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Chapter Text

The airport has the scent of old coffee and stale air, and the lights are pulsing from your tiredness. It’s been twenty minutes since your Boston flight landed, but the wait at baggage claim and the gate make it seem longer. With each step, your carry-on digs in as the laptop bag bumps your hip. Tomorrow, you start teaching at Derry High School. Tomorrow, your whole new life begins.

Today, you just need to find your cousin.

The arrivals area is smaller than you remember from childhood visits. It’s barely more than a waiting room with plastic chairs bolted to the floor and a coffee stand that closed at noon, according to the handwritten sign. A handful of people cluster near the doors, holding signs or checking their phones. You scan the crowd, looking for-

“Holy shit, you actually came!”

The last word is spoken with a crack in the voice, adolescent and energetic, and then Richie Tozier rushes toward you, limbs spread out, dark curls moving, glasses askew. He’s taller than you assumed, over your shoulder, and gangly like growing boys. His Hawaiian shirt is a crime against eyeballs, electric blue with neon pink flamingos, worn over a faded band tee you don’t recognize.

“Jeez, Rich!” He practically tackles you with a hug, holding on tight but acting like it’s no big deal.

“Couldn’t miss my favorite cousin’s grand arrival,” he says into your shoulder, voice muffled. He steps back, his smile huge and his movements exaggerated. “Well, second favorite. You’re tied with Marty from Milwaukee, but he sends better birthday cards.”

“There is no Marty from Milwaukee.”

“There could be. We’re a big family. Sprawling. I could have a Marty and just not know it.” He grabs your suitcase handle before you can protest, starts wheeling it toward the exit with a purposeful stride that doesn’t quite hide the nervous bounce in his step. She’s really here. She’s really staying.

The August heat hits you like a wall when you step outside. Maine summer, thick and muggy, the sun still high at four in the afternoon. Richie directs you toward a dilapidated sedan, clearly past its prime, which is your Aunt Linda’s old car, now yours because you’re Richie’s guardian.

Technically. Legally. Since the accident three months ago that left Richie an orphan and you the closest relative willing to upend your entire life to keep him out of foster care.

“She runs great,” Richie says, patting the car’s hood with exaggerated affection. “Only stalls at, like, every fourth red light. It builds character and teaches patience. Probably some other virtues too.”

“Richie-”

“Plus, the AC works, which in this shithole is basically a miracle.” He pops the trunk, heaves your suitcase in with a grunt. “Seriously, Derry in August is like Satan’s taint. You remember that, right? From the summer visits?”

You remember the humid nights and heavy air. Clouds gathered in the afternoon, promising storms that seldom arrived. Even then, you remember Richie’s infectious energy and oversized glasses as he followed you, like a little shadow, during your visits. Your aunt and uncle always seemed tired. Their house always seemed too quiet unless Richie was in it.

Now their house is your house. Richie is your responsibility. Tomorrow you start teaching junior English at the high school where Richie will be a freshman.

No pressure.

“Get in,” Richie says, already sliding into the passenger seat. “I’ll navigate. Well, ‘navigate’ is generous. Derry’s got like five streets, and they’re all named variations of ‘Main’ or ‘Witcham’, so it’s pretty hard to fuck up, but I’ll provide color commentary.”

Thankfully, the car starts, and you drive out of the airport parking lot onto a two-lane road that winds through the thick Maine forest. On either side, pine trees crowd together, casting elongated shadows in the fading sunlight. Without delay, Richie starts adjusting the radio, flipping through static and country stations before finding a loud rock music station.

“So,” he says, too casual, adjusting his glasses, “you’re really doing this. The whole teacher thing. The whole... living in Derry thing.”

“I’m really doing this.”

“Even though Derry is, objectively, a shithole. No offense to the town that raised my parents, may they rest and all that, but this place screams ‘Children of the Corn.’ Though honestly, I’d take homicidal corn over this place.”

His voice speeds up when he’s nervous, words tumbling over each other. You’d noticed it on the phone over the last few months, during the custody hearings and arrangements, the way he’d crack jokes and change subjects and talk about anything except the gaping hole in his life where his parents used to be.

“I’m only doing this ‘cause you’re here,” you say. “And because I’m good at teaching, and they needed an English teacher, and-”

“And you felt guilty.” He says it lightly, but his jaw tightens. “Which, like, fair. I’m very guilt-inducing.”

“Richie.” You look at your cousin, this kid you’re in charge of, and see him trying to be alright. “I’m doing this because I want to. Because you’re important to me. Because-”

“Okay, okay, we’re veering into Brady Bunch territory and I’m gonna need you to pump the brakes before we end up in a full emotional moment.” He cranks the radio louder. “Besides, we’ve got bigger things to worry about like the fact that you start teaching tomorrow and you look like death. No offense. You’re very pretty death. Extremely attractive corpse.”

“Thanks, Rich.”

“I’m just saying, you might want to invest in some under-eye concealer. Derry High’s kids are sharks. They smell weakness. Mrs. Patterson retired last year and rumor is she developed a drinking problem just from teaching sophomore English. You’re gonna need hard liquor and possibly medication.”

As you get closer to town, the forest starts to break up, giving way to increasingly frequent driveways and small houses set back from the road. You top the hill and there it is. Derry, Maine, population 31,000, just like someone’s dream of a classic small American town in the valley. The river runs through town like a dark vein, with church steeples and tree-lined streets all around.

This is home now, you think, and feel exhaustion settle even deeper into your bones.

“The house is in the Old Cape,” Richie says, directing you through turns. “Which sounds fancy but really just means ‘old’ like, old old. Houses from the 1800s, lots of peeling paint and tragic backstories. Very gothic. Very ‘this is where the murder happens.’”

He’s not wrong. The area has tiny streets and old Victorian homes with porches that are falling apart and yards that are wild. The trees are so dense they make a green tunnel above the street. It’s pretty, but in a slightly depressing way, like a town that used to be great.

Your aunt and uncle’s old house, which is now yours, is a small, two-story house with blue paint that used to look happy, but now just seems kind of sad. The porch swing groans in the wind, the window boxes are full of dead plants you should probably water, and the maple tree in the yard looks ancient.

“Home sweet home,” Richie announces, hopping out before you’ve fully parked. “It’s not much, but it’s... actually, it’s exactly as much as it looks like. I’d give you the grand tour but you’ve been here before, and also everything is exactly where my parents left it, which is super not depressing at all.”

He grabs your suitcase from the trunk with determined energy, hauling it up the porch steps. You follow with your other bags, fishing the house key from your pocket. It feels strange to use it, to open this door as the person who lives here now rather than a visiting relative.

Inside, the house has the smell of closed-up spaces and old carpet, and the afternoon sun streams through windows that haven’t been washed in months. Old magazines, a cardigan, and photos are in that frozen living room, and you try not to stare at them. Richie dumps your suitcase by the stairs and immediately heads to the kitchen.

“You hungry? I make a mean cereal. Also non-mean cereal. Really, cereal is my specialty. Oh, and toast. I’ve mastered toast. Everything else is basically char territory, but hey, we’ve got a microwave and like six takeout menus, so we’re set.”

You put your bags down and go into the kitchen after him. It’s tiny and old-fashioned, with linoleum, white 70s-era cabinets, and appliances that have probably been there forever. Richie’s already pulling open cupboards with the ease of someone who lives here, who’s been living here alone for the last two weeks while you finished up your life in Boston and prepared for the move.

“Rich, have you been eating actual meals?”

“Define ‘actual.’” He pours cereal into a bowl with exaggerated focus. “I had SpaghettiOs yesterday. That’s basically Italian cuisine, and Mrs. Kaspbrak from down the street keeps bringing over casseroles that I’m, like, seventy percent sure are edible. She’s very intense about food safety. And regular safety. And breathing. Her kid Eddie’s gonna be in my class, and she’s already called the school four times about air quality.”

You lean against the counter, watching him. With nonstop energy, he’s been buzzing ever since the airport. If I keep moving, keep joking, I don’t have to think about how everything’s different. How they’re gone. How I’m stuck with a cousin who probably wishes she was anywhere else.

“Tomorrow,” you say, cutting through his monologue, “we’re both going to have a real first day. You’re going to meet your teachers, and I’m going to be one of your teachers, which is going to be weird for both of us, but tonight, we’re going to order actual food-”

“Pizza?”

“Pizza,” you agree. “And then I’m going to pass out for approximately twelve hours because I’m so tired I’m seeing double, and you’re going to not throw any parties or burn down the house.”

“Damn, there go my plans for a rager.” He grins, and it reaches his eyes this time, some of the manic edge softening. “Pizza sounds good. There’s a place that delivers and only occasionally forgets the toppings.”

You order the pizza. Richie tells you about Derry while you eat at the kitchen table; he mentions the arcade, the quarry, and the super-weird Paul Bunyan statue. He doesn’t mention school except in jokes. He doesn’t mention how he’s actually doing.

Plus, he doesn’t mind when your knee bumps into his under the table. He doesn’t bolt for his room right after he eats. He’s still there, chatting away, trying to fill the quiet house.

By nine, you’re already going upstairs to your room, carrying your suitcase, and you don’t even unpack it. You brush your teeth in the bathroom that still has someone else’s soap dish and towels you should probably replace. You fall into bed in your clothes and think tomorrow before sleep drags you under like a riptide.

‿̩͙‿੭　∔⠀ৎ‿̩͙‿

Your alarm goes off at 5:30 AM and you want to die.

No, that’s dramatic. You’d love to sleep for another forty hours, but you get up anyway, deal with the cold shower, and stare at your suitcase, trying to find an outfit that screams “I’m a real teacher, not a kid, even though I’m still young.”

You settle on dark slacks and a blue blouse that’s professional without being stuffy. Low heels because you’ll be on your feet all day. Minimal makeup because you’re too tired for anything elaborate. In the mirror, you look like a teacher. You look capable.

You look terrified.

Fake it till you make it, you tell yourself, and head downstairs.

Richie’s room is still dark when you knock at 6:15. “Rich, time to get up.”

A groan comes from inside. “School is a capitalist construct designed to crush the human spirit.”

“School is legally mandated and starts in forty-five minutes.”

“I’ll take my chances with truancy.”

You open the door. Richie’s room is a total mess, with clothes everywhere, posters of bands you’ve never heard of, old movie posters, and a desk piled high with comics, notebooks, and a few broken glasses. Richie himself is a lump under the covers, just dark curls visible on the pillow.

“Richie Tozier, I did not move my entire life to Maine so you could skip the first day of high school.”

“Counter-argument. You could let me sleep and tell everyone I have consumption.”

You yank the covers back. He curls into a ball, gangly limbs everywhere, making wounded noises. “I’m calling Child Protective Services.”

“I am Child Protective Services. Get up.”

“I take back every nice thing I said about you at the airport.”

But he’s getting up, then he’s running his hands through that crazy curly hair. In the morning light, you can see the shadows under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth.

“Hey,” you say, softer. “I’m making coffee. Real coffee, not the instant stuff, and we’ll stop at that donut place on the way, get something good.”

“The one with the apple fritters?” He’s already reaching for his glasses on the nightstand.

“Whatever you want.”

“You’re trying to bribe me with fried dough.”

“Is it working?”

“...Yeah, okay, it’s working.”

Forty minutes later, you’re both in the car with coffee and a bag of donuts, headed toward Derry High School. The town is quiet in the early morning, with mist still hanging over the river, the streets mostly empty except for a few early risers and delivery trucks. Derry is attractive in a quaint, small-town way as the sun starts to clear the fog.

Built in the fifties, the high school is a vast brick building with straight lines, institutional windows, and a parking lot that is already packed. You pull into a spot near the entrance, kill the engine, and sit there for a moment while Richie demolishes an apple fritter.

“Okay,” you say. “Game plan. You go find your homeroom; I go find the English department. We pretend we don’t know each other in the halls so it’s not weird-”

“Oh, it’s gonna be weird regardless,” Richie says through a mouthful of pastry. “Small school. Everyone’s gonna know you’re my cousin by lunch. Derry’s rumor mill is faster than the internet.”

“Fine, but we’re still professional during school hours.”

“So no piggyback rides in the cafeteria?”

“Richie.”

“What about if I call you ‘teach’ in a really sarcastic voice? Can I do that?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re no fun.” He wads up the donut bag, shoves it in the cupholder, and then pauses, hand on the door handle. “Hey, uh. Thanks. For the coffee and shit. And for... you know. Everything.”

The vulnerability lasts approximately two seconds before he’s shoving the door open and unfolding himself from the car, backpack slung over one shoulder. “See you in the halls, cousin! Try not to embarrass me with your professionalism!”

You see him shuffle across the lot, all clumsy and trying to act cool, and your heart melts. He’s going to be okay. You’re both going to be okay.

The teacher entrance is around the side, marked with a fading sign. You follow a few other early arrivals into a hallway that smells like floor wax and old books, past bulletin boards covered in last year’s announcements that no one’s taken down yet. The main office is easy to spot: it’s inside the entrance, and the administrative assistant is already at her desk, looking like she needs a coffee.

“Can I help you?” She asks, peering over her reading glasses.

“I’m the new English teacher. I start today.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, we’ve been expecting you.” She shuffles through the papers on her desk and produces a folder with your name on it. “Welcome to Derry High. I’m Maureen. You’ll want to check in with Principal Langley. He’s in the back office, and then Susan Harper can show you to the English department. She’s the department head, very organized and a bit intense about grammar, but in a good way.”

The next hour is a blur of introductions and paperwork and a tour of the building that you immediately forget half of because you’re running on too little sleep and too much coffee. Principal Langley is a broad-shouldered man with a firm handshake who tells you they’re “thrilled to have someone with your credentials” and “know you’ll be a great fit for the Derry community.” Susan Harper is exactly as advertised. She’s an organized person who really cares about the Oxford comma. She walks you through the English department wing with the efficiency of a drill sergeant.

Your classroom is on the second floor, in room 214, with windows overlooking the parking lot and bare walls. The previous teacher retired, Susan explains, and took all her decorations with her, so you’ll need to “make it your own.” There’s a teacher’s desk, student desks in neat rows, a whiteboard that’s seen better days, and mostly empty bookshelves.

“Your class lists are in the folder,” Susan says, all business. “First period is junior English, second period is free for planning, third is another junior section, lunch, then two more sections in the afternoon. The syllabi are standardized, but the selection of texts is flexible. We’re reading Great Gatsby first unit, Julius Caesar second. Any questions?”

About a million, but you just shake your head.

“Good. Students arrive at 7:45. First period starts at 8:00. Don’t let them smell fear.” She might be joking. You can’t tell. “Welcome to Derry High.”

Then she’s gone and you’re alone in this empty classroom that’s supposed to be yours, and the reality of what you’ve done hits you like a freight train. You moved to Maine. You’re responsible for a traumatized fourteen-year-old. You’re going to teach high school English to teenagers who definitely do not want to be here.

You have twenty minutes before the students arrive.

You spend it writing your name on the whiteboard in neat letters, setting up your desk with the few supplies you brought, and trying not to spiral. You’re good at this. You taught in Boston for four years. You have a master’s degree in education. You know what you’re doing.

Mostly.

When the bell rings at 7:45, the hallways become a loud mess of lockers, voices, and kids rushing to homeroom. You stand at your classroom door, watching them pass, and then the first few students trickle into your room.

They’re juniors, sixteen and seventeen, with the particular brand of self-consciousness that comes with being neither child nor adult. They eye you warily as they take seats, whispering to each other. New teacher. First day. Easy target or actually competent? The jury’s out.

By the time the 8:00 bell rings, the room is full. Twenty-three students, according to your roster. You call out the roll, mess up some names, and get corrected (some people are nicer than others). Then, you try to look confident, even though you’re not sure you are.

“Good morning,” you say. You give them your last name and write it on the board again for good measure. “This is junior English, first period. If you’re not supposed to be here, now’s your chance to leave.”

No one moves. A few nervous laughs.

“Great. So, let’s start with the basics. I’m new to Derry, just moved here from Boston, and I’m teaching English because I genuinely love books and I genuinely believe that reading makes you better at being human. We’re reading some classic books this year, like Gatsby and Shakespeare, plus some poetry you might not love right away, but we’ll discuss why they’re important. Why people still read them, and what they can teach us about our own lives.”

You pause. They’re watching you. Some with interest, some with skepticism, most with the blank expression of teenagers who’ve heard a variation of this speech from every teacher they’ve ever had.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” you continue. “Some of this will be hard. Some of it will be boring, but I promise I’ll never assign something without being willing to defend why we’re reading it, and in return, I need you to actually try. Engage with the material even when it’s weird or old or doesn’t seem relevant. Deal?”

A few nods. One kid in the back raises his hand.

“Yes?”

“Are you related to Richie Tozier?”

And there it is. You knew it was coming. You’re still not prepared for the way the entire class immediately perks up, suddenly interested.

“I’m his cousin,” you say evenly. “But in this classroom, that’s not relevant. He’s not in this class, and even if he was, I’d expect you to treat him like any other student. Next question?”

The rest of first period goes smoothly, all things considered. You pass out the syllabus, go over expectations, and do the usual first-day logistics. The students are a mixed bag; some are into it, some are zoning out, and most are just...there. The bell goes off, and they explode out of there, just like they came in, and you finally get a break.

