. Blinky was surely Blinklotep, the watcher with a thousand eyes who granted his most devout followers knowledge of everything past, present, and future. “T’noy just refined it, poorly at that. That’s why he’s losing. He doesn’t have enough eyes.”

“He’s not losing.” Wiggog drawling, suddenly defending Tinky despite his respite mere seconds previously. “Not if he gets his fucking shit together. Besides, it’s still funny.”

“No, he’s not losing at all,” the last voice, the one named Pokotho, given the process of elimination, spoke. “He’s just put on a show like I asked him to.”

It had not occurred to Max that Wiggog’s verbalization of his disapproval for Tinky’s methods wasn’t addressed to Max himself. Still, it was awfully convenient of them to bring it up. He had been so busy avoiding certain death by drowning that he hadn't noticed.

Finally, Wiggog’s bright lights focused on Max solely, and he pulled him deeper. “Maxie, my little brother may refuse to take, but rest assured that peace and joy will elude him for all eternity were he to not get that key. I will ensure that. And you, and every other you, will share the same fate. Your children and your children’s children will never know the day they crossed me, but they will always feel the looming weight of T’noy Karaxis’ newfound contempt at the one who thwarted his plans.” He held the silence for several long, painful seconds, made even longer by Max’s inability to breathe. “You may say, the Jägermans could become the new Spankoffskis.”

The last three lords in black howled with laughter at what Max could only assume was an esoteric joke among the gods. Max’s chest burned as his lungs screamed for air, his body convulsing in a desperate bid to survive. The icy water clung to him like tar, suffocating, pulling him further into the suffocating void. Was this how he’d die? Drowned by family drama?

As his vision started swimming and his head spun, the laughter of the Lords in Black echoed in his ears, cruel and unrelenting. Oh, what a terrible minute to exist. Not only was Tinky able to just take the key, he also had a VERY BIG incentive to start going right for it, considering what Wiggog was threatening him with.

Finally, he gave out, air rushing from his fiery lungs in a violent exhale, the pressure in his chest momentarily subsiding before he instinctively gasped, cold water rushing into his throat.

Max awoke with a sharp gasp and a coughing fit so violent it shook his whole body. Splatters of crimson blood fell from his lip, his pounding head screaming with every cough. In his unconsciousness, he had tried to breathe through his broken nose, dragging a plethora of thick blood into his trachea.

His first thought wasn’t a rejoice at the surprise of being alive, because he already knew he was. Instead, he looked around, still half-unconscious and hopeless at still being at the bottom of the stairs to the basement. He wanted to ensure nothing had happened to Richie while Max had left him alone.

“Max!” Richie’s voice was panicked in a subdued way, a graceful mix between a yell and a whisper. Max could appreciate it, given his newfound head trauma. Quick, light footsteps flitted down the stairs, getting closer. Soon, Richie reached him. Dawn in his arms, he couldn’t do much but place a hand on Max’s shoulder to help keep him upright. Max’s eyes fell on something behind Richie, on the staircase. “Holy shit, your nose- wha- what did you trip on?”

Richie scrambled to get anything to stop the bleeding, as if that would help. Max didn’t care, not when he had learned so much. For Richie, only a few seconds had passed, while for Max, it had been nearly a month.

He could safely say now, with no inkling of dishonesty or doubt, that he had truly never felt such despair or hopelessness in his life. Not only did Tinky not have the very weakness that made Max feel like they had any chance to escape. But as he looked at the clear, white spider silk that tripped him, he knew that the only benevolent deity in this hell had sent him hurtling down the stairs to stop him from opening that basement door. Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, a little voice started, ‘If I had a nickel every time a god sent me falling down the stairs…’

Tinky knew that Max knew. If Wiggog Y’wrath’s words were anything to go by — which they probably were — then Tinky was just as desperate to get that key as Max was to keep it. Who cared about Do Ut Des?

Between bloody coughs and gurgles, Max managed to utter, “We need… we need to go back… to the nursery.”

With a creaking screech, the basement door started to open.

Chapter Text

To say that Max crawled up the stairs was to attribute to him a much more civilized quality than deserved. He was more like a slug, slowly and pathetically slithering away from that horrid basement door. Meanwhile, Richie tried to pull him by the arm while holding Dawn. The screech of the basement door echoed behind them, a mocking overture to their desperation.

Richie tugged harder, but Max was practically deadweight. His head was spinning and pounding, the feeling of his skull cracking intensifying until he felt like he was splitting open. His every breath was gurgled, his throat still covered with a layer of blood from inhaling through his broken nose. Consciousness tried to elude him, his eyelids heavy, his body aching.

From the black maw of the basement came a low, wet  scrape , like something heavy and organic dragging itself across the floor. The air grew colder, and an unnatural hum vibrated through the stairwell, rattling the handrails.