Second period is planning. You spend it organizing the empty bookshelves and reviewing your notes for the next class. Third period is Junior English again, pretty much the same as before: introductions, the syllabus, and dodging questions about Richie.

Then it’s lunch, and you’re heading to the teacher’s lounge when you catch a glimpse through the cafeteria doors of Richie sitting at a table with a group of other kids. He’s talking animatedly, hands gesturing, and they’re all laughing. He looks... okay. Maybe even happy.

The afternoon classes blur together. Fourth period. Fifth period. By the time the final bell rings at 2:30, you’re exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with being “on” for seven hours straight. You sink into your desk chair, close your eyes, and wonder if you’re cut out for this.

You spend the last ten minutes packing up your bag, checking your mail, and trying to ignore the fact that tomorrow you have to do this all over again. Then you head down to the parking lot, where students are streaming toward cars and buses and the general freedom of not being in school.

Richie shows up from the side with a bunch of other kids. You know some of them from school. They’re all freshmen, you can tell by how they look and how they’re acting. There’s a kid with a fanny pack who’s talking intensely about something, a smaller kid who keeps interrupting, a tall African American kid with a calm demeanor, and a girl.

The girl is noticeable because she’s not really part of the group so much as adjacent to it. Pale skin, black hair pulled back in a severe braid, posture too perfect for a fourteen-year-old. She’s walking next to Richie but not quite with him, and there’s something about her that makes you pause.

“So then I’m like, dude, I don’t care if my mom says it’s contaminated, it’s just dirt-” The kid with the fanny pack cuts himself off when he notices you. “Oh. Is that your cousin?”

“Yep, that’s her,” Richie says. “My cousin, the teacher, living the dream. Hey!” He waves at you. “These are the Losers. Well, I’m calling us that. They haven’t agreed on the name yet, but I think it’s got real branding potential.”

The tall kid steps forward, offers a hand. “Mike Hanlon. Nice to meet you.”

You shake it, impressed by his manners. The others introduce themselves in turn. Eddie Kaspbrak (the fanny pack kid), Stan Uris (the one who was interrupting), and Bill Denbrough (a quiet kid with a stutter who seems to be the de facto leader). Those kids are really sweet, and they’re all super friendly, like they’ve been friends forever.

Then there’s the girl.

“I’m Ingrid,” she says, and her voice is flat. “Ingrid Kersh. I’m new too. We just moved here.”

“Nice to meet you, Ingrid,” you say, even though something about her makes your skin prickle.

“She helped me out today,” Richie adds. “Bowers was being a dick. Sorry, a jerk, and she basically told him to fuck off which was cool of her.”

Ingrid says in the same deadpan voice, “Henry Bowers is a bully. It was logical to intervene.”

“Well, thanks for looking out for him,” you say, trying for warmth even though the girl’s stare is unnerving. “You said you’re new? When did you move to Derry?”

“Last week. My father and I. We immigrated from Sweden.” She blinks, slow and deliberate. “We live on Neibolt Street. The renovated house.”

Richie makes a noise. “Wait, Neibolt Street? That’s the sketchy street. Like, that’s where all the stories about squatters and drug dealers and-”

“It’s been renovated,” Ingrid repeats. “It’s very nice now.”

“Huh.” Richie adjusts his glasses, clearly skeptical. “Okay, sure. Well, uh, I should go. Cousin’s waiting and all that.”

“I need a ride too,” Ingrid says.

There’s a beat of awkward silence. You step in. “Of course. We can drop you off on the way home.”

The other guys say their goodbyes, making plans to see each other, and then it’s just you, Richie, and Ingrid walking to your car. Richie immediately claims the front seat, leaving Ingrid in the back, and you pull out of the parking lot into the late afternoon traffic.

“So, Neibolt Street,” you say, trying for conversation. “That’s on the way. Just past downtown, right?”

“Yes,” Ingrid says from the backseat. “We are very close to you. Very convenient.”

The way she talks makes it seem planned, not just by chance.

Richie’s fiddling with the radio again, clearly uncomfortable. “Sweden, huh? That’s pretty far. What brought you to Derry specifically? I mean, no offense, but this isn’t exactly a destination town.”

“My father’s work.” Ingrid’s voice carries no inflection. “He specializes in... the study of small town dynamics. Derry is ideal for his research.”

“What kind of research?” you ask.

“Sociological.” A pause. “And other kinds.”

That’s ominous. You glance in the rearview mirror, but Ingrid is just staring out the window, face blank.

The drive into downtown takes ten minutes. You find the usual small-town spots on Derry’s main street, like a pharmacy, diner, an old movie theater, and some antique stores. Then you’re crossing a bridge, water dark and slow below, and heading into an older residential area.

Neibolt Street is, as Richie suggested, sketchy. The houses here are Victorian-era, most of them abandoned or in severe disrepair. Overgrown lots, boarded windows, the particular air of neglect that comes from decades of being ignored, but then, at the far end, there’s one house that stands out.

It’s been completely renovated. The house features new pale blue paint, new shutters, a sturdy porch, and a carefully landscaped yard. It looks like someone airlifted a nice suburban house and dropped it in the middle of urban decay.

“Here,” Ingrid says. “This is mine.”

You pull up to the curb. The house looms, somehow too perfect, too pristine compared to its neighbors. There are no cars in the driveway, no signs of life except for curtains moving slightly in an upstairs window.

“Thanks for the ride,” Ingrid says, already opening her door. “I will see you tomorrow, Richie. And at the back-to-school night tonight.” She uses your last name precisely.

“Back-to-school night?” You’d completely forgotten.

“Yes, at 6:30 PM in the gymnasium. All teachers and parents are invited.” She steps out, closes the door with a soft click. “We will be there.”

Then she’s walking up the path to that too-perfect house, and you’re pulling away with an uncomfortable feeling settling between your shoulders.

“That girl is weird,” Richie says the moment you’re out of earshot.

“Richie-”

“I’m serious! She’s like... uncanny valley.”

“She’s probably just shy. New place, new school-”

“She told Bowers she’d remove his intestines through his nasal cavity if he touched me again.”

You can’t really argue with that. “Okay, she’s a little odd, but she helped you, right? And it’s nice that you’re making friends.”

“I’m making friends with Bill and the guys. Ingrid just kind of... appeared like a really unsettling barnacle.”

“Richie.”

“What? I’m just saying, there’s something off about her.” He slumps in his seat, staring out the window. “And now I’m stuck in her class and she lives near us. Great. This is going great.”

You ruffle his hair, which he protests loudly, and the subject is dropped. The rest of the drive home is quiet, both of you too tired to talk much. Pulling into the driveway, the house is the same as this morning; it is still tired, waiting for you to make it feel like home.

Inside, you both dump your bags and collapse. Richie immediately sprawls on the couch, announcing that if he looks at a textbook right now, he’ll “literally die.” You don’t have the energy to argue. You’re still running on fumes from the flight yesterday, from the stress of the first day, from everything.

“Back-to-school night,” you remember suddenly. “Tonight. We have to be there at 6:30.”

“Can we skip it?”

“Absolutely not. I’m a teacher now. I have to be there.”

“But I’m a student. Different rules.”

“Richard Tozier-”

“Fine, fine. But we’re getting food first. Real food.”

Which is how, at 5:30, you end up at Jade of the Orient, the only decent restaurant in downtown Derry according to Richie’s extensive research (by which he means “I heard some seniors talking about it”). It’s a small, family-owned place with vinyl booths and a menu that tries to be both Chinese and Thai, and probably several other cuisines simultaneously.

You slide into a booth near the window. The restaurant is pretty dead right now, with only a few people here and there, and the waitress seems bored.

“Get whatever you want,” you tell Richie, scanning the menu. “This is a celebration. We both survived day one.”

“I’m getting the lo mein and the fried rice. Also, like, six egg rolls.”

You’re about to respond when the bell above the door jingles and two people walk in.

The girl you recognize first is Ingrid, the same clothes from school, black braid still severe, but the man with her steals your breath away.

He’s tall. He’s incredibly tall, probably six-three or six-four, and has a lean, powerful build. His face is a masterpiece of sharp angles and refined features, boasting cheekbones like shards of glass and a sculpted jawline. His skin looks almost as if it’s glowing under the harsh lights. His dark hair is combed back, yet it looks styled rather than perfect. And his eyes-

Even from across the restaurant, you can see his eyes. Their hue is an unusual shade of blue-green, vibrant and piercing with an intensity that seems almost predatory.

He is dressed in dark slacks and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and no tie. His movements are fluid and graceful, similar to those of dancers and athletes. He’s so hot it makes you weak in the knees.

Get it together, you tell yourself. You’re staring.

But you can’t stop staring.

He’s checking out the place, muttering to Ingrid, and then he looks right at you and Richie. Something flickers across his face. Recognition? Interest? He smiles.

It’s a warm smile. He smiles in a way that crinkles his eyes, making him seem nice, even though he’s staring intently. After saying something else to Ingrid, he starts walking toward your booth, and she’s right on his heels.

“Excuse me,” he says, and his voice is low and smooth with the barest hint of an accent. Swedish, maybe. “You are-” He uses your last name. “And Richard. Ingrid mentioned you gave her a ride home today. I wanted to thank you for your kindness.”

Up close, he’s even more striking. You can feel those eyes on you, and it’s giving you goosebumps. He’s smiling, but it feels...off.

“Oh, it was no problem,” you manage, trying to sound professional and failing miserably because your voice comes out slightly higher than normal. “Ingrid said you just moved to town?”

“Yes, last week. From Sweden, originally, though we’ve been in the States for several years now. I’m Bob.” He extends a hand. “Bob Gray.”

You shake it. His hand is cool, grip firm, and he holds the contact just a beat longer than necessary. Long enough for you to notice. Long enough for heat to creep up your neck.

“And you must be Richard,” Bob says, turning his attention to Richie, who’s gone very still in his seat.

“Richie,” Richie corrects, voice flat. “No one calls me Richard.”

“Richie, then.” Bob’s smile doesn’t waver. “Ingrid tells me you share several classes together. How fortunate. It’s always nice to have familiar faces in a new place.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, and you can hear the skepticism. “Lucky us.”

Bob laughs, a soft rumble that you can feel in your chest. “I hope we’re not interrupting your dinner. We just wanted to express our gratitude. And-”

His eyes flick back to you. "I understand there’s a back-to-school night tonight? We’ll be attending, of course. I’m very interested in meeting Ingrid’s teachers, understanding the curriculum, and being involved in her education."

“That’s great,” you say, and you sound like an idiot. “Parental involvement is really important.”

“I believe in being very... involved.” The way he says it makes it sound like a promise. Or a threat. “In all aspects of my daughter’s life, and the lives of those she associates with.”

His eyes are on Richie when he says it, and Richie shifts uncomfortably.

“We should get our table,” Ingrid says in her flat voice. “We don’t want to be late.”

“Of course.” Bob straightens, and somehow the movement makes him seem even taller. “We’ll see you both tonight, then. Looking forward to it.”

When he walks by and barely grazes your shirt, it feels like electricity. He then goes to a booth across the restaurant, Ingrid right behind him, and you’re just watching him go, your heart racing.

“What the fuck was that?” Richie hisses the moment they’re out of earshot.

“What do you mean?”

“He was…Did you not feel that? That was the creepiest thing I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve seen every horror movie ever made.”

“He was just being friendly-”

“That was not friendly. And the way he looked at you-” Richie makes a disgusted face. “Ugh. Gross. I need to bleach my brain.”

“Richie, you’re being ridiculous.” But your shoulder still tingles where Bob touched it. Your heart is still racing. “He’s just a parent. A very... attractive parent, but still.”

“‘Attractive’?” Richie’s voice goes up an octave. “You think he’s attractive? Oh my god. Oh my god. This is a nightmare. My cousin has a crush on the creepy Swedish dad who definitely has bodies in his basement.”

“I do not have a crush-”

“You were drooling. Literally drooling. I saw it. It was horrifying.”

“I was not-”

The waitress arrives to take your order, cutting off the argument, but you can’t help glancing across the restaurant to where Bob and Ingrid are sitting. Bob catches you looking and raises his water glass slightly, smile playing at his lips.

You look away quickly, face hot.

Get it together, you tell yourself again. He’s a parent. You’re a teacher. This is inappropriate on multiple levels.

Even though he’s not right next to you, you can still feel where he touched you, and your food is flavorless because all you can think about is him, and how he’s looking at you.

Richie, for his part, spends the entire meal shooting suspicious glares at the Gray table and muttering about “serial killers” and “definitely murders people in his spare time.”

“You need to stop watching so many horror movies,” you tell him.

“You need to start watching more. Then you’d recognize the warning signs. Creepy guy moves to small town? Red flag. Creepy guy has weird robot daughter? Red flag. Creepy guy makes eyes at unsuspecting teacher? MASSIVE red flag.”

“He was not making eyes-”

“He was absolutely making eyes. The kind of eyes that say ‘I’m going to follow you home and stand outside your window.’”

“Richie.”

“What? I’m just concerned for your safety and my safety. And the safety of everyone in this town, honestly, because that dude is bad news.”

You stopped arguing, probably because deep down, you kinda agree with him. There was something off about Bob Gray. Something beneath the charm and the good looks and the warm smile. Something that made your hindbrain scream danger even as the rest of you was drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

By the time you finish eating and pay the bill, it’s 6:15. Bob and Ingrid left ten minutes ago, and you watched them through the window as they walked to a sleek black car that looked far too expensive for a small-town teacher’s budget.

“Okay,” you say, standing. “Back-to-school night. Let’s go pretend to be functional members of society.”

“I’m not pretending anything. I’m going to hide in the corner.”

“You’re going to socialize like a normal person.”

“Hard pass.”

The drive to the school takes five minutes. The parking lot’s packed, and everyone’s heading inside, while teachers are faking smiles at the door. You park near the back and walk in with Richie trailing behind, hands shoved in his pockets.

The gymnasium has been set up with tables for each department, teachers stationed behind them looking various degrees of enthusiastic. There’s a refreshment table with sad cookies and even sadder punch, and clusters of parents trying to figure out who teaches their kids what.

Susan Harper waves you over to the English department table immediately. “There you are! Come on, we’ve already had a few parents asking about you. New teacher, everyone’s curious.”

For the next hour, you field questions from parents about curriculum and expectations and whether their child will be prepared for college. They’re mostly normal people: concerned, involved, and asking sensible questions. There are a few types of parents that will cause problems. The ones who are all over their kids, the ones who think their kids are geniuses, and the ones who just want to complain.

You handle them all with professional courtesy, even when you want to scream.

Richie, meanwhile, is indeed hiding in a corner with Bill and the other Losers, all of them looking uncomfortable in the way teenagers do at school functions. Eddie’s mom, a big lady in a flowery dress, is hovering, and she’s grilling a science teacher about lab safety.

You’re deep in a Gatsby conversation with a parent, and suddenly you feel it. Someone’s staring. You look up and there’s Bob Gray, standing at the edge of the gymnasium, scanning the room. He changed into dark jeans and a gray shirt since he left the restaurant, and he looks completely different from the other dads in their khakis.

His eyes find yours across the room, and he smiles. He’s heading your way like a predator, dodging the crowd, and you’ve got ten seconds before he gets to you.

The way he says your name makes it sound intimate. “We meet again. Fate, perhaps?”

“Mr. Gray.” You force yourself to sound professional. “Good to see you. Are you here to learn about Ingrid’s classes?”

“Among other things.” His eyes haven’t left your face. “I’m very interested in understanding what Derry High has to offer. The quality of education, the caliber of teachers, the... environment my daughter will be in.”

Susan Harper butts in right then, whether you like it or not. “Mr. Gray, hello. I’m Susan Harper, head of the English department. I understand Ingrid is in several of our classes?”

Bob looks at her, and you notice Susan’s reaction mirrors your own: a subtle gasp, eyes widening slightly. He’s incredibly charming; that’s the only way to describe him. He draws attention just by existing.

“Yes,” Bob says. “I wanted to introduce myself, learn more about what she’ll be studying. I take my daughter’s education very seriously.”

“Of course, we appreciate involved parents.” Susan launches into the same spiel about curriculum that she gave you this morning, and Bob listens with apparent interest, asking intelligent questions, seeming genuinely engaged.

Yet, his focus always returns to you. Little glances, quick looks, like he’s monitoring your position even while talking to someone else. It’s meant to be creepy, and it is, but it also gets you excited, not scared.

Stop it, you tell yourself again.

However, it’s difficult to focus when he leans on your table, his proximity allowing you to smell his expensive, woodsy cologne, and asks, “What are you most excited to teach this year?””

“Um.” Very professional. Very articulate. “I think Gatsby will be interesting. It’s a good starting point for discussions about the American Dream, class, and identity.”

“Identity,” Bob repeats, and something flickers in those impossible eyes. “Yes, that’s a fascinating topic. How we present ourselves versus who we really are. The masks we wear.” His smile sharpens. “Everyone wears masks, don’t you think?”

“Some more than others,” you manage.

“Indeed.” He straightens, and you realize he’s been standing close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him. Deliberately close. It’s like he’s invading your space, which should be bad, but it feels... nice? “I look forward to seeing how you teach it. Perhaps I could sit in on a class sometime? I do so enjoy education.”

“That’s... I don’t know if we allow parent observations-”

“I’m sure exceptions can be made.” He says it with utter confidence. “For the right reasons.”

Susan Harper is talking to another parent now, distracted, and Bob takes the opportunity to lean in even closer. His voice gets really soft, just for you to hear. “You’re very dedicated, taking in your cousin. Moving your whole life for him. That’s admirable.”

“How did you—”

“Small town,” he says simply. “People talk. And I do so like to know about the people in my daughter’s life. The people she’ll be spending time with.” His eyes flick across the gymnasium to where Richie is standing with his friends. “He’s important to you.”

It’s not a question.

“Yes,” you say, because what else can you say?

“Family is everything,” Bob says, and there’s something dark beneath the surface. “The bonds we have with the people we love. Those bonds define us. Shape us. Make us vulnerable in the most profound ways.”

Your mouth has gone dry. “I... suppose.”

“You’d do anything for him. Wouldn’t you? To keep him safe, to make sure he’s okay.” Bob’s smile hasn’t wavered but his eyes are intense, boring into yours. “That kind of love is powerful. And rare. You should protect it. Cherish it.”

“I plan to.”

“Good.” He straightens again, and the moment breaks. His voice returns to normal volume, the charming parent once more. “Well, I should find Ingrid, make sure she’s meeting her other teachers. But I’m so glad we had this chance to talk, Miss. I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing quite a lot of each other this year.”

He extends his hand again, and you take it automatically. He’s got a cool, firm grip, and he holds on just long enough to make it seem intentional for heat to pool in your belly in a way that’s entirely inappropriate.

He disappears into the crowd with Ingrid suddenly there, and you’re left standing, heart racing, skin tingling, and your brain is sending mixed signals.

Danger danger danger on one hand.

God, he’s attractive on the other.

You spend the rest of back-to-school night in a daze, answering parent questions on autopilot, nodding along to Susan’s commentary. Your eyes can’t help but follow Bob around the room; you see him working his charm on other teachers, chatting with other parents, and always with Ingrid close by, like his shadow.

And sometimes, you catch him looking back.

When 8:00 rolls around and the event officially ends, you’re exhausted in a completely different way than you were after teaching. It’s like you’re worn out from always putting on a show and feeling uncomfortable.

You find Richie immediately. “Time to go.”

“Thank god. Eddie’s mom tried to tell me about her essential oil business for twenty minutes, and I think I lost brain cells.”

You herd him toward the exit, past knots of lingering parents and teachers cleaning up. Bob’s by the door chatting with Principal Langley, and wouldn’t you know it, you have to walk right past them to get out.

“Miss,” he says, interrupting whatever he was saying to the principal. “Leaving so soon?”

“Long day,” you say, trying for polite but distant. “First day teaching, and we’re both exhausted.”

“Of course, of course.” He glances at Richie, who’s practically radiating hostility. “Rest well, both of you. I’m sure we’ll see each other again very soon.”

So now, you’re outside in the warm August night, the stars are starting to pop out, and you can finally breathe easy. Richie doesn’t say anything until you’re in the car with the doors locked, but then the words explode out of him.

“That man is insane. That’s serial killer talk.”

“Richie-”

“And the way he looks at you! Like you’re a piece of meat he’s sizing up for dinner. It’s disgusting. And you-” He rounds on you. “You were eating it up! All blushy and stammery and completely ignoring every single red flag!”

“I was not blushy-”

“You were EXTREMELY blushy. I saw. Everyone saw. Mrs. Harper definitely saw, she gave me this look like ‘is your cousin okay.’”

“Richie Tozier, I swear to god-”

“I’m just saying, if we end up dead because you couldn’t resist tall, dark, and creepy, I’m going to be so mad. I’m going to haunt you. I’m going to be the most annoying ghost ever.”

You pull out of the parking lot, gripping the steering wheel too hard. “He’s just a parent.There’s nothing weird about that.”

“Everything is weird about that. Him, his robot daughter, their creepy perfect house on Neibolt Street, the way he talks like he’s reading from a script written by Satan-”

“Enough.” Your voice comes out sharper than intended and Richie falls silent, slumping in his seat. You take a breath. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but I’m an adult, and I can handle myself around other adults. Even attractive ones. There’s nothing going on, there’s not going to be anything going on, and you need to stop seeing threats where there aren’t any.”

Richie doesn’t respond, just stares out the window with his jaw tight.

“Hey,” you say, softer. “I am being careful, okay? I’m not stupid. And I’m not going to let anything happen to us. Either of us. We’re safe.”

“You don’t know that,” Richie says quietly. “You don’t know anything about him. Where he really came from, why he’s really here. And that house! There’s something wrong with that house. Everyone in Derry knows Neibolt Street is bad news. People disappear there. Bad things happen there, and now they’re just living in it like it’s normal?”

You want to argue and tell him he’s being paranoid, but you can’t shake the feeling from earlier. Wrongness beneath Bob Gray’s charm. The way his eyes seemed to see too much, know too much. The way his interest in Richie felt less like concern and more like... something else. Something hungry.

“Okay,” you say finally. “I’ll be careful, and you tell me if anything feels off, if he or Ingrid do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Deal?”

“Deal.” Richie relaxes slightly. “But for the record, everything about them makes me uncomfortable. That’s my baseline. They’re walking discomfort.”

The rest of the drive is quiet. When you pull into the driveway, the house looks welcoming in the porch light you left on, warm and safe. You lock the car doors, lock the house doors, and check the windows like you haven’t done since you were a teenager yourself.

Richie heads upstairs without being asked, calling out a “goodnight” that sounds tired and young. You’re in the living room, listening to the house, and trying to get rid of this weird feeling. Today was the start of something bigger than just the school year. The moment Bob Gray smiled at you in the restaurant, everything changed.

You try to convince yourself that tomorrow will be normal. It was just a weird first day, probably because you’re stressed, tired, and dealing with a traumatized teen.

Yet when you finally fall asleep, you dream of blue-green eyes and a huge smile, and you wake up twice feeling like someone’s watching the house.

It’s just your imagination.

It has to be.

Doesn’t it?

Chapter Text

The first time Bob Gray shows up during your prep period, you’re grading essays at your desk, red pen poised over a particularly creative interpretation of The Outsiders. The knock on your doorframe is soft, almost apologetic, but when you glance up, there’s nothing apologetic about the way he fills the space.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he says, though his tone suggests he knows exactly what he’s interrupting and doesn’t particularly care.

“Mr. Gray.” You set down your pen, trying to ignore the way your pulse kicks up. You’ve only bumped into him twice since back-to-school night three weeks ago. Both times, his eyes found yours across the space like a compass finding north. “Is everything alright with Ingrid?”

“Ingrid’s fine.” Without being asked, he enters; you see, he’s dressed down today, in dark jeans that cling to him, and a burgundy button-down with the sleeves pushed up. The fluorescent lights catch the auburn in his hair. “There was an incident with the Bowers boy yesterday. Nothing physical this time, and Ingrid didn’t want to make a fuss, but I thought I should be present.”

His fingers drum once against the doorframe, and you catch yourself watching the movement. His hands are large, long-fingered, the kind that could span your waist with room to spare. You blink, shoving that thought down deep.

“That’s very involved of you,” you say, keeping your voice professional. “Most parents just call.”

“I’m not most parents.” The smile he gives you makes your stomach flip. He speaks in a slow, thoughtful way, almost as if he’s about to tell you something secret. “Besides, it gave me an excuse to see you. I’ve been thinking about our conversation at back-to-school night.”

“Oh?” You busy yourself straightening the already-straightened stack of essays. “Which part?”

“I noticed you avoiding eye contact,” he says, drawing nearer and circling your desk. He doesn’t get too close, but you can still smell his scent, which reminds you of damp streets and the smell of autumn leaves. “The part where you kept touching your throat when you were nervous. Right here.”

He doesn’t touch you, but the way he gestures to his neck is more intimate.

“I-” 

You stand, feeling the need for distance, and not wanting to be seated while he looms over you. “Mr. Gray, I think-”

“Bob.”

“Bob,” you correct, and his name tastes strange in your mouth. “I don’t think this is appropriate.”

“Appropriate.” He tests the word, rolling it around like a wine tasting. “No, I don’t suppose it is, but I’m not asking you to do anything inappropriate. I’m sitting here, making conversation. Unless...” He turns his head slightly, and his striking blue eyes fix on you with a gaze so intense it’s like being trapped under glass. “Unless you’re thinking about something inappropriate?”

Heat floods your face. “I’m not-that’s not-”

“Relax.” The word is soft, almost hypnotic. “I’m teasing. Mostly.” He glances at the clock above your door. “When does Richie’s class end?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Perfect. I’ll stay until then and keep Ingrid company. She gets anxious when that Bowers boy is around.” He sits down at a student desk, which looks absurd given his height, but he manages. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

He is absolutely not quiet as a mouse. For the next twenty minutes, you feel his eyes on you constantly. When you try to focus on grading, you end up reading the same sentence four times. When you get up to write tomorrow’s agenda on the board, you’re hyperaware of how your skirt moves, and how the chalk dust settles on your fingers. He just sits there, still as a statue, staring at you in a way that gives you the creeps.

This is wrong, something whispers in the back of your mind. Something about him is very, very wrong.

Yet when you look again, he’s simply a handsome man with friendly eyes and a calm smile, patiently waiting for his daughter’s class to finish.

Once the bell sounds, the hallways fill with students and their typical disorder. Before you spot him, you can hear Richie, whose voice easily carries, as he does an impersonation that makes his friends laugh. Then he appears in your doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, and freezes when he sees Bob.

“Oh.” All the animation drains from his face. “Hi.”

“Richie.” Bob’s smile remains steady, yet a chill, like the sudden onset of winter, seems to permeate the atmosphere. “How’s your day going?”

“Fine.” Richie’s eyes dart to you, then back to Bob. His jaw is tight. “Why are you here?”

“Richie,” you chide gently. “That’s rude.”

“It’s alright.” Bob stands, unfolding from the desk with fluid grace. “It’s a fair question. I’m here watching over Ingrid and making sure certain students remember to be respectful.” Bob walks by Richie, and your cousin visibly recoils, even though Bob doesn’t touch him. “I’ll see you around.”

He vanishes before you can answer, and all that remains is the fresh scent of rain.

“You okay?” You move toward Richie, concerned by how pale he looks.

“Yeah, I’m-” He shakes his head. “There’s something wrong with him.”

“With Bob?”

“With Mr. Gray. Ingrid's dad…I mean, Bob. Whatever.” Richie’s hands tighten on his backpack straps. His knuckles are white.

You want to brush it off, say he’s overreacting, that Bob’s just a passionate dad, but you remember the way Bob looked at you, and the way he seemed to know your thoughts before you spoke them.

“He’s just protective of Ingrid,” you say finally, but the words feel hollow.

“Yeah.” Richie doesn’t sound convinced. “Sure.”

Bob starts showing up a lot in your life over the next couple weeks, in sneaky little ways.

He drops by with coffee during your lunch, remembering exactly how you like it, even though you never said a word. He volunteers to chaperone the upcoming field trip to the historical society and specifically requests your bus. He gives you a small potted succulent for your desk.

The other teachers notice. Oh, do they notice.

Linda Sullivan, a math teacher who has been divorced for three years, unexpectedly becomes very interested in Ingrid’s schoolwork. With her hair styled and lips shiny, she visits your classroom twice a day, hoping to see Bob when he’s around.

“He’s just so present,” she gushes in the teacher’s lounge, stirring her coffee with unnecessary vigor. “Most dads can barely be bothered to sign permission slips, but Bob Gray actually cares. And those eyes...” She fans herself dramatically. “It should be illegal to be that attractive and that devoted.”

Margaret Chen, the English lit teacher known for her reserved demeanor, which often resembles a stern librarian, blushes whenever Bob opens the door for her. You watch her fumble her attendance folder, papers scattering across the hallway floor, and Bob crouches down to help her gather them. When he hands them back with that slow smile, Margaret stammers her thanks and practically sprints away.

You should find this amusing, and perhaps even feel satisfied knowing you’re not the sole person drawn to Bob Gray’s charm. Instead, a sharp, possessive sensation coils in your chest whenever Linda laughs loudly at something Bob says in the hallway, or when Margaret “accidentally” bumps into him near the copy machine.

A faint thought whispers, He’s focused on you, not the others.

Which is insane. You barely know him. He’s a parent of one of your students. This entire situation is deeply inappropriate by all professional standards you follow, but then he catches your eye across the parking lot. His smile slowly and deliberately unfolds, and you forget every professional standard you’ve ever held.

The invitation comes on a Friday afternoon, three weeks after that first classroom visit. As you’re mentally preparing for your weekend while locking up (grading papers, buying groceries, and checking Richie’s homework), Bob suddenly shows up next to you.

“Jesus!” You press a hand to your racing heart. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds almost pleased. “I wanted to catch you before you left. Are you busy tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Your brain short-circuits. “I…No? I mean, normal Saturday stuff. Why?”

“There’s a carnival on the boardwalk.” He leans casually against the wall next to your door, hands in his pockets. “I thought maybe you’d like to go with me.”

It takes a moment for his meaning to sink in. “Are you... asking me on a date?”

“Is that a problem?”

“I’m Richie’s guardian. You’re Ingrid’s father.”

“I know who we are.” His voice lowers, becoming more intimate despite the empty hallway. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

You should say no, and should cite professional boundaries and the complexity of the situation and a dozen other perfectly valid reasons to decline, but he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at, and the words that come out are. “Okay.”

His smile is radiant. “Perfect. I’ll pick you up at two.”

“Wait-” 

And just like that, he’s gone, and you’re there with your keys, getting a bad feeling that you just committed to way more than a carnival.

Richie’s reaction that evening is immediate and visceral.

“Absolutely fucking not.”

“Language,” you say automatically, even though your heart’s not in it.

“No, seriously.” He’s pacing your living room, hands gesturing wildly. His glasses keep sliding down his nose. “You can’t go out with him. He’s…There’s something wrong with him!”

“Richie, we’ve been over this-”

“Have we? Because I feel like you keep ignoring me when I tell you that Bob Gray makes my skin crawl!” He stops, turns to face you. For a second, he seems terribly young, with his uncoordinated limbs and features that are still too large for him to look like he has grown into them. “Please. I’m not just being a dick. He feels wrong.”

His words give you the chills, but you ignore them. “He’s been nothing but kind. To me, to Ingrid, and even to you.”

“He watches you.” Richie’s voice is quiet now, deadly serious. “All the time, even when you don’t see him. I’ve caught him staring at you with this look like... like you’re something he wants to eat.”

“That’s dramatic even for you.”

“I’m not being dramatic!” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Okay, fine. You won’t listen to me, but I’m coming with you.”

“What? No. It’s a date.”

“It’s a carnival with rides and games and shit. I’ll bring Ingrid. We’ll do our own thing; you can do yours, but at least I’ll be there if-” He stops.

“If what?”

“If you need me,” he says finally, and there’s something in his eyes that looks almost like fear. “Please. Let me come.”

You open your mouth to refuse, to explain that this is a date and bringing your teenage cousin would be wildly inappropriate, but something in his expression stops you. He looks scared. Not typical adolescent anxiety about being left alone, but genuinely frightened, his face paler than usual and his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“Please,” he says quietly. “I don’t want you to be alone with him.”

The doorbell rings before you can respond, and Richie’s entire body tenses like a rabbit hearing a predator.

Bob is at your door, and he looks incredibly good in his outfit. His hair’s all over the place, and he’s holding a sunflower, your favorite. (Even though you never told him.)

“For you,” he says, handing it over with that devastating smile.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” You accept the flower, feeling that familiar flutter in your stomach. “Actually, I was hoping…Richie wanted to come along to the carnival. If that’s okay?”

“Of course. The more the merrier. Ingrid’s already in the car. She insisted on coming too.”

Relief floods through you, though you’re not entirely sure why. Maybe Richie’s anxiety is contagious.

Bob’s car is a black Lincoln Continental, sleek and clearly expensive, the kind of vehicle that seems out of place in working-class Derry. Ingrid sits in the back seat, wearing a white dress with a black cardigan and Mary Janes that make her look younger than her thirteen years old. Her hair falls in perfect waves around her shoulders, and she watches Richie climb into the seat beside her with an expression you can’t quite read.

“Hi Richie,” she says softly.

“Hey.” He sounds less hostile than usual, which you count as a win.

Bob holds the passenger door open for you with old-fashioned courtesy, and you slide into the leather seat, which still has that new-car smell despite the Continental being a few years old. You’d never guess anyone ever uses this car, it’s so clean.

He probably has it detailed constantly, you think, but the thought feels strange. Something about how perfect Bob looks, with his clothes and hair, feels fake, like an overly photoshopped photo.

The drive to the boardwalk takes twenty minutes with Bob navigating the streets of Derry with easy familiarity. He asks about your week, about your classes, about what you thought of the Fleetwood Mac record he gave you during a schoolday. Even though Richie’s stressed, Bob’s voice is calm and soothing. You can’t help but feel relaxed.