Max tried to push himself up, but his arms gave out, sending him sprawling forward onto the blood-slicked steps. His fingers clawed weakly at the cement; the metallic taste of blood thick in his mouth. His chest heaved, every breath a battle.

They had made it halfway up when a low growl emanated through the house. The growl reverberated through the air, low and guttural, carrying a sense of impending doom. It wasn’t coming from the basement—it was all around them, as if the building had drawn breath and growled.

Webby was destroying the house.

The realization spurred Max on even more. If the house was already falling apart, they needed more than ever to get to the nursery. But what then? Would they be trapped in a single room while the house caved in? Would the house’s destruction release them from its grip? Or would their supernatural prison be narrowed down to a single room?

With no time to dwell, Max managed to crawl slightly faster. His pounding head nearly sent him falling a few times, but he had to prevail. He wasn’t a soldier in a battle between gods, he was an ant in the crossfire, a casualty. Tinky had no weakness, and Webby would deem his, Richie’s, and Dawn’s deaths a just sacrifice. Every stair was a mountain range, his trembling hands and legs his only companions as he traversed the winds and gravity. Every breath eluded him as he climbed and climbed, fingers freezing and body struggling to work. This city of stone and cement, his blood slicking his path, holding him back from finally reaching the top, finally feeling the sun on his wet face, and yelling, I made it! I made it, you son of a bitch!

He made it. With the stairs now behind them, Richie pulled him by the hand, the thick red binding them together. Max stumbled, but followed along, feet tripping, body leaning forward. Richie yelled something to him, his voice dream-like and underwater, overpowered by the roar of what was likely Tinky chasing them. Then he started running, pulling Max along.

Every single door in the long-ass hallway stood gaping. As Max passed, each showed a time and place different from this one, far away and close by, happening now and soon and once before and probably never really, but still having the chance to happen .

He saw himself, so much younger, inexperienced and naïve, standing in the black void, clutching — clutching something . Little arms wrapped around a bundle of cloth. A woman’s voice rang out around him, “Now, be careful, Max. She’s very fragile.” She wasn’t his mother, nor some random woman. But he liked her a lot. She was his dad’s new girlfriend. Or as new as she could be after nine months.

“I am careful,” Max shot back. He was too excited to care as he stared into the little red face. Her eyes were closed, nose scrunched up, cheeks big and round. He was a big brother now, and God would testify that he would be the best one . He wasn’t alone anymore; he could be anything.

Richie yelled something Max couldn’t make out. He was busy adoring this little, new life.

As he held her close, he imagined everything their shared future could hold: scaring her boyfriends, stealing her stuff, having to steal his stuff back from her, hanging out watching movies, and whatever else you’re supposed to do with your sister. He imagined stepping between her and dad when she’d get in trouble and beating kids up who were mean to her at school.

Smiling and doing little jumps with joy , Max whispered to her, “Happy birthday, Dani.”

Suddenly, the image was ripped apart by yellow claws, tearing through reality and leaving it hanging in shreds. Connected to this half-hoof, half-claw disgrace was a long skinny arm which led to an emaciated torso, ribs protruding from behind yellow fur and twisted as the whole body slithered closer. T’noy’s huge, squared pupils locked on Max, a single glint shining down on him.

A manic smile spread across his face, revealing rows and rows of teeth. He was bigger than he had been in a Max’s dream, a humongous disgrace to the world, barely squeezing himself through the bottleneck of a hallway. Yet he moved without the slightest struggle, defying the laws of space. A skyscraper forcing its way between suburban bungalows and through alleyways, or an adult forcing itself through a birthing canal, ripping and tearing, yet leaving no evidence.

With that manic smile plastered on his face, T’noy screamed in a voice that wasn’t his own. A woman’s voice. “What did you do?!” His dad’s old girlfriend’s voice. “What did you do, Max?!”

“I didn’t-” he wheezed. “It wasn’t my fault…”

Max was the one who found her in the morning. Her skin was a blueish pale, sclerae bloodshot, her tiny body seizing. There were so few people to blame, and only after all these years did Max realize he wasn’t the one.

Another roar from the house shattered the night and the floor, Max found himself leaning even more on Richie, his body being pulled along like a limp, broken puppet. T’noy screamed, an agonized howl as his walls split.

In a moment of anger, Max yelled at the most tangible target he could find over the most tangible source he had. “God, Richie! Why’d you wanna open the basement?!”

Richie didn’t even turn around, too focused on keeping Max’s useless self alive. “Me?!” he yelled back, “You’re the one who basically dragged me down the stairs!”