The carnival sprawls across the old boardwalk on the outskirts of town, right where the Kenduskeag River widens before feeding into the Penobscot. String lights crisscross overhead, creating a canopy of golden light that reflects off the dark water. The smell of fried dough, caramel apples, and popcorn drifts on the cool evening air, mixed with the salt-tang of the river. The sound of carnival music drifts from old speakers, its quality a little off, creating that unique mix of happiness and the uncanny feeling only carnival music can evoke.

It’s not a large carnival, probably only a dozen rides and twice as many game booths, but for Derry it’s an event. Families wander between attractions, teenagers cluster in packs near the Tilt-A-Whirl, and little kids drag their parents toward the carousel with its painted horses frozen in mid-gallop.

“What do you want to do first?” Bob asks, his hand finding the small of your back as you walk through the entrance. The touch sends electricity up your spine, his palm warm even through your jacket and sweater.

“Games!” Ingrid says suddenly, with more enthusiasm than you’ve ever heard from her. She gestures toward the games: ring toss, darts, and basketball. “Can we, Dad?”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.” Bob’s attention shifts to his daughter, and you’re struck by the genuine affection in his expression. Whatever else he might be, he clearly loves Ingrid.

The four of you drift toward the games, and Bob proves to be unnaturally good at all of them. He tosses rings that land perfectly around bottle necks. He pops balloons with darts that fly perfectly straight. At the basketball game, he sinks five shots in a row despite the rim being slightly smaller than regulation size.

“You’re suspiciously talented at this,” you tease as he wins you a medium-sized stuffed rabbit from the ring toss.

“I’m a man of many skills.” His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Just wait.”

Bob gives you his jacket, adjusts his sleeves, and then rings the high striker bell so hard that the whole thing shakes. The carnival worker stares in shock, then slowly hands Bob a ticket for the top-tier prize.

“The bear,” Bob says, pointing to an enormous plush teddy bear, easily four feet tall and honey-brown with a red ribbon around its neck.

The worker struggles to get it down, and when Bob finally holds it out to you, you can’t help but laugh.

“This is ridiculous,” you say, but you’re smiling as you accept it, the bear so large you have to hold it with both arms.

“Nothing’s too ridiculous for you.” Bob says it lightly, but there’s a seriousness behind the words that makes your breath catch.

Behind you, Richie makes a gagging noise, but when you turn to give him a look, he’s not watching you and Bob at all. He observes Ingrid, unmoving, gazing at her father with a look that could be sorrow or something else.

“Want to try the games, Richie?” you ask, trying to break the tension.

He shrugs, but Ingrid perks up. “I can show you how to play. My dad taught me some tricks.”

You’re left with Bob and the bear while they go play the balloon game.

“Want me to take that to the car?” he offers. “So you don’t have to carry it all night?”

“That would be great, actually.”

He takes the bear, and you follow him back through the crowd toward the parking area. The string lights don’t quite reach this far, and the shadows are thick between the parked cars. Bob opens his trunk, which is spotless like the rest of his car, and carefully puts the bear in.

When he turns back to you, he’s closer than expected, and you’re suddenly very aware of how isolated you are from the crowd. The carnival music is muffled here, and the lights seem very far away.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” he says softly. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re smart.” His hand comes up, fingers ghosting along your jaw. “Smart enough to know you should probably stay away from me.”

Your heart hammers in your chest. “Should I? Stay away?”

“Probably.” His thumb brushes across your lower lip, and you shiver despite the warmth of his touch. “But I’m hoping you won’t.”

He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, to stop this before it starts, but you don’t move. You stand there, frozen, as his mouth touches yours.

His mouth claims yours with renewed hunger, and this time there’s nothing tentative about it. You feel the clear pressure of Bob’s hips as they move forward, and the unmistakable hardness of him presses against your stomach through his thick jeans. The rigid length of his arousal leaves absolutely no question about what you do to him, what effect your proximity has on his body. Heat radiates from that pressure point where he’s pressed against you, burning through the layers of fabric between you.

The kiss turns rougher and more demanding. His tongue invades your mouth with a possessive sweep, claiming every inch of space, and when you try to pull back for air, his hand fists tighter in your hair, holding you in place. His teeth graze your bottom lip, a sensation that’s not a bite, yet it’s far from soft; instead, they scrape the sensitive skin with a painful pressure. You taste copper on your tongue, sharp and metallic, the unmistakable tang of blood blooming between your mouths. Whether it’s yours or his, you can’t tell, can’t think clearly enough to determine the source when his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the soft flesh there with bruising intensity.

You find your hands in his hair without consciously moving them, your fingers getting caught in his auburn locks, pulling him closer even as a part of you is yelling to stop, that this is overwhelming, moving too quickly, too powerful, and just wrong. Still, you can’t seem to heed that warning. It’s distant, muffled, drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the heat flooding through your veins. His hands are everywhere. They slide from your hip to your waist, gripping, exploring, sliding under your jacket to feel the curve of your ribs through your sweater. His palms are hot, almost feverish, burning brands against your body even through the fabric.

He’s rock-hard against you, and when he rolls his hips forward, grinding that thick bulge against your stomach with deliberate, shameless pressure, the friction is absolutely maddening. Your body moves to him without thinking, even though everything feels wrong. It should drive you away, but it pulls you in, like sinking or being smothered.

Bob makes a low, rumbling noise that you can feel against you. His hand slides lower, gripping your hip again, but this time he uses that grip to pull you harder against him, to increase that delicious, terrible friction. You feel every inch of him, the shape and heft of his arousal grinding against you with an insistence that makes your knees weak.

“There you are,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice low and satisfied. His lips trail to your jaw, your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse point. “I can taste your fear.” His tongue drags over the spot where your pulse hammers wildly, tasting you, and you realize with distant horror that he’s right. You are afraid. Terrified, actually. But somehow desire and fear are tangled together, making it impossible to separate them, and impossible to know if terror or need is making you tremble.

His hands continue their exploration, one sliding up your spine while the other grips your ass, pulling you tighter against his hard length. The pressure is overwhelming, the heat of him scorching even through denim and fabric.

“Tell me to stop,” Bob whispers against your throat, but there’s a challenge in his voice, a knowing edge that says he already knows you won’t. His teeth graze your collarbone, and his hips press forward again in another slow, grinding roll that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “Say it, and I will.”

But the words won’t come. They stick in your throat, tangled with your racing heartbeat and the taste of blood still lingering on your tongue, and Bob’s satisfied chuckle tells you he knows exactly why you’re silent.

“Hey! What the…gross!”

You and Bob spring apart like teenagers caught by parents. Richie stands a few feet away, his face flushed and his eyes huge behind his glasses. Ingrid hovers behind him, her expression unreadable in the shadows.

“Jesus Christ, I came looking for you because we wanted to go on the Ferris wheel, but apparently you two were too busy sucking face!” Richie’s voice cracks on the last word, his embarrassment and anger making him loud.

Mortification burns through you. Your lips feel swollen, and you can taste blood on your tongue. You press your fingers to your mouth and they come away red.

“Richie-”

“We should go on some rides,” Ingrid interrupts softly, her eyes moving between you and her father. “Before it gets too late.”

Bob adjusts his jacket, and you’re acutely aware of the situation he’s trying to hide. His face is flushed, his hair mussed from your fingers, and when his eyes meet yours, they’re darker than before, the pupils blown wide with desire.

“The Ferris wheel sounds good,” he says, and his voice is coarser than usual, strained. “Let’s go.”

The four of you walk back toward the carnival properly, but the easy atmosphere from earlier has evaporated. Richie stays glued to your side, shooting suspicious glances at Bob every few seconds. You’re hyperaware of your swollen lip, the way your hands shake slightly as you try to smooth down your hair.

What the hell was that? you think, but you don’t have an answer. You’ve kissed men before, obviously, but nothing has ever felt like that.

The Ferris wheel looms ahead, its lights tracing circles against the darkening sky. You end up in separate cars; you and Richie in one, Bob and Ingrid in another. As your car rises, you look down at the carnival spread below, the people reduced to dots of color moving between pools of light.

“That was disgusting,” Richie mutters, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“It’s not-” He struggles to find words, his face twisting. “I don’t care about the kissing. Well, I do, because gross, but that’s not the point. It’s him. Didn’t you feel it? How wrong it felt?”

You want to deny it, but you can’t. Even in the heat of the moment, even as your body responded to Bob’s touch, there was something underneath that made your instincts scream.

“He makes my skin crawl,” Richie continues quietly.

The car reaches the top of the wheel, pausing there to let the others load below. From this height, you can see the whole carnival, the dark river beyond it, and the lights of Derry twinkling in the distance.

“I’ll be more careful,” you promise, though you’re not sure if you’re lying.

When the ride ends, Bob is waiting at the exit with that easy smile back in place, as if nothing happened, but you notice how his eyes linger on you, and how his hand finds yours as you walk, his fingers lacing through yours with a possessiveness that should alarm you but sends heat pooling low in your belly.

Ingrid and Richie walk slightly ahead, and you’re surprised to hear them talking in low voices. They’re not bickering, just... talking. Richie’s words amuse Ingrid, and her laughter is a pure, merry sound.

“They’re getting along,” Bob observes, following your gaze.

“I’m glad. Richie needs friends.”

“So does Ingrid.” His thumb strokes the back of your hand. “She doesn’t connect with people easily.”

The four of you continue through the carnival, trying various rides. The Scrambler makes you dizzy, pressed against Bob’s side as the car whips around corners. The Tilt-A-Whirl has Richie and Ingrid shrieking with laughter, their faces bright with joy. It almost seems like everything’s okay, with four of you at the carnival on a fall night.

But then Richie and Ingrid peel off again, heading toward the funhouse, and you notice how Richie keeps looking back at you, his expression worried.

“He’s protective of you,” Bob says, following your gaze.

“We’re all each other has right now. His parents...” You trail off, not wanting to get into the details of why Richie ended up in your custody.

“Family is complicated.” Bob’s voice holds an odd note.

Before you can ask what he means, Ingrid and Richie emerge from the funhouse. Ingrid looks slightly out of breath, her perfect hair mussed, and Richie looks shaken, his face pale.

“Can we get something to eat?” Ingrid asks quickly. “I’m starving.”

Everyone (except for Bob) ended up at one of the food stands, eating corn dogs and funnel cake while sitting on a bench near the carousel. The music is louder here, competing with the screams from the rides and the general carnival chaos. Bob sits close enough that his thigh presses against yours, and his hand finds your knee, fingers tracing idle patterns that make it hard to concentrate on eating.

Richie notices and makes a disgusted face, turning his attention to Ingrid instead. She’s been unusually quiet since leaving the funhouse, picking at her funnel cake without really eating it.

“Hey,” Richie says, and you’re surprised by the gentleness in his voice. “You okay?”

Ingrid gives him a long look, and they have a silent understanding.

“Want to go look at the games again?” she asks. “I’ll show you the trick to the milk bottle thing.”

Richie glances at you, and you nod. “Stay where we can see you.”

They wander off again, and you’re left alone with Bob. His hand slides higher on your thigh, and you have to bite back a gasp.

“We should probably find somewhere more private,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. “Before I forget we’re in public.”

Heat floods through you. “Bob...”

“I know.” He pulls back slightly, though his hand stays on your leg. “Not the time. Not the place. But later-”

Whatever he was going to say gets interrupted by a burst of laughter from nearby. You look over and see Richie and Ingrid standing near one of the game booths, smiling at each other. It makes your chest tight with something like hope, but then Ingrid’s expression changes. She looks at Richie for a long moment, and when she speaks, her voice is so quiet you almost don’t hear it over the carnival noise.

“You should be careful,” she tells him. “Around my dad. He’s not... he’s not what he seems.”

Richie’s eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

She shakes her head, glancing back toward where you and Bob sit. “Just…stay close to your cousin. Don’t let her be alone with him. Promise me.”

“Why? What’s wrong with him?”

Ingrid won’t say more, but repeats, “Promise me, Richie.”

“Okay. I promise.”

As they sit back down, both wear seemingly carefree expressions, but the strain is clear in Richie’s shoulders and his increasingly suspicious glances at Bob.

“Should we walk around more?” you suggest, feeling the need to break the unnatural mood. “Maybe try to win some more prizes?”

“Actually,” Bob, with a subtle glance at his expensive-looking watch, likely a Rolex, announces, “I’m getting hungry.”

“I have school tomorrow,” Ingrid speaks up quickly. “I shouldn’t stay out too late.”

Bob’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly, but he nods. “Of course. Responsible as always, sweetheart.” He turns to you, pulling a business card from his wallet and scribbling something on the back. “This is my landline. Call me. We should do this again sometime, just the two of us.”

His fingers brush yours as he hands over the card, and that electric feeling shoots up your arm. You pocket the card, very aware of Richie watching the exchange with narrowed eyes.

“I’d like that,” you hear yourself say.

The drive back to your house is quieter than the drive there, the car filled with a strange tension. Ingrid stares out the window, and Richie sits rigid beside her. Bob drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console, close enough to your leg that you can feel the heat of it.

He pulls up, walks you and Richie to the door like a gentleman, but before you can say bye, he gently cups your face and kisses you again, softer this time, but there’s still something off.

“Call me,” he whispers against your lips.

“I will.”

He returns to his car, and you watch as he drives away, Ingrid’s blonde head visible in the back window until the taillights disappear around the corner.

“I’m going to bed,” Richie announces, brushing past you into the house. “Tonight was... weird.”

“Wait, Richie-”

“Nope. Too tired. Talk tomorrow.”

He disappears into his bedroom, and you’re left standing in the doorway, touching your still-swollen lip and wondering what the hell you’re doing.

The next morning is Sunday, and you let Richie sleep late while you make pancakes and try to process the events of the previous night. Your lip has mostly healed, though there’s still a slight tenderness when you probe it with your tongue. That moment in the parking lot is stuck in your head.

When Richie finally emerges around eleven, his hair is a disaster and he’s wearing mismatched socks, but his eyes are sharp behind his glasses.

“We need to talk,” he announces, pouring himself orange juice and sitting at the kitchen table.

“About last night?”

“About how gross it was to walk in on you guys making out?” He makes a retching sound. “Yeah, that, but also about other stuff.”

You slide a plate of pancakes in front of him and sit across the table. “What stuff?”

He drowns his pancakes in syrup before answering. “Ingrid said something to me. She warned me about her dad. She said he’s not what he seems and that I should keep you away from him.”

Your stomach drops. “She said that?”

“Yeah, and the thing is...” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I believe her. There’s something seriously wrong with that guy. I can feel it.”

“Richie-”

“I know you like him. I can tell, but you have to trust me on this.” His eyes are pleading now, desperate. “Please. Whatever he wants from you, it’s not good.”

“I’ll be careful,” you say finally.

It’s not the reassurance Richie wants, but it’s all you can give him right now.

Sunday is pretty dull after that - homework, grading, laundry, the usual weekend chores. You don’t call Bob, though you think about it more times than you’d care to admit. The business card sits on your nightstand, his number scrawled in neat handwriting that somehow seems too perfect, like calligraphy.

The next day is Monday, and it’s a gloomy, windy day, ready to pour. You and Richie drive to school together, your breath fogging in the morning air. He’s been quieter than usual since the carnival, and the worry gnaws at you.

“You okay?” you ask as you approach the school building.

“I’m thinking.” He adjusts his backpack. “Be careful today, okay? If Bob shows up?”

“I will.”

But Bob doesn’t show up that day. Or the next. By Wednesday, you’re wondering if you imagined the whole thing. Then on Thursday afternoon, as you’re erasing the blackboard after your last class, you hear a familiar voice.

“Miss?”

You turn to find Ingrid standing in the doorway. She’s got her cardigan and skirt on, but she seems different today; not as closed off, more relaxed.

“Ingrid. Did you need something?”

She steps into the classroom, closing the door behind her. “I wanted to thank you. For the other night. Richie’s nice. I don’t have a lot of friends.”

“I’m glad you two are getting along.”

She nods, then hesitates, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. “I also wanted to tell you something about my dad.”

Your heart rate picks up. “Okay.”

“He’s not human.” She says it matter-of-factly, like she’s commenting on the weather. “I know how that sounds. I know you probably think I’m crazy, but it’s true. He’s something else, something old, and he’s decided he wants you.”

The classroom suddenly feels very cold. “Ingrid-”

“You don’t have to believe me, but I’m telling you anyway because you’ve been kind to me, and I don’t want you to get hurt.” Her eyes are solemn, ancient in her youthful face. “Whatever he’s told you, whatever he’s made you feel. It’s not real. It’s just what he wants you to feel.”

Before you can respond, she’s gone, leaving you standing alone in your classroom, the chalk dust swirling in the afternoon light like snow.

You dream of yellow eyes and rows of teeth that night, of being watched by something old as you drown in dark water. You wake up drenched in sweat, gasping, and for a split second, you could’ve sworn you heard a kid’s awful laugh in your room. Friday evening, your phone rings. You jump every time that ancient rotary phone in the kitchen, the one that came with the house, rings.

“Hello?”

“It’s Bob.” His voice is warm, familiar, and hearing it makes your traitorous body respond despite everything. “I was hoping I could see you again. Maybe this weekend?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say carefully.

“Because of what Richie thinks? Or because of what you think?”

The question hangs between you, and you realize you don’t have a good answer.

“I need time,” you finally say. “To think about things.”

There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his voice has an edge you haven’t heard before. “Take all the time you need, but you’ll come back to me. They always do.”

He hangs up before you can ask what he means by “they always do.”

That night, Richie finds you sitting at the kitchen table with Bob’s business card in your hand.

“You’re not going to call him, are you?” he asks quietly.

You see your cousin, a brave but nervous kid who needs your protection, and you make up your mind.

“No,” you say, and you mean it. “I’m not.”

You rip the business card in half, then in half again, dropping the pieces in the trash. Richie’s shoulders sag with relief.

But as you’re lying in bed that night, you can’t help but feel like getting rid of a business card won’t stop Bob Gray from showing up. Men like that, if he even is one, don’t give up easily.

On Saturday, the October air is so crisp it almost hurt to breathe. You’re making coffee when Richie shuffles into the kitchen, still in his pajamas with his hair sticking up in all directions.

“So,” he says, pouring himself a glass of milk. “You really tore up his number?”

“I really did.”

“Good.” He sits at the table, but there’s still worry in his eyes. “You think that’ll be enough to make him leave us alone?”

Before you can answer, the doorbell rings.

You and Richie exchange glances, and dread pools in your stomach. You already know who it’s going to be before you open the door.

Bob Gray stands on your porch, holding two coffees from the diner downtown and wearing that devastating smile. He’s in jeans and a leather jacket over a blue shirt, and his hair looks completely dark in the morning sun.

“Morning,” he says, as if showing up uninvited at your house on a Saturday is perfectly normal. “I thought you might need this.” He extends one of the coffees.

You don’t take it. “How did you know where I live?”

“The school directory. All the teachers’ addresses are listed.” He says it easily, but something in his eyes glitters. “May I come in?”

“No.” The word comes out firmer than you expected. “I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

His smile morphs, turning a bit dangerous. “Because of what my daughter told you?”

Your blood runs cold. “How did you-”

“Ingrid tells me everything eventually.” He takes a sip of his coffee, and you notice his fingernails are perfectly manicured with not a speck of dirt on them.

“You need to leave.” Your hand tightens on the doorframe.

“I will, but first, I want you to understand something.”

He moves closer, and you swear, his eyes are off. The pupils are massive, and the color keeps changing like smoke. “You’re special to me. You and Richie. You’re important, and I always protect what’s important to me.”

“Are you threatening me?”

He straightens, that calm smile sliding back into place. “I’ll see you soon. We’re connected now. You felt it when I kissed you. You can throw away my number and avoid my calls, but it won’t change the fact that you’re mine now.”

He turns and walks back to his car, leaving the coffee sitting on your porch railing. You watch him drive away, and it’s only after his taillights disappear that you realize you’re shaking.

“We need to talk to someone,” Richie says from behind you. You hadn’t heard him approach. “He’s not right. There’s something seriously fucked up going on.”

You want to agree with him, but who would believe you? That a man is stalking you, that his daughter claims he’s not human, that you can still taste something wrong in his kiss even days later?

Instead, you close the door, lock it, and wonder how you’re going to protect yourself and Richie from something you don’t understand.

The coffee sits on your porch railing for the rest of the day, untouched, until the wind finally knocks it over and it spills across the wooden boards like blood.

Chapter Text

The house is too quiet. Richie’s not filling the rooms with his usual noise. He’s probably upstairs, pretending to do homework, more likely just messing around. You stand at the sink, hands in lukewarm water, scrubbing at a plate crusted with dried pasta sauce. The dishes clink together, soft and hollow. Sunlight slants through the window, painting everything gold, but the warmth doesn’t touch you.

You haven’t left the house in three days.

Not since the carnival, and not since Bob Gray stood on your porch with that smile that looked painted on as he said things that made your skin want to crawl right off your bones.

The plate squeaks under your sponge. You scrub harder.

You have called in sick twice now, and you can hardly remember the last time you did that for anything less than the flu. When Maureen from the secretary’s office phoned this morning, her voice sounded more concerned than usual. She said some parents had been checking in, students wondering aloud if you would be back soon. The guilt crept in at first, but just the thought of passing through those halls, seeing Ingrid in the distance with her eyes as blank as a winter pond, made your stomach twist. You had set the phone down after Maureen’s call and stared at your hands for a long time, unable to picture yourself walking back into that building.

No. Not yet. You’re not ready yet.

Warm water flows across your fingers as you rinse the soap away, watching the suds drift and swirl down into the drain. When you glance at the faucet, the chrome surface bends your reflection into strange shapes, stretching your face until your features no longer look familiar. You turn your gaze aside and stare at the kitchen wall instead, unsettled.

Richie had asked you this morning why you were acting weird. Not in those exact words, of course. He’d shuffled into the kitchen for breakfast, his hair sticking up in about seven different directions, glasses slightly askew, and he’d said, “So, uh, are we gonna talk about how you’ve basically become a hermit? Because I gotta say, cuz, it’s kinda freaking me out.”

You’d forced a smile and poured him orange juice instead. “I’m not feeling well, Rich. It’s nothing to worry about.”

He’d studied you with those sharp eyes that saw too much for a kid his age. “Is it because of that Bob guy? Because he was super creepy, and I know you know he was super creepy, so-”

“Richie.” You’d kept your voice level. “Drink your juice. You’ll be late for school.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead just sipped his juice and kept quiet. All the while, you could feel his eyes on you as you moved around the kitchen, going through the motions of making his lunch. You reached for the bread and started on a sandwich, tossed in an apple, grabbed a pack of cookies, and a juice box. Your hands knew the drill, even if your mind was somewhere else entirely.

When you finally handed Richie his lunch in the usual brown paper bag, he took it from you with a quiet thank you, still watching you with that worried crease between his eyebrows that never quite seems to go away on mornings like this.

“You’d tell me if something was really wrong, right?” he’d asked quietly.

You’d cupped his face, thumb brushing over his cheek. “Of course, but nothing’s wrong, I promise. It’s just a bug or something.”

The lie had tasted bitter.

Now that it’s just you in this kitchen that feels too quiet, you finally let yourself admit it. You’re terrified. Not the jumpy kind of scared you get after a scary movie, but the way it used to be when you were a kid and swore you heard breathing under the bed. You keep telling yourself it's not the same, but that isn’t true at all. You keep getting that feeling, like you are being watched from behind, and it never seems to fade, no matter how many times you check over your shoulder.

This is the certainty that something in Derry is very, very wrong.

You pull another plate from the soapy water, and that’s when you notice how the light has changed. The amber sunshine has dimmed, clouds moving across the sky outside. The kitchen feels darker now, shadows pooling in corners. The water in the sink looks gray rather than clear.

You keep scrubbing at the plate, working in slow, careful circles, just like you always do when your mind is spinning. Once the last bit of sauce is gone, you turn on the tap, let the water rinse everything clean, and then set the plate in the drying rack beside the others. It feels like a routine you could do in your sleep, and honestly, maybe you already have.

The next dish is a bowl. You reach for it, hands breaking the surface of the water-

“Help me.”

You stop. The voice sounds tiny and far-off, like it's echoing from way down a tunnel. For a second, you wonder if your ears are playing tricks on you, but the words are clear enough to make your skin crawl.

“Please. Help me.”

Your heart starts pounding in your chest, almost like it wants out. You know that voice right away. It's high, kind of shaky, definitely a child’s. It’s Ingrid. There’s no mistaking it.

“I’m stuck. Please help me.”

It’s coming from the drain.

You know you ought to pull your hands out of that water right now. You should back away, grab your keys, grab Richie, and just leave this house without looking back. Every instinct you’ve got is yelling at you to move, but somehow your body won’t listen. You’re stuck there, staring down at the cloudy water, watching your own hands turn ghostly and stretched beneath the surface. That drain looks way bigger than it ever did before, and it’s hard to convince yourself it’s just your imagination.

“It hurts,” Ingrid’s voice whispers, echoing up through the pipes. “Please, I’m so scared. Help me. Help me please.”

Your breathing goes shallow and fast, and it feels like you can taste metal on your tongue, every inhale sharp and cold in your chest. The kitchen lights glare off the slick surface of the water, and you swear you can smell old, iron-tanged drain water rising up beneath the lemony scent of dish soap.

This isn’t real. It can’t be. Ingrid’s supposed to be at school, or maybe she doesn’t even exist, honestly, because nothing about her or her dad adds up. Nothing about them feels even remotely normal, but she’s definitely not supposed to be in your goddamn kitchen sink.

“HELP ME!”

The shriek comes out of nowhere, raw and desperate, and before you even realize it, you jerk forward. There's something moving down there. You can hear it, a wet, slithering noise threading underneath that awful voice, something squirming through the pipes.

“Where are you?” you hear yourself ask, and your voice sounds strange and disconnected. “Ingrid?”

“Down here,” she whimpers. “Down here in the dark. Please, please, I can see you. Just a little closer. Just reach down and help me out.”

Your right hand moves almost on its own, fingers extending, reaching toward the drain. The garbage disposal. The water’s surface ripples, disturbed by your movement.

“That’s it,” Ingrid’s voice coos, suddenly less frightened. Almost... pleased? “Just a little more.”

Your fingers brush the metal rim of the disposal. It’s freezing and so cold it nearly burns your skin. You lean in closer, pressing your shoulder against the counter’s edge, your face just inches from the gray water. And now you can see it, plain as day: there’s definitely something in the drain. It’s pale and slick, rising up toward the surface, reaching for you.

A hand.

A small hand, paper-white, fingers webbed with something dark between them. Blood, maybe, or rot. The fingernails are cracked and yellowed. The skin has the waxy, bloated look of something that’s been underwater for a very long time.

The hand pushes up through the drain. It’s way too small for anything to fit, but somehow that doesn’t matter. Your brain tries to make sense of it and fails. The fingers stretch out, getting longer and longer, knuckles cracking with wet little pops as the hand keeps coming, the arm following, the elbow bending the wrong way. It just won’t stop.

“Got you,” something says, and you realize it’s not Ingrid’s voice anymore. It sounds deeper, older, and there’s this note of amusement that makes your skin crawl.

The hand lunges.

Fingers clamp around your wrist, squeezing so hard you feel your pulse stutter. Sharp nails bite into your skin and you can actually feel a trickle of blood start, hot and slick under the water. Your mouth opens to scream, but your voice catches in your throat. You yank back with everything you’ve got, but that hand won’t let go. It drags you deeper, pulling your arm down into the cold, murky water. The metal rim scrapes your skin as you’re drawn closer to the drain, and you can smell rust and something far fouler. The disposal’s steel teeth wait below, silent and hungry.

“NO-!”

Your shoulder hits the edge of the sink, sending a jolt of pain through your body. Your forearm plunges into the drain, somehow fitting up to the elbow, even though you know that shouldn’t be possible. The metal rim scrapes your skin as you’re dragged further in, and now you can feel more hands grabbing at you. They’re slick, cold, impossible to count; all of them yanking you deeper into the darkness. The water splashes up, hitting your face and flooding your mouth. It tastes like rust and rot, making your stomach twist and your gag reflex kick in hard.

Beneath the sink, something clicks, and the garbage disposal roars to life.

The sound is a grinding, shrieking mechanical scream. You feel the vibration of it through your trapped arm, feel the steel blades spinning just inches from your skin, and then you feel them make contact, and the pain is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. White-hot and all-consuming, it shoots up your arm and into your brain, shorting out thought, shorting out everything except the animal imperative to GET AWAY.

You’re screaming, and you know it’s you, but it doesn’t even sound human anymore. The pain rips through you as the blades tear into your hand and wrist, grinding through skin and muscle. Blood gushes out, hot and thick, and you can feel pieces of yourself getting chewed up by the spinning metal. The worst part isn’t even the pain, though. It’s the sound of flesh hitting steel, bone scraping against the blades, that wet crunch echoing up from the pipes.

You throw your weight backward, putting everything you’ve got into it. Your legs push hard against the floor, shoes squeaking. You claw at the edge of the counter with your free hand, fingernails snapping one by one, but the hands in the drain won’t let you go. They yank harder, and your shoulder grinds in its socket. You’re dragged forward again, your face smashing into the cold metal sink. Your lip splits open, and now you’re sobbing, the sound tearing out of you. You feel like a butchered pig, raw and helpless, and you can’t stop the noise pouring out of your mouth.

Blood gushes from your ruined arm, pouring into the sink and swirling in thick, red clouds that stain everything. Shredded pieces of flesh and fat bob to the surface as the disposal keeps roaring and chewing, and you can actually feel the metal blades grinding up your muscles. You’re shaking, sobbing, watching strips of your own skin float by, pink and slippery. The pain is so sharp it almost doesn’t feel real, and you can smell the iron and rot of your own blood everywhere.

The grinding gets higher, hungrier, gnawing up past your wrist, and now it’s starting in on your forearm. You’re going to lose your arm, maybe more, maybe that thing in the drain wants to drag you in piece by piece, fold you up and swallow you whole, until you’re nothing but pulp in the dark where Ingrid’s voice first whispered to you-

“GET AWAY FROM HER!”

Richie’s voice is high and cracking with panic. You can barely hear him over the disposal’s roar and your own screaming, but then there are hands on you, grabbing you around the waist, pulling.

“Richie-” you choke out, and then: “RUN! GET OUT OF HERE!”

“Fuck that!” He’s yanking you backward with all his scrawny weight, heels digging into the floor. “LET HER GO! LET HER GO YOU FUCKING-”

The hands in the drain pull harder, and for a horrible moment, you’re caught in a tug-of-war, Richie on one side and something else on the other, with your body as the rope. Your arm feels like it’s being torn off at the shoulder.

Then Richie does something you’ll never really be able to explain. He leans past you, shoves his hand right into that bloody mess of water, and grabs hold of something solid and slick. You hear him let out a choked, horrified noise as his fingers close around it, maybe flesh, maybe bone, and he yanks with everything he’s got. The water splashes everywhere, red and stinking. At the same time, he throws his whole body backward, muscles straining, like he’s trying to rip something straight out of hell itself.

There’s a sound like tearing fabric, and the hands in the drain release you suddenly, and the momentum sends you and Richie crashing backward onto the kitchen floor in a tangle of limbs. The disposal continues to grind for a few more seconds, then clicks off, leaving only terrible silence.

You lie on the floor, gasping for breath. Your right arm is still stretched out in front of you, but you just can’t bring yourself to look at it. You know what’s waiting if you do. Every heartbeat sends out another hot pulse of blood, soaking through the towels, leaving you shivering. The pain lights up your nerves, a steady scream running from your fingertips all the way to your shoulder. You can feel what’s missing, whole pieces of you just gone, and your mind keeps trying to make sense of the empty, raw ache where your intact hand used to be.

“Oh fuck,” Richie is saying, over and over. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh Jesus Christ-”

He’s on his knees beside you, his own hands hovering over you like he wants to help but doesn’t know how. His face has gone the color of old paste, freckles standing out like paint spatters. Behind his glasses, his eyes are huge and wet with tears.

“Richie,” you manage. Your voice comes out weak. “Are you okay?”

“AM I-?” He makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You’re asking if I’M okay?! Your hand is...your hand-”

“Don’t look at it,” you say quickly, because you can see him starting to turn green. “Get me towels. Kitchen drawer, the-” You try to gesture with your good hand, but the movement sends a fresh wave of agony through your injured arm, and your vision whites out for a second.

When it comes back, Richie is already moving, scrambling to the drawer, yanking it open so hard it comes completely out and crashes to the floor, spilling dish towels everywhere. He grabs the whole pile and rushes back to you, and his hands are shaking so badly he can barely manage to start wrapping your arm.

You risk a glance down.

Your hand is still attached. That’s the first thing you notice, and honestly, the relief almost knocks you out. It’s hanging on, but barely. The side of your hand and wrist are torn open in brutal, ragged cuts where the disposal’s blades chewed straight through. You can see bone, bright white under all that blood, and two of your fingers are bent at angles that fingers just aren’t supposed to go. A flap of skin dangles loose, barely holding on, and blood keeps surging out, soaking the towels until Richie can’t keep up. The mess is everywhere, the pain is blinding, but you can’t look away. You just keep thinking, It’s still there. It’s still mine.

“Pressure,” you hear yourself say, drawing on some half-remembered first aid knowledge. “You need to put pressure on it.”

“I am!” His voice cracks. “I am, but it’s not stopping, there’s so much-”

“More towels and wrap it tighter.”

He does, wrapping layer after layer of fabric around your arm. You suck in a sharp breath at the pressure, but you know it’s got to be done. You have to stop the bleeding, no matter how much it hurts. You can’t let yourself pass out. You can’t leave Richie alone with-

With what? What the fuck WAS that?

You turn your head, looking back at the sink. From this angle on the floor, you can only see the underside of the counter and the pipes beneath. Everything looks normal like a regular kitchen sink in a regular kitchen in a regular house that is apparently trying to fucking EAT YOU.