Well, that could not be true, because Max had taken the baseball bat on a tour around the house, he had gone into the attic, he had fallen into a drugged sleep on the couch in the living room while the goat in the painting stared him down, he had been an audience for the man with the goat mask.

He nearly fell when the solid ground beneath him transformed into the stairs. They were approaching the second floor. A man was yelling at the top of the stairs.

“Max! You little shit, look what you done!” As he yelled, a few droplets of spit fell from his lower lip. In his arm, Dani swung like a blueish doll. “Look what you’ve fucking done, Max!”

What had he done? What had he done? Had it been Max who wanted to open the basement door? Had he decided to drag Richie and Dawn alongside him? When had his eyes and ears betrayed him to this extent? He reached the top of the stairs, following Richie. They were mere meters away from the nursery. Was that an illusion, too?

He couldn’t tell anymore. He couldn’t tell what was real or fake, hallucination or apparition or prophecy or plain old reality. How many decisions had he made, and how many had been made for him? He wouldn’t be here if he had tried to get away from his dad, he wouldn’t be trying to get away if he hadn't awoken him, and he hadn't been caught this morning if he hadn't fallen down the stairs and been reprimanded for the ‘demonic’ wooden figurine on the staircase. Had Tinky placed the figurine? It was a yellow goat after all, but was that always Tinky’s plan? To force someone to come here and have nowhere else to go. Truly, from the very beginning, Tinky had used his traumas against him.

He was a mind on an Odyssey through a maze of falsities and teeth and goat hooves. There was no doubt in the world, on this sphere spinning endlessly in the eternal void of space and hurling itself around flames and fire, that once he was out of this hell, he would be a different person. A person, who didn’t blame himself for shit that wasn’t his fault. A person who didn’t waste his time on the constant endeavor of staying away from his own home. A person who could and would look into the eyes of that worthless man who dared to call himself his father and see him as the pathetic creature he had always been; a failure who would shake his baby daughter and blame it on his six-year-old son.

Richie stopped abruptly, and Max slammed into him, nearly toppling over. He heard a small, displeased noise from the nerd, but it wasn’t from being slammed into.

The door to the nursery lay in shredded pieces on the floor; the spider, mangled and beheaded.

Chapter Text

Nowhere to go and the one place they hoped to be safe was now as safe as a greenhouse with cracked glass. A peal of awful laughter echoed from down the hall, coming closer and closer alongside thundering steps and wet scraping. The house continued to groan.

But most alarmingly of all, Richie was reduced to tears. Despite not having shed a single one, and even going up in the attic by himself without the slightest bit of fear, Richie was crying and crumpling to the floor. Max’s eyes stayed fixed on him. It was like seeing a fortress collapse, stone by stone, right before him.

They were going to die. It hadn't struck him until now. But they were actually going to die in this place. His life didn’t flash before his eyes; what was there to flash anyway? A bunch of tears, bruises, and blame for everything under the sun? His future wasn’t something he cared to grieve, never something worth looking forward to.

Maybe someone like Richie had more to hope for. He wanted to get a scholarship and ride off into the sunset as far away from Hatchetfield as anyone could. He had more to cry about as the ceiling split and a massive wooden beam slammed into the floor next to him. He held Dawn close like a teddy bear, seeking comfort from her body on his.

Barely registering it himself , Max reached out and held Richie close to himself in a weak embrace. Richie’s face was in his chest. Words wouldn’t work here; sweet lies could do nothing against their sour reality. The blood from his broken nose trickled down his chin and landed in Richie’s hair, on his exposed neck, and shoulders, but neither could be bothered to care. Everything smelled and tasted metallic, and Max momentarily thought about how sad it was that those would be the last things he sensed . Aside from the warmth of Dawn and Richie against him.

He had been silly to think they could escape. Idiots for thinking they could take on a god and win. This whole time, they had been nothing but bugs on a leaf , and T’noy Karaxis was a hurricane about to fall their tree, a yellow wallpaper watching them go crazy, a house outside of space and time falling apart around them.

Max closed his eyes and tightened his grip on Richie, feeling the warmth of his body. He didn’t want the last thing he ever saw to be that thing closing in on them.

Quite a shame, though, just when Max had made up his mind to stand up to his dad. Once he had decided to live his life without the constant work to avoid home, did the world decide he didn’t need to exist any longer? Max Jägerman, accomplished nothing, did nothing, was nothing.

A shuddering crash split the air behind them, closer now. Max felt the vibration in his bones. The awful laughter was no longer echoing—it was right there , spilling through the walls, gnawing at the edges of his sanity. His arms tightened around Richie, pulling him in as if the sheer force of his embrace could shield them from what was coming, even if all his attempts did was soil Richie’s hair with blood.