“We need to go,” Richie says urgently. He’s got your arm wrapped as best he can, towels already showing bright red patches of saturation. “Hospital. We need to go to the hospital right now.”

“Yeah.” You try to sit up, and the world tilts dangerously. “Yeah, okay.”

“Can you stand? Can you walk?”

“I can-” You get your legs under you, Richie supporting your good arm, and manage to push yourself upright. The kitchen spins. Your arm is a pillar of fire attached to your shoulder, each heartbeat sending fresh agony radiating through the damaged tissue, but you’re upright. You’re conscious.

You’re alive.

“Keys,” you say. “Get my keys. Purse. On the-”

“I got it.” He darts away, grabs your purse from where it’s hanging on a chair, and digs out the car keys with hands that are stained red with your blood. His whole shirt is blood-stained, you notice distantly. He looks like he walked out of a slasher film.

You both do.

The walk to the car barely registers. You can feel Richie’s arm steadying you, holding you upright as you shuffle forward. Your feet move on autopilot, one step after another, carrying you down the hall and out the front door that Richie must’ve left wide open when he ran in. The afternoon air smacks your face, chilly and damp, and it feels like you’re waking up for a second. Clouds hang heavy overhead, and your neighbors’ houses all seem to watch you with blank, empty windows, like the whole street is holding its breath.

Richie gets the passenger door open, helps you in, then runs around to the driver’s side. He’s only fourteen, and isn’t supposed to drive alone, but neither of you even hesitates. He adjusts the seat, turns the key with shaking hands, and the engine turns over with a roar that sounds too loud in the quiet neighborhood.

“Okay,” he says, and you can hear him trying to steady his voice, trying to be brave. “Okay, I can do this. Hospital. I know where it is. Just...just stay awake, okay? Stay with me.”

“Not going anywhere,” you manage, but even as you say it, you can feel the edges of your consciousness starting to fray. You can feel the blood loss and the shock closing in. Your whole body is screaming to shut down, to check out from the pain, but you force your eyes to stay open, determined to hold on, and you force yourself to focus on Richie’s profile as he carefully backs out of the driveway.

He drives like a kid who’s only ever practiced in empty parking lots with an instructor. He’s slow and a little too cautious, checking the mirrors every few seconds. Most days, you’d probably find it pretty cute. Right now, though, blood is soaking through the towels on your arm and dripping onto the car’s upholstery, and every mile feels like it takes a lifetime.

“That wasn’t Ingrid,” Richie says suddenly, eyes locked on the road ahead. “In the sink..that wasn’t really her.”

“No,” you agree quietly.

“It was him, wasn’t it? Bob Gray or whatever he really is.”

You want to deny it. You want to tell him he’s being ridiculous, that there’s got to be a rational explanation for everything. Maybe it was a mechanical accident, or your mind playing tricks because of stress. But honestly, you’re just so tired of making things up. Lying to Richie is the worst part.

“I don’t know what he is,” you say instead. “But yes, I think that was him.”

Richie’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. “We have to tell someone. The cops, or-”

“They won’t believe us.”

“Then we make them believe us! You almost died! That thing almost-” His voice breaks, and he has to stop, swallow hard, blink rapidly behind his glasses. “We can’t just keep this to ourselves.”

You don’t answer right away. You’re honestly not sure what you could even say. Richie’s right, though. You should tell someone, report Bob Gray and his creepy daughter and whatever the hell was in your sink, but deep down, you just know it won’t make a difference. Anyone you try to tell will probably give you that polite, blank look people use when someone claims they’ve seen a ghost. Derry has its secrets, and for some reason, you’re sure it knows how to keep them. You couldn’t explain why if you tried, but you feel it all the same.

You spot the hospital up ahead, Derry Home Hospital, looking squat and old, like it’s been there forever. Richie pulls into the emergency entrance, barely bothering to park straight. He jumps out of the car and rushes to your side, helping you out before you can even open the door yourself.

“Help!” he’s shouting as you stumble toward the entrance. “Somebody help! She’s hurt!”

A nurse shows up in the doorway and spots your arm right away. Blood is dripping down from under the towels, and she doesn’t even hesitate. Suddenly, you’re getting rushed inside, and Richie has to stay behind in the waiting area. Everything moves so fast, you’re rolling toward a treatment room on a gurney you don’t even remember climbing onto.

The overhead lights are way too bright. They sting your eyes, and faces blur in and out of focus as nurses and a doctor work around you, moving fast and not wasting a second. Someone starts cutting away the towels, peeling them off your arm and letting the air hit your skin. Even though you know what’s coming, seeing the damage still knocks the breath out of you.

It’s even worse than you expected. The garbage disposal’s blades sliced right through the side of your hand and wrist, cutting deep like you’re nothing but a piece of meat. You can see muscle and tendon and bone, everything laid open and raw. Your pinkie and ring finger are bent at angles that make your stomach churn, clearly broken. Bits of metal and who knows what else are stuck in the wounds, and every time you move, you can feel them grinding against the exposed flesh.

“How did this happen?” the doctor asks. He looks young, probably just a few years out of med school, and he’s got this earnest face that hasn’t gotten used to seeing the really bad stuff yet. His name tag says Dr. Kelsey.

“Garbage disposal,” you say. Your voice sounds hollow, far away. “It turned on while my hand was...I was reaching for something I dropped.”

It’s not exactly a lie, and honestly, it’s a whole lot easier than telling the truth. Nobody would believe that story anyway.

“Did you lose consciousness at any point?”

“No.”

“Are you on any medications? Any allergies?”

You answer his questions on autopilot while the nurses get to work. They flush out your wounds, pick out bits of debris, and prepare you for what’s obviously next. You’re headed for surgery, and you know they’ll have to fix the damage, set your broken bones, and stitch together whatever can be saved.

“We’re going to get you into the OR,” Dr. Kelsey says, and there’s compassion in his eyes now, along with professional concern. “You’re very lucky. A few inches higher and you could have severed major arteries. You might have permanent nerve damage, but we’ll do everything we can to minimize it.”

Lucky. Right.

They inject something into your IV. You don’t remember when they put it in, but now it’s taped to your good arm and impossible to ignore. Everything starts to blur at the edges, the pain fading just enough to feel far away and dull. Someone leans over you and tells you to count backward from ten.

You make it to seven before everything goes dark.

When you wake up, the first thing you see is Richie.

Richie’s crashed out in the chair next to your hospital bed, head lolling at an angle that’ll leave him with a killer crick in his neck. His glasses are crooked, and one arm is folded awkwardly against his chest. You can still see dried blood on his hands and under his fingernails, and just looking at him makes your heart ache in a way you can’t quite put into words.

Richie really did save you. Your fourteen-year-old cousin reached straight into that nightmare and dragged you out, probably saving your life or at least your arm. Now he’s sitting here, refusing to leave your side while you sleep off the anesthesia.

You try to move your right arm and instantly wish you hadn’t. The pain slices right through the painkillers, bright and real. When you look down, you see your hand and forearm wrapped in so much gauze and bandage that it looks like you’re wearing a giant white club. There’s a splint holding your fingers still, and a drain tube snakes out from the bandages, attached to a little bulb that’s slowly filling up with fluid. It’s a lot to take in, and you have to look away before your stomach flips.

“You’re awake.”

Richie’s eyes are open now, looking at you with such relief that you feel tears prick at your own eyes. He sits up, wincing at the movement, and reaches out to take your good hand.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You should get some rest.”

“Not a chance.” He squeezes your hand gently. “Besides, they won’t let me leave. I’m a minor, and I drove here illegally, and there was a whole thing with the cops and social services, and it’s been a mess.”

Cops. “What did you tell them?”

“The truth. That you were doing dishes and the disposal turned on by accident.” He pauses, then adds quietly, “That’s what we’re saying, right? Accident?”

You nod slowly. “That’s what we’re saying.”

For a moment, Richie looks at you. “We can’t keep doing this. Pretending everything’s normal. That thing...Whatever it was, it’s not going to stop-”

“I know.”

“So what do we do?”

Before you can answer, there’s a knock on the door frame. A police officer stands there, looking like he’s been doing this job way too long. He’s got a substantial gut, tired eyes, and a name tag that says Officer Nell.

“Sorry to bother you folks,” he says, voice carrying that particular bland professionalism cops use when they’re not sure if they’re dealing with victims or suspects. “Just need to ask a few questions about the incident. It’s standard procedure for these kinds of injuries.”

“Of course,” you say, struggling to sit up more. Richie moves to help you, adjusting the bed’s angle with the control.

Officer Nell pulls out a notepad. “So, you’re saying this was an accident with your garbage disposal?”

“Yes.”

“You reached into it while it was running?”

"No, it just happened so fast." You take a steadying breath, trying to keep your story simple and consistent. "I was washing dishes and thought I felt something stuck in the drain, so I reached down to check. It must’ve turned on by accident. Maybe I bumped the switch without realizing it."

He writes this down, but you can see the skepticism in the set of his mouth. “That’s quite a lot of damage for a garbage disposal.”

“It happened very fast.”

“And your cousin here pulled you free?”

“Yes. He heard me screaming and came to help.”

Officer Nell turns to Richie. “That right, son?”

“Yeah.” Richie’s voice is steady, but his hand tightens on yours. “I grabbed her and pulled, and the disposal shut off after.”

“Uh-huh.” He keeps writing, and then the officer looks up, and his expression is a little less professionally neutral, a little more curious. “You know what’s funny? We got a call about an hour ago from someone in your neighborhood. They said they heard screaming and thought maybe there was some kind of domestic situation, but by the time our unit arrived to check it out, you were already gone. The house was empty.”

“What are you implying?” You keep your voice level, but your heart rate has picked up. The monitor next to your bed reflects this with a subtle increase in beeping.

“Not implying anything, ma’am. I just find it interesting, is all. You sure there wasn’t anyone else at the house? No visitors? No one who might have been there when this happened?”

Bob Gray’s face pops into your head. You picture that too-wide smile and those eyes that always made you feel like prey. “No. It was just me and Richie.”

“Nobody named Bob Gray?”

You suck in a sharp breath, and Richie freezes next to you.

“How do you know that name?” you ask carefully.

Officer Nell flips back through his notepad. “ We had another call come in yesterday. It was an anonymous tip about a man named Bob Gray potentially stalking someone at your address, and we wanted to ask you about it while we’re here.”

“I-” You don’t know what to say. Who would have called the police about Bob? "Did the caller leave any other information?"

“No, ma’am, just the name and your address. They said this Bob Gray had been ‘bothering’ you, and we wanted to know if there’s any truth to that.”

This is your moment. You could spill everything, tell him about Bob suddenly showing up on your porch, about Ingrid at the school, about the way there’s just something wrong about both of them that you can’t shake. You could report them, maybe get a restraining order, do something official that might actually keep you safe.

As you start to speak, you remember the way Bob looked at you with those knowing eyes, so sure of himself, so sure of what he could do to you and Richie. You remember the way Ingrid’s voice echoed up from your drain, the grip of those impossible hands dragging you down. In that moment, you know deep down that the usual police stuff won’t help you now. None of their procedures or paperwork will fix what’s really happening.

“There was a man,” you say slowly. “Bob Gray. He came to my house a bit ago. His daughter is a student at school, and he wanted to talk about her education. He was... odd. It made me uncomfortable, but he left when I asked him to, and I haven’t seen him since.”

It’s not a lie, exactly. It’s just incomplete.

“Would you like to file a report? Get a restraining order?”

You hesitate for a second. Richie’s staring at you, and you can tell exactly what he’s thinking. He wants to know why you’re holding back, why you aren’t telling the officer the whole story.

“I’d like to file a report, yes,” you say finally. “Just to have it on record, but I don’t think a restraining order is necessary. Like I said, he left when asked.”

Officer Nell doesn’t look entirely satisfied with this, but he nods and makes more notes. “All right. I’ll need you to come down to the station when you’re discharged and give a formal statement. In the meantime, if this Bob Gray shows up again, you call us immediately. Understood?”

“Understood.”

He slips his notepad into his pocket and gives you a little nod. You can’t tell if he’s actually being sympathetic or just going through the motions. Then he leaves, and suddenly the room feels bigger and a whole lot more empty.

“Why didn’t you tell him?” Richie asks immediately. “About what really happened? About-”

“Because he wouldn’t have believed us,” you say tiredly. “At best, he’d think we were hysterical. At worst, he’d think we were lying, and then they’d start looking more closely at everything. Child Protective Services could get involved, and I can’t-” Your voice catches. “I can’t lose you, Rich. Not to the system, not to... anything.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “We need to figure out what Bob Gray really is, and how to stop him.”

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “We do.”

But before you do anything else, you need to heal. You need to regain your strength. You can feel how tired you are, and the exhaustion tugs at your entire body. Whatever Bob Gray is, whatever twisted game he’s playing with you and Richie, you know deep down this is just the beginning.

You drift in and out of sleep, barely aware of time passing. Richie sticks with you through it all, only heading out when the nurses basically drag him off to the cafeteria for food. The hours melt together in a fog of pain meds, beeping machines, and doctors checking your arm with practiced hands.

Dr. Kelsey stops by during his evening rounds and lets you know the surgery went well. They managed to save full function in all your fingers, though you’re in for a long haul with physical therapy. He says you’re lucky again, and you can’t help but notice how often that word keeps coming up. You just nod and thank him, not sure what else you’re supposed to say.

They finally let you go the next afternoon. Your arm is bundled in a sling, the bandages still thick even if they’re a little less bulky than before. You leave the hospital with a bag of antibiotics and pain meds, a sheet of wound care instructions, and a follow-up appointment already set.

Richie helps you into the passenger seat of your car. Someone must’ve moved it from the emergency entrance to the regular parking lot, which is a small relief. This time, though, you’re the one insisting on driving. You have to fumble a bit, steering with your left hand, but there’s no way you’re letting your fourteen-year-old cousin chauffeur you all over Derry.

“Where are we going?” Richie asks as you pull out of the parking lot.

You’ve been thinking about this. “The police station. I need to give that formal statement Officer Nell mentioned.”

“And you’re going to tell them the truth?”

“I’m going to try.”

The Derry Police Station is a squat concrete building downtown, wedged between the library and a diner that’s been here since the seventies. You park on the street, and Richie follows you inside, staying close like he’s afraid you might disappear if he loses sight of you.

The officer at the front desk looks up as you walk over. She’s probably in her fifties, with hair dyed a shade of auburn that’s dyed. Her eyes flick over you and Richie, sizing you up in an instant. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to file a report. Officer Nell asked me to come in.”

Recognition flickers across her face. “You’re the garbage disposal lady. Hang on.” She picks up a phone, punches a few buttons, murmurs something you can’t hear. “He’ll be right out.”

You wait in the small lobby, sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs bolted to the floor. Richie fidgets beside you, jiggling his leg, chewing his thumbnail. You can feel the tension radiating off him.

Officer Nell appears after a few minutes, looking no more rested than he did at the hospital. “Ma’am. Welcome back.”

He leads you to a small interview room with beige walls, buzzing fluorescent lights, and a table right in the middle, just like something out of Law & Order. Richie starts to follow, but Nell raises a hand to stop him. “Just her, please. You can wait outside.”

“But-”

“It’s okay, Rich,” you say, even though it’s not. Even though the idea of being separated from him right now makes your stomach knot. “I’ll be quick.”

He doesn’t look happy, but he nods and retreats to the lobby. Nell closes the door, and suddenly the room feels very small.

“So,” he says, settling into the chair across from you with a sigh that sounds bone-deep tired. “Let’s talk about Bob Gray.”

You start in on the same story you gave at the hospital, only this time you add a few more details. You tell him about Bob showing up at your door, about the weird things he said, about how he always made your skin crawl. You explain the way he seemed to know things about you that he had no business knowing. You even admit just how uncomfortable he made you feel, and how you eventually asked him to leave.

Nell jots everything down, every so often stopping to ask you a few more details. When you finally wrap up your story, he puts his pen aside and gives you a look that feels a little too direct, like he’s really sizing you up.

“Here’s the thing,” he says. “We can’t find any record of a Bob Gray living in Derry.”

Your throat goes dry. “What?”

“No driver’s license, no utility bills, no property records. Nothing. We also checked with the school about his daughter, Ingrid. They have no student by that name.”

The room tilts slightly, or maybe it’s just your perception of it. “That’s not possible. I saw her. She’s in-” You stop. “She attends the high school. I’ve seen her in the building for Christ’s sake.”

“The principal says otherwise.” Nell’s voice is gentle but firm. “I called him personally this morning. He checked the records thoroughly. No, Ingrid Kirsch has never been enrolled there.”

“Then he checked wrong,” you hear yourself say, and your voice has an edge to it now. “Or the records are incomplete. Because I’ve SEEN her. Multiple times. Richie has too. You can ask him.”

“Ma’am, I’m not trying to upset you-”

“I’m not upset, I’m confused. This doesn’t make sense.” Your good hand clenches on your lap, nails digging into your palm. “She exists. They both exist. Bob Gray came to my house, he stood on my porch, and he spoke to me. That’s not...I didn’t imagine it.”

“No one’s saying you imagined anything,” Nell says carefully, and there’s something in his voice now that’s just a little off. He sounds almost like he’s talking to someone fragile, like he’s trying to keep you calm. It’s a careful, tiptoe-around-the-crazy sort of tone, and it makes your skin crawl.“Sometimes in stressful situations, memories can get confused-”

“My memories aren’t confused.” You’re standing now, though you don’t remember deciding to stand. The chair scrapes back with a harsh sound. “I know what I saw. What we both saw. And if your records don’t show Bob and Ingrid existing, then there’s something wrong with your records, not with me.”

Nell stands too, hands raised in a placating gesture. “Okay. Okay. Why don’t you sit back down, and we can-”

“Can I have a copy of the report?” Your voice is controlled. You’re not going to lose it. Not here. Not in front of this cop who clearly thinks you’re hysterical or delusional or both. “For my records.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but after a moment, he just nods. “I’ll have someone bring it out to you.”

You leave the interview room without another word, Nell following behind you. Richie jumps up from his chair when he sees you, his expression anxious.

“How’d it-”

“We’re leaving,” you say shortly.

The officer with the auburn hair at the front desk hands you a manila envelope with your copy of the report. You get the feeling it was ready for you before you even finished giving your statement. Without meeting her eyes, you take it and head straight for the door. Richie is hustling to keep up.

“What happened?” he asks once you’re outside, the late afternoon air cool on your tense face. “What did they say?”

“They said Bob and Ingrid don’t exist.” You’re walking toward the car, moving fast despite the pain in your arm. “No records, no enrollment at school, nothing. According to the Derry Police Department, we’re either liars or crazy.”

“But we SAW them-”

“I know!” Your words come out way sharper than you meant, and Richie flinches. You stop in your tracks, shut your eyes, and take a few slow breaths to steady yourself. When you look at Richie again, he’s watching you with those big, worried eyes that always seem to cut right through you. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I just... I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“Maybe...” Richie hesitates, then says slowly, “Maybe they don’t WANT to exist. In the records, I mean. Maybe that’s part of... whatever they are.”

It’s not an unreasonable theory, given everything else. “Maybe.”

“So what do we do now?”

You mull it over, replaying everything in your head.

“Neibolt Street,” you say suddenly. “Bob lives on Neibolt Street.”

Richie goes pale. “That’s...Are you sure we should-”

“We need to see. If the house is there, if he’s there, then we have proof. We can take pictures, document it, force them to believe us.”

“And if it’s not there?”

If it’s not there, then maybe you really are losing your mind. Maybe none of this is real, and you should probably check yourself into a hospital before you end up getting hurt or dragging Richie down with you.

But you keep that fear to yourself. Instead, you say, “Then we figure out what’s happening. Come on.”

It takes about fifteen minutes to get to Neibolt Street, winding through downtown and cutting into one of Derry’s older neighborhoods. You think back to the first time you came here with Bob. His place stood out as the best of them all amongst the ruin with its bright white siding, flawless lawn, and flower beds that looked like something out of a magazine.

Now, as you turn onto Neibolt Street, your foot hits the brake automatically.

You roll down Neibolt Street, searching the houses for any sign of Bob’s place. Every building you pass looks completely abandoned, the kind of empty that makes your skin crawl. Some of them probably haven’t seen a family in decades. Foreclosure signs sag in a few yards, the letters so faded you can barely make them out. One house has half its roof missing, the inside open to the wind and rain. The whole street feels forgotten, like Derry’s trying to erase this block from the map.

At the end of the street, where Bob’s house should be, you spot the most ruined, horrific house you’ve ever seen. It’s rotting from the inside out. The whole thing is black with mold and rot, the front porch caving in, the roof sagging in the middle like it’s about to collapse. The walls are streaked with what looks like years of water damage and filth, and the windows are so dark you can’t see a thing inside.

You pull over and put the car in park. For a long moment, you just sit there with your hands gripping the wheel, trying to process what you’re seeing. It looks impossible, but you know this has to be the place.

“This doesn’t make sense,” you say, and your voice sounds thin and distant in your own ears. “We were here. Both of us. We saw the house.”

“I know,” Richie says. “I remember..”

A terrible idea hits you. You start to wonder if maybe none of it was real at all. What if you’ve just been imagining everything, and Richie’s only going along with it because he cares about you? You try to say it out loud, but the words stick in your throat. The fear that you’ve dragged him into your own nightmare is almost too much to face.

“Stop.” Richie’s voice is firm, clearly understanding your thoughts. “You’re not crazy. We both saw them, and your arm is real. That thing in the sink really happened. We didn’t both imagine that.”

Richie’s right. The throbbing pain in your arm, the bulky bandages, and the drain tube are all real. They’re proof that something happened, even if you can’t explain what. Still, none of that makes you feel any better.

“I can’t do this,” you hear yourself say. The words just come out, surprising even you. “I can’t...I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t know how to keep you safe if I can’t trust myself.”

“Then we figure it out together,” Richie says. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

You want to believe him. You wish you could just lean into his confidence and let it hold you up for a while. But you keep telling yourself you’re supposed to be the adult here, the one who keeps Richie safe, not the other way around. It feels backwards and upside down, and you’re not sure how to let yourself accept it.

You’ve been holding yourself together with nothing but sheer will, clinging to your calm, responsible teacher act, pretending you’ve got everything under control, but now that control is slipping away. It feels like you’re crumbling, piece by piece, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You’re so close to breaking, and the thought terrifies you.

You step out of the car and head toward the spot where Bob’s picture-perfect house once stood. Your shoes crunch on gravel and broken glass as you cross the lot. On one side, dead bushes lean into the fence line, and a rusty old chain-link runs along the other.

Was any of it real? Or did he just... make you see what he wanted you to see?

The thought sends a chill down your spine. Just imagining that someone or something could mess with your sense of reality so completely that you could look at a house and see whatever it wants you to see makes your skin crawl. If you can’t trust your own eyes or what’s right in front of you, then what else is up for grabs? How do you trust anything after that?

You’ve been bottling everything up for so long. Maybe you’ve been kidding yourself this whole time. Maybe Derry’s always been twisted and rotten underneath, and you just never wanted to see it until Bob Gray shoved the truth in your face.

“FUCK!”

You shout the word, raw and guttural, and suddenly you’re kicking the side of your car as hard as you can. Pain shoots up your leg, but you don’t care. You kick it again, then again, cursing with every blow. Every bit of rage, fear, and helplessness you’ve been trying to hold inside just explodes out of you. The sound of your voice and the thud of your foot against metal feel like the only real things in the world right now.

“FUCK this town! FUCK Bob Gray! FUCK-”

“Hey, hey, stop!” Richie is out of the car, grabbing your shoulders, trying to pull you away. “You’re going to hurt yourself!”

But you’re already hurt. You’re bleeding and falling apart, and the worst part is your fourteen-year-old cousin is the one holding you together. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. You can feel your grip slipping, your thoughts racing in every direction.

The first sob sneaks up on you. Suddenly, you’re gasping, and you can’t hold it back anymore. Every tear you’ve been stuffing down, every bit of terror you thought you’d managed to keep under control just pours out all at once. You’re crying so hard you can barely catch your breath, your whole body shaking from the effort.

Richie’s arms wrap around you, and you can hear him saying, "It’s okay, you’re okay, we’re okay." You wish you could believe it, but you know you’re not okay. Nothing about this is okay, and no matter how many times he says it, you just can’t convince yourself otherwise.

You cry until you’ve got nothing left. The only thing inside you now is a hollow ache and the steady, distant throb of your injured arm. Richie just holds on, letting you fall apart, even though he’s already had to go through more than any kid should.

When you finally pull back and wipe your face with your good hand, Richie is staring at you with a look that’s so full of worry it makes your chest ache. You can tell he wants to help, even if he has no idea what to say.

“Sorry,” you manage. Your voice is hoarse, wrecked. “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to-”

“It’s okay,” he says firmly. “You’re allowed to lose it sometimes. You don’t have to be perfect all the time.”

You take a shaky breath, then another. The air tastes like rain, and you realize the sky has gone dark while you were falling apart. Heavy clouds press down, making everything feel smaller and tighter.

“Let’s go home,” you say quietly. “Before it starts pouring.”

Richie nods and helps guide you back to the car, his hand on your elbow like he’s the one steadying you now. You let him, because pride seems like a stupid thing to cling to at this point.

You pull away from Neibolt Street and keep your eyes fixed on the road ahead. You don’t let yourself look back, because you’re not sure what you’d see.

The first fat raindrops smack the windshield just as you turn onto Main Street. They splatter against the glass, messy and quick, and before you know it, the sky just opens up. Water pours down in sheets, drenching everything in seconds. Your wipers thrash back and forth, barely making a dent in the downpour.

You can barely see anything ahead. The street turns into a watery blur, just gray rain and smeared red taillights. You slow the car and lean forward, squinting through the downpour, trying to make out where the road even is.

“Jesus,” Richie mutters. “Where did this come from?”

“Welcome to Maine.”

The rain drums on the car roof and drowns out nearly everything. There’s something weirdly soothing about the steady rhythm and the rush of white noise. For a moment, you almost let yourself sink into it, letting the sound wash over you, trying to forget the last few hours, maybe even the last few days.

Then Richie says, “Holy shit, look.”

Richie’s pointing out the passenger window, and you follow his gaze. Through the rain-streaked glass, you spot a kid on the sidewalk. The little one is bundled up in a yellow raincoat pulled tight, and his shoulders are hunched against the storm. They’re running as fast as their legs will go, one arm stretched out, reaching for something floating ahead in the water.

A paper boat.

White paper folded into the classic sailboat shape, bobbing and spinning as it’s carried along by the water rushing down the gutter. The boat is moving fast, caught in the current, and the child in yellow is chasing it, small legs pumping, feet splashing through puddles.

Your foot hits the brake without conscious thought. The car skids slightly on the wet pavement before coming to a stop.

The kid in the yellow raincoat just keeps running, never glancing back once. He chases that little paper boat through puddles and sheets of rain, shrinking into the distance until both the boat and the child slip around a corner and vanish.

You sit there, engine idling, wipers still scraping frantically across the windshield. Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts.

“Did you see that?” Richie’s voice is barely a whisper. “Tell me you saw that.”

“I saw it,” you confirm, and your voice sounds hollow.

You grip the steering wheel tighter, feeling how awkward it is with just your good hand. The other stays bundled up in its bandages, useless for now. Rain pours down in sheets, rolling over the car and flooding the streets. It feels like Derry is trying to wash you away, like this whole rotten town wants to see how much you can take before you finally break.

“We need to go home,” you say again, but this time it sounds less like a decision and more like a desperate plea.

Richie doesn’t argue. You pull back into traffic, driving carefully through the storm, heading toward the house that suddenly feels less like a sanctuary and more like just another trap waiting to spring.

Behind you, somewhere in the rain-soaked streets of Derry, a child in yellow chases a paper boat toward a storm drain.

Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights at Derry High are so bright they make your head throb, drilling into your eyes until you start to wonder if the school’s trying to knock you out before first period. Every time the bulbs flicker, you feel your anxiety spike like your nervous system’s been rewired, so even the smallest thing feels like a threat. The hallway in front of you looks way too long, lined with lockers that almost seem to be watching you. Students rush past in every direction, their voices bouncing off the walls in a wall of sound that’s just this side of unbearable. It’s almost like the building’s trying to make sure you remember you don’t belong here anymore.

Your right arm rests in its sling against your chest, the weight of it a constant reminder. The bandages are still thick and pristinely white against your dark navy blouse, which you'd chosen specifically because it wouldn't show blood if the wounds started seeping again. The pain is a living thing now, and something you've almost become friends with over the past week.

It throbs in time with your pulse, a steady drumbeat of hurt-hurt-hurt that never quite fades even with the pills Dr. Kelsey prescribed. Sometimes, late at night when you can't sleep, you swear you can still feel those hands gripping your wrist, pulling you down toward spinning metal blades that shouldn't have reached you but did anyway.

It's been a week since the garbage disposal tried to eat you alive. Seven days since you learned that the laws of physics are more like suggestions in Derry, Maine. Seven days since you discovered that drains can be doorways and that something ancient and hungry has been watching you from the dark spaces between reality.

Seven days since you stopped feeling safe anywhere.

Richie walks next to you through the morning rush, close enough that his shoulder keeps bumping yours as you make your way down the hall. He hasn't given you much space since you were in the hospital. He hasn't wanted to, really, and you haven't had the heart to push him away, even when his hovering makes you feel claustrophobic.

His backpack hangs off one shoulder, stuffed with textbooks he probably hasn't opened since you brought him home that terrible day. You can’t help but notice how Richie’s eyes are always on the move. He keeps scanning faces in the crowd, checking corners and doorways, almost like he’s on the lookout for something hiding in plain sight. His hand hovers near his pocket, where you know he’s started carrying a pocketknife. It probably wouldn’t help much against what you’re both up against, but it seems to make him feel a little safer.

He looks exhausted. He’s got dark circles under his eyes behind those thick glasses, and his hair is even wilder than usual, like he’s spent the whole morning running his hands through it. You think about telling him he can stay home from now on, that he doesn’t have to come back to school just yet, but you already know he won’t listen. The truth is, he’s scared to leave you alone. He’s convinced that if he looks away for even a second, you’ll vanish down another drain or slip into some impossible place where he can’t find you.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks for the third time this morning, his voice pitched low so the passing students won't hear. "Coming back so soon?"

His question ties your stomach in knots. At this point, you don’t feel sure about anything. The floor under your feet could give way, the ceiling might reach down and grab you, and that water fountain by the science wing sometimes looks like it’s just waiting for the chance to pull you under. Still, you can’t say any of this to Richie. He’s scared enough as it is, and he needs you to act like the grown-up and the one who’s supposed to keep him safe.

"We can't hide forever, Rich." The words taste like ash in your mouth because you know they're not entirely true. Part of you wants nothing more than to hide, to take Richie, run as far from Derry as your car will carry you, and drive until the town is nothing but a memory in the rearview mirror, until the image of Bob Gray's too-perfect smile fades from your nightmares.

But deep down, you know running won’t fix anything. Bob Gray, whatever he really is, has marked you. He claimed you that awful night at the carnival, when his kiss tasted like copper and something that should never exist. You feel it, almost like invisible fingers pressing at the base of your skull, or a voice right below the edge of hearing. You’re his now.

The thought sends a chill through you as you walk up to your classroom. Room 214 is still your room, but now it feels off, like everything’s just a little wrong. The desks are packed in too tightly, the windows are set way too high to climb out of, and the door seems farther away than you remember.

You keep telling yourself you’re not actually losing your mind, but it sure feels like it some days. Knowing what’s real doesn’t help when the paranoia digs in and refuses to leave.

The other teachers meet you in the hallway outside your classroom, their sympathy careful and a little awkward, like you might break if they say the wrong thing. Susan Harper, who runs the English department and always wears her gray hair in a bun with a cardigan that never has a wrinkle, stops to check on you. She gently touches your good arm, her fingers soft and reassuring.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, and you can actually hear real concern behind her usual professional tone. "That must have been terrifying."

"I'm managing," you say, which is neither truth nor lie but something in between. Saying you’re managing makes it sound like you’ve got things under control, even though you know you don’t. It’s what people expect to hear, though. If you say it enough, you get to keep teaching, keep up the appearance of being normal, and maybe even convince yourself you’re not coming apart at the seams.

"If you need me to take over any of your classes, don't hesitate to ask." Susan adjusts her reading glasses. "The students can be... energetic. If the pain gets too bad or you need a break-"

"I'll let you know. Thank you." You force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. Your face has forgotten how to arrange itself into expressions that don't involve terror or exhaustion.

Susan nods and keeps walking, but you can still feel her eyes on you even as she heads down the hall. These days, it feels like everyone’s watching. You’re just the teacher who had that weird accident with her garbage disposal and the one everybody gossips about in the lounge. You can just imagine what they say when you’re not around.

‘Poor thing, so young, probably never getting full use of that hand again.’

‘What was she thinking, sticking her arm in there?’

And this is Derry, after all. It’s a small town with a big appetite for gossip. Some people even let their theories get darker. ‘Maybe it wasn’t an accident.’ ‘Maybe the stress of taking in her orphaned cousin pushed her too far.’ ‘Maybe she did it to herself.’

You almost want to laugh at the idea. Self-harm? As if you’d ever put yourself through that kind of pain on purpose. You remember every second of that nightmare, how you fought like hell to get away while that thing dragged you closer to death.

You’d think this room would feel safe, with your desk neatly stacked with papers, yesterday’s whiteboard notes still hanging around, and shelves lined with battered copies of classic novels that have probably been here longer than you have. But nothing about it feels comforting right now. Your classroom seems to hold its breath, and all you can see are the places something could be hiding. Behind the bookshelves, under your desk, in the supply closet, even up in the ceiling tiles.

Stop it, you tell yourself firmly. You're at school. You're surrounded by people. Nothing is going to happen here.

That’s not really true, is it? Bob Gray’s already been here. He’s walked these halls, sat right in one of these desks while you tried to teach, his impossible eyes tracking your every move. If he managed to show up once, what’s stopping him from coming back?