Then it stopped. As the house continued to groan and growl in shuddering agony, the laughter and thundering hooves stopped. Max held his breath. Was it another trick? Did T’noy seriously intend to make a mockery of their last moments?

With great trepidation, he looked up and nearly jumped back. T’noy was right in his face, smiling.

The god’s smile was a jagged, chaotic abomination, teeth too sharp and eyes filled with a swirling madness that threatened to pull Max into the void behind them. A cold, damp breath washed over him, tinged with decay. Richie shivered in his arms, his breaths coming in rapid, terrified gasps. Max wanted to push Richie behind him, to shield him somehow, but there was nowhere to go. The walls groaned like dying pigs, and the floorboards beneath them felt ready to snap and drop them into oblivion.

“Are you ready to stop playing, Max?” Black, rectangular pupils consumed Max’s vision; a single white light blinked right into his retina from one of the rectangles. He looked down immediately, not wanting eye contact with the thing that would kill him.

The scene was almost pretty if you looked at it from a detached outside perspective. Little Dawn was in the center, her tiny face a picture of despair like any crying baby. Richie’s arms wrapped around her, his skin and clothes covered in a thick layer of dust and the shine of sweat, his knees on the ground in what almost looked like a prayer. He was obscured by Max’s chest. Max, who ruined the serenity with his blood, running down Richie’s back. There was almost an endless amount, it had started falling like a blooming flower on the floor. A flower that sat so safe in a house that crumbled like a papier mache dollhouse in the hands of an energetic child.

Of course, the picture wasn’t complete without the T’noy Karaxis, staring right into Max’s face, who looked down at Richie instead.

“Come now,” T’noy continued, his voice nearly drowned out by another shriek from the house. “Give me the key. I will even let you and your little boyfriend go.”

But what did it mean to go if there was nowhere anymore? If all was black, what was the point of escaping darkness?

“But…” Max paused, looking briefly at T’noy, then down immediately. Richie was still crying into his chest. Max wondered if he could even hear Tinky speak. Dawn cried louder. “What about Dani?”

Fuck , Max cursed internally. His voice had cracked, and he said the wrong name.

The floor shook suddenly, nearly causing Max to lose balance despite sitting down. A sensation to his right side caught his attention: Richie had taken to holding Dawn in one arm and took a fistful of Max’s gross, sweaty shirt. There were butterflies, no matter how inappropriate it felt in the situation.

“Dani this, Dani that. She’s dead.” T’noy’s smile flexed, “Get over it.” He leaned closer to them, his hulking body scraping every surface in the hall. “Here’s the deal. I get the key , and I get Dawn for my Spankoffski set, and you get to live. Seems fair. Do ut des and all that”

Do ut des. Even after cornering them, Tinky still refused to simply take; no, Max had to give him the things he wanted. It was some giant power move. But something clicked hard in his mind. If Tinky got that key, he would unleash all the lords in black onto the world, which would be like merging Earth and hell. Life wouldn’t be worth much after that.

“If you want them,” he said, his voice hoarse for some reason . “You’ll have to claw them out of my cold, dead hands.” Finally, he looked up, fully looking into the eyes of this being that had been tormenting them. “But you can’t do that, can you?”

If Max wouldn’t get to stand up to his dad, then standing up to a god was certainly the next best thing. He knew he was right, too, because the second the words left his mouth, Tinky’s smile faltered. He couldn’t take. It was never resistance or rebellion against Wiggog Y’wrath. It was a simple lack of ability.

Looking into T’noy Karaxis’ eyes, Max knew that he knew Max had realized. If the lords in black couldn’t simply leave the black, how could they pull him in and then eject him out like so? They couldn’t, because the truth was that Max was never in the black, just like he never left the house. It was all an illusion because not only was Tinky too weak to win on his own, but he needed the shadows of his older brothers to even get close.

In truth, Max had no clue why Tinky lacked the ability to take. Perhaps he was maimed in a squabble among the lords or cursed by the queen in white, but it didn’t change that it was a lack. Tinky was weak and pathetic, only barely able to trick his prey into giving up. He couldn’t even take a life, and once the house was destroyed and Max and Richie were dead, he couldn’t take the key from between their deceased fingers.

It was something they all had in common. The man in the yellow jacket only had power because Max didn’t have any, his dad only had it because Max didn’t think he had any himself , and Tinky only had some because he pretended to. In the end, they were all equally pathetic.

“You little shit…” Tinky hissed, coming closer as if he hadn't just been right in Max’s face. Being able to hear Max’s thoughts did come in handy in that regard. Tinky knew that Max knew. It made Max’s heart race even more. He couldn’t kill them, but he could make it hurt.

Briefly, his eyes flashed to Richie and Dawn. They almost seemed stuck in time, their faces in seemingly permanent despair. His hand traveled from Richie’s back to his neck, to his throat, and he wondered if he should snap it right now, spare the nerd any more suffering. It seemed like a good idea, but he wanted one last moment of defiance first.

He made eye contact with T’noy and stared hard into the monster’s eyes. The same square pupils he had become so familiar with stared back at him. That same little white light shone from one of them. A little white light, which Max had previously thought looked like a keyhole.

Tinky had said so himself. The door to freedom was hidden in plain sight. It was in his left pupil.

A boisterous laugh bubbled from the god, seemingly delighted, despite having just been insulted right to his face. “You found it!” he cheered, jumping around the hall as the floor continued to crack and fall apart beneath him. “You found it! You found it!”

Chapter Text

Max had done a terrific job of not showing fear in the face of this horrible god. But as the smile grew on the goat’s terrible face, its forest of teeth showing more and more, Max gradually started to shake.  The mouth had long since stopped moving, but those three words kept echoing like a record player.

“You found it!” Bounced from one wall and repeated in the exact same cadence from another wall. “You found it!”

Tinky, though already an abomination against the concept of space, seemed to grow bigger and bigger. His massive eyes fixed on Max, Richie, and Dawn, though only Max appeared conscious. The walls continued to screech with agony as Tinky pressed against them until, with one final howl, Tinky stopped.

The goat lay down, his left eye now presented to Max. A perfectly sized door.

The chanting continued, morphing into a whisper as if even the dust particles were saying it. “Found it, found it, found it, found it, found it, found it.”

Tinky’s giant eye stared at Max, expecting him to do something. Somewhere, many miles away, his mouth moved. “Blinky’s not very smart.” He drawled. “I won’t steal his jokes again.”

Max could cry or laugh or something. Was it over? He couldn’t just walk up to Tinky’s eye and turn the knob. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t completely fall apart if he did. His head felt like it was splitting open, his nose had gushed blood like a crimson fountain, and his legs were wobbly.

A single piece of wood caught his attention. It hung right over Richie’s head, suspended in the air. Stopped in time.

“Need a hand?” He heard the same goofy, terrifying voice. It seemed to be so far away and so close. A powerful pressure mounted around Max’s shoulders; a hand had grasped around him like a small animal. It picked them up and moved them closer to the pupil. The door swung open, revealing nothing but black.

Max panicked. Was this the wrong door? Was the basement door the right one this whole time? Had he been double-tricked? He wanted to thrash and scream, but for once in his life, he didn’t have the strength.

He lived a thousand million lifetimes on the way through that door. He saw everything and nothing and came out unchanged and still not the same. He walked through the hall, seeing himself over and over again. He did everything over again and all at once, walking around with trembling legs and a baseball bat, talking to Steph on the phone, rummaging around the attic, hiding with Dawn in the nursery from himself breaking down the door.

He did things he never knew he did.

Ted had told him to just turn on the light. That’s exactly what he did. He went to the breaker panel and flipped all the switches that could flip, and the power turned back on.

The world turned in on itself, and soon, Max was sitting on a bench. It was raining, and his jersey did nothing to keep him dry. A little kid came running up to him, sitting his tiny body next to Max. The kid was dressed in all black. It didn’t match his red cheeks and light brown hair.

“Does it always have to rain on funerals?” The kid asked, his voice thick with tears.

“Today wasn’t supposed to be a funeral,” Max answered.

The kid sniffled, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. It did nothing to keep him dry, not in this weather. “I know.” He looked at Max with big eyes that matched his own. A sob shattered through him.

Max put his hand on the kid’s shoulder. He was so, so small. How could someone blame someone so small? “What’s done is done. She’s not coming back now.”

When he reemerged on the other side, he could still feel the mounting pressure of Tinky’s hand around his body. Frantic bodies and voices surrounded him, asking him all kinds of questions that he couldn’t quite pick up on. He didn’t know where Richie was, he couldn’t tell what was three feet in front of him, and he didn’t even know what time it was.

All he knew for sure was that he was standing up and that he was holding Dawn in his arms. She still wore his blood in her pajamas. He blinked and then blinked again until he knew where he was. He recognized his car in the driveway, and Grace’s pink bike next to it.

Ruth, Grace, and Stephanie were all trying to get his attention, but he couldn’t understand a single word they spoke. He took one step, literally one step, and forgot how stupidly uneven the front steps were. He wound up doing his best impression of a felled tree. As they descended, he couldn’t help but be reminded of the first thought he had when he tried to enter this house: 'Someone will trip with the baby on the way out'. God, he hated foreshadowing. Maybe in the future, he could stop having these prophetic thoughts of potential crisis.

This would be the third time he had fallen down the stairs in the last who-knows-how-long, and he had a less terrible feeling about it this time. This time, he managed to twist his body to the side and cradle Dawn’s little baby head with his hand. His left shoulder crashed into the ground with a hard thud and a nasty popping sound, which was then followed by a burst of pain.

Then and only then did he start to understand what was being said to him.

“Max, holy shit, you fucking idiot!” Stephanie rushed to grab Dawn from him. She cooed at her, “Here, baby, everything’s fine. Please don’t be dead, and please don’t cry.”

Clearly not one for children, Steph handed the baby over to Grace and Ruth, who both shared the same excessive concern and affection for the little human.

Steph turned back to Max, who just continued to sit shell-shocked on the ground. His shoulder ached now, and his nose hadn't stopped bleeding for a second since he fell down the stairs.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Max?” She spat and kicked Max’s leg. “Overreaction of the century, much.”

“Are you… Are you real?” Max’s voice was a small, pathetic whisper. He couldn’t muster up more than that as he stared at Steph. She looked like her.

“Yes, I’m fucking for real, Max!” She kicked him again, harder this time. “It was just a prank; how did you manage to make it such a big deal?”

“A prank?”

“Yes!” She made some exasperated gesture with her hands. “We were just moving around the house to scare you! And we only turned the power off for that, too.”

Max couldn’t muster up a response. At least, not the kind of response she expected. “Where’s Richie?”

Stephanie seemed to realize something more must have happened to Max because she finally softened. “He’s in Chicago.” Maybe she realized he needed some comfort, so she put her hand on his arm. “What happened to your face?”

“I don’t know,” Max admitted. His voice cracked. “And I don’t even know if I know what I know.” The night sky hung low overhead. Max almost thought it looked fake, but he could never really tell. A projector screen with an image of the sky. He sniffled. “I want my phone back. Can I just have my phone? And my keys.”

“Yeah, of course.” Steph snatched the phone from Grace before she even had a chance to react. “And let’s get you to a hospital.”

Max wasn’t sure how much good a hospital could do him. Well, they did put him under and fix his nose, so that was one thing. They also popped his shoulder back into place, which was pretty nice. But the doctors couldn’t tell him honestly if he had really escaped the house, nor could they tell him what was going on in the real world.

All they could tell him was that he had slept now for at least two days.

The soft click of the door to his hospital room rang through the air. His body tensed as he wondered who this world could conjure up to mess with him. There was no way it would be his dad again. Tinky wouldn’t be stupid enough for that. But it could be literally anyone.

“Hey Kid,” someone said, moving closer with clumsy inefficiency. Max would have left earlier, but he had to do a few final checkups before he could be discharged. He turned just enough to see Ted Spankoffski pathetically balancing on crutches that seemed too short for someone his height. “Are you okay?”

Max didn’t respond. He wanted nothing more than to avoid playing into Tinky’s game.

“Richie wasn’t allowed to come in here. He wanted to, though.” Ted said, shrugging like he didn’t care. “But I told them I was your dad.” He let out a small laugh. “They really didn’t give a fuck. Just let me right in. Didn’t even ID me.”

He fumbled to sit down in the shitty plastic chair next to Max’s bed. The plastic was probably cold, just like everything in this hospital room. When Max once again didn’t respond, he continued speaking.

“I talked to Richie. He said he came to my house after you called him and told him you were taking care of Dawn.” It checked out so far. Max’s interest was slightly piqued. “But then some weird shit went down and he woke up back on the bus to Chicago.” Max turned and looked at Ted. Really looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot, and his eye bags were almost worse than when he saw him get drugged by Grace. “He thought it had all been a fucked up dream until he heard you were in the hospital with a broken nose.”

Ted was very thin. His skin stretched over bones that were never meant to show, and his eyes looked hollow. His features seemed more detailed than ever before, older and more troubled. Max had only been in that house for maybe 12 hours. Ted had been there for 2 months. If anyone had any clue what Max was experiencing, it would be Ted.

If he were real.

“You probably want me to tell you something profound to prove that this is real and I’m real and what you went through was real, but I can’t. I have nothing to say.” Ted shrugged again. Max wasn’t sure what to think. Ted had probably experienced a fake reality as well, or he could have heard about it from Richie. “This world is fucked, we’re fucked, and everything is controlled by fucked Gods. But it doesn’t matter. Because if nothing matters, then everything matters. I can still enjoy my life. I can watch Pete become a fucking neurosurgeon or whatever he wants to be, and I can watch Dawn grow up.” His voice shook. “And if this is fake, then… then that just means I get to do it all over again. And there is nothing that yellow bitch can do to stop me.”

Well, Max was nothing if not spiteful.

He felt around his pant pocket, looking for the thing he had spent an infinity protecting. He pulled it out, feeling along the teeth. God knew he wouldn’t fuck up his life on the assumption that it might not be real. He should wear this key as a necklace. It didn’t matter anyway.

Max did eventually find motivation to go back to school. Who knew getting your head slammed into a door was a get-out-of-school free pass? It took a whole week but he was able to go back on Monday, this time with a key on a chain tied around his neck.

At his locker, Kyle immediately noticed it. “Yo, Max, what’s that?” Not a great sign. “The key to Grace’s chastity belt?” Okay, never mind. Maybe it was an alright sign.

“Might as well be,” Max responded. Either this reality was real, or Tinky had gotten smarter. His dad was just as much of an asshole as always; people didn’t stare at him with interest or glee but scurried away in fear. This world was just as lame as usual. “I just think it’s cool.”

“I guess,” Kyle responded. “Kinda cool,” he tilted his head as if studying the key, then his eyes snapped to something to their side. “The nerds seem to like it.”

Max followed Kyle’s gaze to see Richie, wide-eyed and shocked, staring right at him and at the key. Then, as if he’d been caught doing something illegal, he hurried away.

Max didn’t follow him. But he did find him hiding in the locker rooms later that day. When he did, Richie tried to scurry off again, like he was still just some nerd whom Max wanted to slam into a locker and keep there. But he didn’t get a chance to run because, as fast as Max could, he snatched Richie’s wrist and held him there.

“I’m sorry, Max, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do it, whatever it was I did.” He choked and fumbled, falling over his words like a shitty acrobat. He had tears in his eyes.

“You talked to Ted.”

“Yes, and that was terrible, I’ll never do it again!” Richie paused his panicked word barrage and seemed to just look at Max, then he continued. “And I’m sorry I took shrooms and had a nightmare with you in it, and I’m sorry I was mean to you in my nightmare! I was stressed!”

“Wha-” Max didn’t even know how to respond to all of that. On one hand, he felt a little relieved that Richie remembered the house and clearly recognized the key, but on the other hand, he was a little angry that Richie could go through all that with him and still expect to get beaten up. “But- You did shrooms- what- you weren’t even mean to me?”

“Yes, I was, I kicked you and called you a psycho. In my dream. And I asked you to unlock the basement door like an idiot, and it caused you to fall and break your nose.”

“Yeah, because you thought I had ripped Pete’s room apart, and intentionally put Dawn in danger. And then you got, like, possessed by Tinky.”

“Right, but you were also clearly injured and frightened, and if I had even taken a second to think, I should’ve reali-” He stopped abruptly. “Don’t you dare recount my dream, Max. That’s fucked up.”

“It wasn’t a dream.”

“Yes, it was. I woke up on the bus.” Richie didn’t look like he could convince himself at all. He certainly couldn’t convince Max. He seemed to deflate like a sad little balloon. “I… I woke up on the bus.”

It truly did not matter anyway. However much Max tried, he could not for the life of him convince himself whether or not it mattered if Richie thought it was all a dream or not. And if it didn’t matter, then who cared?

“I think I’m in love with you.” He said, not hesitating for a moment. He shuffled his feet slightly, soaking in Richie’s reaction.

“Oh,” Was that a rejection? It seemed to ooze fear, so it must have been a rejection. “That’s nice. Really. That’s great for you.” He tried to smile, but his trembling gave him away. “Really, I think that’s sweet.”

“You’re afraid of me.” Max surprised himself with how tired he sounded. He just couldn’t believe it. Even after facing a God, Richie was still afraid of him.

“No, I… I just don’t understand, Max. Why are you saying this?”

“Because it doesn’t matter, Richie. I don’t know if I’m still in the house or not, and neither do you. So, I don’t want to sit and pretend that it matters if you believe it was all a dream or not, because I want to do what I care about.”

If this wasn’t real, then that meant he could tell Richie all over again another time. Just like Ted said.

Richie stared at him with wide, blue eyes. His lips were partly spread, as his eyes flicked from space on Max’s face to the next. “It matters to me, Max.” His lip trembled. “I can’t just go around thinking you’re in love with me after I had one shitty dream with you in it.”

Oh.

Richie didn’t want to believe that what happened in the house actually happened. He wanted to keep his fragile reality. Because if it actually happened, then he wouldn’t know who he was anymore.

Max stayed silent for a long time, mostly just watching Richie try not to unravel completely. Eventually, he found something to say. “I was so happy when you showed up in that house.” He took a deep breath as if getting those words out was a workout. “And I know that’s selfish, but I wasn’t alone in there anymore. Suddenly, I wasn’t the one who had to get those books in the attic, and suddenly someone was there to wake me up when Tinky tried to kill me.”

Richie didn’t respond, not with words at least. Wet drops fell to the floor but were soon stopped when he buried his head in his hands. A sob wracked his body.

“I hate you, Max.” He said, “I hate you so much.”

Max put his arm on Richie’s shoulder and pulled him closer until they embraced. “Okay.”

To say that Max adjusted well to being out was credit where credit was absolutely not due. The frequency of his ‘panic attacks’, as Richie called them, had skyrocketed, and he once saw a yellow plushy at the mall and nearly strangled the poor child carrying it. But time’s arrow would continue to march forward, and Max had no choice but to march along.

At least whatever he had going with Richie was solid. It had been six months since they escaped the yellow house, and he still didn’t get tired of the nerd. And Richie clearly didn’t hate him as much as he claimed.

They had started smoking. Max was always a social smoker, just parties and stuff, but now he smoked all the time. It was a new habit he had started with Richie. This new habit was what had brought him out here tonight. Smoking a cigarette under the starlight, sitting at the edge of Lake Michigan, wasn’t half bad. In fact, it was one of the good things about living on an island.

The water threatened to touch his feet, flowing back and forth in a teasing motion. The warm air hung around him like an old friend, wrapping its arms around his shoulders and hugging him until he couldn’t think of anything else. Nights like these made his pulse slow down.

The snapping of a twig made his pulse jump right back up. His head whipped around, expecting to see Richie, but someone else approached in his stead. A slender, tall man pulled out a lighter and a cigarette. “Sorry,” the man said, coming closer. “Mind if I join you?”

Max shook his head, and the man stepped into the light of the stars. It was Ted.

He hadn't seen Ted since he gave his funky speech in the hospital, so his presence wasn’t completely unwanted. He sat down around two feet away from Max. The ember of his cigarette glowed against the darkness.

“You weren’t at your dad’s house.” Ted said, “He said I could find you here, smoochin’ with ya’ little boyfriend.”

Ever since the yellow house, Max had made a habit of always announcing where he was going at all times. So, of course, his dad knew he was here. It was surprisingly easy to stand up to him after having stood his ground to a literal god.

“You were looking for me?” Max asked, dumbly. Ted had literally just said he was looking for him.

“Yes, I just realized I never thanked you for protecting Dawn. Maybe that’s ‘cus I was legally insane for two weeks, oh well.” Ted looked like a grown man. Of course, because he was one. But it somehow never struck Max that he had no idea how that looked. “Anyway, thank you for keeping Dawn safe.”

Max blew out a plume of smoke and smiled. “Cool, I guess we’re square.”

“What?” It was half-laugh, half-genuine confusion.

“Fair and square,” Max said.

Ted looked at him incredulously, his face a picture of confusion. “How’s that?”

Max pulled his legs closer to his body, the air feeling colder. It seemed odd that Ted wouldn’t remember. Surely, it wasn’t just a trivial moment for him. “Do you not remember when we first met? In the parking lot at CCRP?” Ted didn’t nod or shake his head. “You basically saved me from getting kidnapped?”

Again, he was met with confused eyes, and then suddenly Ted sat up straighter, looking at Max like something to study. “Shit, that was you!” Ted said, his finger pointing at Max. “God, I even called your dad. How could I remember it so wrong?” He put his face in his hands like he was trying to hide the embarrassment.

Max narrowed his eyes, the stillness of the night suddenly heavy around them. “Wait, wait, how do you remember it, exactly?”

Ted looked at him, staying quiet for a moment. Then he spoke, “Pete started walking to and from school on his own around that time, too. That was before I had custody of him.” It didn’t explain anything at all, so Max let the silence stretch on until Ted elaborated. “I spent so long imagining what would’ve happened if Pete had been in your position that day, that I think I just replaced you with him in my head.”

Max chuckled. What a stupid thing to have happen. In fact, it was almost scary how distorted a memory could get.

Ted continued, “I spent three months harassing the cops about it. They almost arrested me instead of that fucker.” He took another drag and then exhaled the smoke. “But he’s locked up now.” He paused again as if contemplating whether to continue. “I actually used that story to get custody of Pete. Still, sorry for replacing you in my head, that sucked.”

“No worries. Happens to the best of us.” Max extinguished his cigarette and stood up, brushing dirt off his pants. He had often concluded that everything would’ve been better if Ted hadn't been in the parking lot that day. Not because Max wished he had been kidnapped, but because if Ted had been elsewhere, that very elsewhere could’ve been by Dani. God, how Dani needed so much more saving than Max that day.

When he had nightmares about the yellow house, there was no Dawn, just Dani and the life she never lived. He had lost count of all the times he said Dani, rather than Dawn. Sometimes, there were no Tinky or Richie either. Just him and Dani and Dad.