You shuffle over to your desk, doing your best with just your good hand. You set your bag down and start pulling out the teaching materials you managed to prep last night, somewhere in between panic attacks. The Great Gatsby, again. You’re still slogging through the unit on the American Dream, all about how it promises so much and then twists it into something a bit rotten. You can’t help but notice the irony.

You came to Derry chasing your own version of that dream to have some stability, a real family, maybe a shot at making a difference in Richie’s life after his parents died. And what did all that hope get you? A mangled hand, a nagging sense that reality is way more slippery and frightening than you ever guessed, and the unblinking attention of something that sees you as a snack, or maybe just its favorite show.

Students start trickling in when the first bell rings, and even though you know it’s coming, that shrill sound still makes you flinch. You watch them come in, one by one, looking at each face and checking that they’re actually human. To make sure they aren’t just pretending and not wearing someone else’s skin the way Bob Gray does. They have no idea you’re studying them this closely. They just drop into their seats, completely at ease.

You recognize most of them from before your so-called accident. Melissa Hartford with her perfect blonde ponytail and that designer backpack, Brad Sullivan hiding out in the back corner, hoping you’ll forget he’s there, and Jennifer Chen, who actually does the reading and asks questions that make you think.

They all look just like they did a week ago, but you’re not the same. Now you can’t stop thinking about how fragile life really is, how any one of these kids might disappear tomorrow. All it would take is one of them being curious and not realizing there’s something down there waiting for them.

The thought makes you grip your desk so hard your knuckles go white.

"Miss, are you okay?" Jennifer is looking at you with concern, her dark eyes worried behind trendy glasses.

"Fine," you manage, releasing the desk and trying for a reassuring smile. "I’m just adjusting to being back. The painkillers make me a little spacey sometimes."

It's a convenient excuse. You'll be using it a lot.

First period is junior English, and there are twenty-three students who are supposed to be reading Chapter 7 of Gatsby, but you’re pretty sure most of them haven’t even opened the book. You go through the motions anyway, teaching on autopilot in a way that even surprises you. You’re talking about symbolism and the green light, about how the American Dream promises so much but ends up corrupting almost everyone who chases it. But at the same time, your mind is busy replaying something else entirely. You keep feeling those cold hands wrapped around your wrist, hearing your own screams bounce around in your head, tasting fear and blood that just won’t go away.

"The green light is all about Gatsby’s hopes and dreams," you say as you write on the whiteboard with your left hand. Your handwriting’s messier than usual, slanting the wrong way. "It’s everything he wants but just can’t reach. He’s spent his whole life chasing it, but every time he gets close, it slips away. He never really catches it."

Brad raises his hand, which is unusual enough that you stop mid-sentence. "Yeah?"

"So is that kind of a metaphor? Like, are we all just chasing stuff we can’t really get? Is the dream always just a little too far away?" He actually sounds curious and not just trying to look smart for a grade.

"Exactly." You put the marker down and turn to face the class. "Fitzgerald’s saying the American Dream might actually be out of reach for most of us. We’re all kind of like Gatsby, reaching for something that looks perfect from far away, but the closer we get, the more we see it’s changed. It’s been warped into something we barely recognize anymore."

It’s the same with Derry, isn’t it? The town looks totally normal on the outside, but you know there’s something rotten underneath it all. It’s been here longer than the houses or the streets. It’s been here longer than the people who keep telling themselves they’re safe inside its borders.

Melissa raises her hand next. "But Gatsby doesn’t just quit, right? Even when he knows he can’t really have Daisy, he keeps going after her."

"He does." You lean against your desk, careful with your injured arm. "But is that actually a good thing? Does it make him brave, or is he just setting himself up for heartbreak? Is it noble to chase something you’ll never get, or is it just another kind of madness?"

The conversation keeps going, and you can’t help but be impressed by how into it your students are. They’re arguing about whether Gatsby’s a romantic hero or just a delusional stalker, if his dream is worth all the tragedy it brings, and if any dream is really worth that kind of price.

You keep things moving, answering questions and tossing out ideas, but only half your brain is focused on the class. The rest of you is on high alert, watching the door, listening for anything that feels wrong, tense, and waiting for the next bad thing to happen.

Because it will go wrong. It always does.

Second period is your planning period, and you spend it organizing materials with one hand, doing your best not to keep staring at the ceiling vent. The school never seems to stop making noise. You keep expecting the lights to go out, or a pale hand to reach through the vent, or for Bob Gray’s voice to bounce off the empty walls and call out, “Hello, sweetheart.”

You get through to third period without anything weird happening. It’s another round of junior English, different faces but the same lesson plan. You’re in the middle of talking about the eyes of Doctor T.J. Eckleburg when someone knocks on your doorframe.

Your whole body goes stiff. Your heart is pounding so fast you get dizzy, and the marker slips from your fingers, hitting the floor with a clatter, but it’s just Maureen from the main office. She’s got her reading glasses on a chain, and that sensible cardigan like everyone else in the English department, and she’s holding a stack of papers for you to sign.

"Sorry to interrupt," Maureen says, stepping into the classroom. She glances at your fallen marker, then at your face, which must show too much of your fear. "Are you alright? You look pale."

"I'm fine. Just startled." You bend to retrieve the marker, the movement sending a jolt of pain through your injured arm. "What do you need?"

"Just some attendance forms." She puts the papers on your desk, but she doesn’t leave right away. She drops her voice, glancing at the students who are definitely eavesdropping. "Have you heard? About the Denbrough boy?"

The bottom drops out of your stomach. "Bill?"

"No, no. His little brother. Georgie." Maureen’s face changes, and you can see she’s fighting back a mix of sadness and fear. "He went missing yesterday afternoon. They found his raincoat near the storm drains on Jackson Street, but that’s it." She shakes her head, leaving the rest unsaid. You both know what it means. There’s no sign of Georgie himself.

Georgie Denbrough. You remember him from around town. He was just a sweet little kid, probably six or seven, with that gap-toothed grin and so much energy like all kids his age, he could barely stand still. Bill’s his big brother, and you’ve seen them walking home from school together.

"That's awful," you say, but it barely scratches the surface. Awful doesn't come close to describing it. A kid missing in Derry.

"In this weather, too." Maureen glances toward the windows, where rain has been falling steadily since before dawn. "They're organizing search parties. The whole town's out looking. His parents are beside themselves." She fidgets with her glasses chain. "I can't imagine. Your child just... gone. One minute he's playing in the yard, the next he's vanished without a trace."

"Was anyone with him? When he disappeared?" You do your best to keep your voice steady, trying to sound like you’re just asking out of concern, not out of the horror that’s building inside you.

"His brother Bill made him a paper boat. Georgie was sailing it in the gutter, following it down the street while it rained." Maureen's voice drops even lower. "They're saying he was chasing it when he disappeared. He was chasing a toy boat down the street, and then... nothing."

You remember watching through rain-streaked glass as you and Richie drove away from Neibolt Street, leaving behind the spot where Bob Gray’s house was supposed to be. There was a little kid in a yellow raincoat, chasing something white through the flooded street. You saw him. Richie saw him, too.

You'd seen Georgie Denbrough moments before he disappeared.

"Are you okay?" Maureen's concerned voice breaks through your spiraling thoughts. "You've gone very pale. Should I get the nurse?"

"No, I'm-" You grip the edge of your desk, trying to ground yourself. The classroom has started spinning slightly, or maybe that's just your vision tunneling. "The pain medication makes me lightheaded sometimes. I just need a moment."

Maureen looks unconvinced but nods. "Well, if you hear anything, let the office know. They're asking all the teachers to keep an eye out, in case any students mention seeing something. Children notice things adults miss sometimes."

She finally leaves, and now you’re stuck up front with your class with twenty-three faces all staring back at you, some curious, some bored, and some just hoping you’ll let them go early. Fortunately for them, all you say is, ”Class dismissed early. Read Chapter 8 for tomorrow."

Nobody questions their luck. Books snap shut, backpacks zip, and chairs scrape as everyone bolts for the door before you can change your mind. In less than a minute, you’ve got the room to yourself.

You drop into your desk chair and grip the edge of the seat, your knuckles turning white. Your good hand comes up to cover your mouth, but your breath is shaky, and you can feel your shoulders trembling. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, hoping the sharp sting will steady you, but it doesn’t. You close your eyes and focus on not letting the sound escape, fighting to keep yourself from falling apart right there in the empty classroom.

You grip the edge of your desk even tighter, breath coming shallow and fast. Bob Gray took Georgie Denbrough. The same thing that grabbed you also snatched a six-year-old kid and dragged him down into the dark, where nobody would ever find him.

And you saw it happen. Not the exact second Georgie vanished, but close enough that it might as well have been. You watched that little boy in the yellow raincoat chasing his paper boat, running straight toward disaster, and you just kept on driving. You didn’t pull over. You didn’t check. You were so caught up in your own mess, so desperate to get home and feel safe, that you never even thought to stop, and now, because of that, a child is gone.

The guilt in your chest squirms and twists, making you feel sick, making it hard to even breathe. You keep telling yourself there was nothing you could’ve done, that you didn’t know what was happening, that it was already too late. But you don’t really believe it, do you? Because some part of you is still screaming that you should’ve done something. You could’ve warned someone. You could’ve tried.

Fourth period drags by in a blur. You go through the motions, saying all the right things without really hearing yourself. The students aren't fooled. They're quieter than normal, more subdued, like they can actually sense the fear and guilt pouring off you, no matter how hard you try to keep it hidden. Inside, you feel like you're spilling over, and you can't stop thinking that if any of them knew what you’d done. If they knew you saw Georgie right before he vanished and did nothing, they’d never look at you the same way again.

When lunch rolls around, you end up by the windows, staring out over the student parking lot. You can see bits of the school grounds, slick streets shining in the rain, and way out in the distance, the river carving through Derry.

Students crowd together on the wet grass, crowding under tiny umbrellas or just letting the rain soak through their clothes. You press up against the glass, searching every face for a glimpse of Richie. You know he’s supposed to be safe in the cafeteria with the other freshmen, and trying to make his friends laugh. Your eyes keep darting over the crowd until you spot him, or at least, think you do. Your breath catches every time someone with dark hair moves, and you don’t relax until you’re sure he’s really there.

"Terrible about the Denbrough boy." The voice makes you jump, spinning around to find Linda Sullivan standing behind you. Linda teaches math and has been divorced for three years, information she shares frequently and without prompting. She's carrying a sandwich and a Diet Coke, her "lunch" that she'll eat at her desk while grading papers.

"Yeah," you say, nodding along while you stare out the window, wishing you had something better to offer. The word comes out flat, but you can't think of anything else. You just stand there, hands stuffed in your pockets, feeling useless while Linda keeps talking.

"My Tommy knew him from soccer and said he was a sweet kid. He always shared his snacks." Linda takes a bite of her sandwich, apparently unbothered by discussing a missing child while eating. "The parents must be devastated. You hear about these things on the news, happening in other places, but never think it'll happen here."

Yet, you know it happens here. It happens in Derry all the time, way more than people want to admit. You watch Linda talk and realize you’re finally seeing the pattern for yourself.

"They're organizing search parties after school," Linda continues. "A bunch of the students want to help look. I told Tommy absolutely not. No way is he going out there with some kidnapper on the loose, but you know teenagers. They think they're invincible."

"Yeah," you murmur. "They do."

The afternoon drags on, every class feeling longer than the last. You keep glancing at the clock, wishing the hands would move faster, but every time you check, only a minute has passed. You count down to the last bell, already planning how you’ll grab Richie and get him home, somewhere that feels safe. You try to convince yourself that if you can just get him through the door, everything will be fine, but you know the truth. Nowhere in Derry is really safe.

It doesn’t matter how careful you are. Bob will find a way in if he wants to. When the final bell finally rings, you’re stuffing papers into your bag with your good hand, not even caring about the mess.

The hallways flood with students,and you push through them with growing desperation, ignoring the startled looks when you bump into people. Your injured arm protests the jostling, pain flaring hot and sharp, but you barely notice.

Richie should be at his locker on the first floor, near the science wing. You head there now, practically running, your sensible teacher heels clicking frantically against linoleum.

He's there. Thank God, he's there. You spot Richie with a group of boys and a red-haired girl you’ve seen around school. Richie once called them the Losers, but you know they’re his friends. They huddle close, talking in low voices, shoulders tense as they watch the hallway.

"We have to do something," Eddie is saying, his voice high and strained. "We can't just sit here while-"

"Georgie wouldn't just wander off," Bill interrupts. "He w-wouldn't. Someone t-took him. Someone or some-something."

"Guys, we should tell an adult," Stan says. "This is too big for us to-"

"Tell them what?" Richie cuts in. "That we think something weird is going on in Derry? They'll think we're crazy."

"But Richie's cousin-" Mike starts.

That's when you reach them. "Richie."

Five heads turn your way at the same time. Seven teenagers look at you with surprise and concern, but Richie just looks relieved, like he’s been waiting for you to show up.

"Hey," he says, trying for casual and missing by a mile. His eyes search your face, cataloging the signs of stress you know must be written there. "How was your day?"

"We need to go home." Your voice comes out harder than you intended, sharp with fear you can't quite contain. "Now."

"But-" He glances at his friends, clearly torn. "Bill's brother is missing. We were going to help look."

"No." The word is absolute. "You're coming home with me."

Bill steps forward, his face twisted with worry. He stands a little taller, trying to look brave in front of his friends, but his hands are shaking. He looks around like he’s searching for someone to tell him what to do next. The fear is right there in his eyes, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. He’s just a kid, and he’s doing his best to hold it together while searching for his little brother.

"M-my brother," he says, fighting through his stutter with visible effort. "H-he was ch-chasing a p-paper boat. My d-dad says he p-probably just w-wandered off, but..." His eyes fill with tears he's trying desperately not to shed. "I m-made him that b-boat. It's m-my fault he's g-gone."

Your heart breaks for him. "It's not your fault, Bill. Not even a little bit."

"Then w-where is he?" The tears spill over now, tracking down his cheeks. "Where did he g-go?"

You search for something to say, anything that won't send them spiraling. You can’t tell these kids that Georgie Denbrough is gone because of something that shouldn’t even exist. You can’t look them in the eye and admit that their friend’s little brother isn’t coming back.

"The police are looking," you say instead. "And search parties. They'll find him."

It's a lie. You all know it's a lie, but it's the kindest thing you can offer.

"W-we need all the h-help we can g-get," Bill continues, pressing. "P-please. He's only s-six."

Eddie jumps in before you can respond. "Yeah, and my mom's already freaking out, and says I can't go anywhere alone now, but if we all stick together, she can't really stop us from helping, right? There's safety in numbers."

The chubby boy nods. "The police said they want volunteers. We can cover more ground than adults because we know where kids play, where we'd go if we were hiding or lost."

Mike, until now quiet, adds. "I know the woods around the Barrens better than anyone. If Georgie's out there, we'll find him."

All of them look at you with those pleading eyes, and you can tell exactly what Richie wants even if he hasn't come out and said it. He wants to be useful. He wants to stand by his friends and show he’s got their backs, to do something good for once instead of feeling helpless. You watch him try to look brave, determined to prove the world’s not all bad, that friendship can still matter. Part of you aches to protect him from everything, to keep him safe no matter what, but you see how much he needs this. You see it in the way he stands a little straighter and meets your eyes, waiting for your answer.

"Richie," you say carefully, "can I talk to you alone for a second?"

He follows you a few feet away, leaving his friends huddled by the lockers. When you're out of immediate earshot, you turn to face him fully.

"I need you to come home," you say quietly. "Please. Just come home."

"Why? What's wrong?" His eyes narrow behind his glasses. "Did something else happen? Is it Bob again?"

"No. I just-" How do you explain the terror crawling under your skin? "I don't think you should be out there. Especially not near the Barrens or the sewers or anywhere that-"

"That's exactly why I SHOULD be out there," Richie interrupts, his voice fierce despite staying low. "If something's going on, if there's something dangerous, then Bill and the others need to know. They need to be careful, and I can't just abandon them when Bill's brother is missing."

"Richie-"

"You told me we can't hide forever." He throws your own words back at you. "You said that this morning. Well, this is me not hiding. This is me being there for my friends when they need me."

You almost tell Richie no right then. You even imagine just picking him up and carrying him to the car if that’s what it takes, but as you look at him with his friends, you can see how much this matters. If you force him to walk away now, if you don’t let him help search for Georgie Denbrough, you’ll break a trust between you that might never come back.

"Okay," you hear yourself say, even as every instinct screams against it. "But you call me every hour. Every hour, Rich, I mean it, and you stay with the group. Don't wander off alone for any reason. If you see anything strange, anything at all, you get to a safe place and call me immediately. Not after you try to be a hero. Immediately."

"I promise." The relief on his face is palpable.

"I mean it. Anything strange-"

"I promise," he repeats, more firmly this time. "I'll be careful. We all will."

You don't believe him, but you nod anyway. "Where exactly are you searching?"

"Near Jackson Street, where they found the raincoat. Then maybe the Barrens if we don't find anything." He adjusts his backpack. "Eddie says his mom's making him be home by dinner, so we won't be out too late."

Six hours. You have to let your traumatized, terrified cousin wander around Derry for six hours searching for a boy who's almost certainly dead. The thought makes you want to vomit.

"Bill," you call out, catching the attention of the dark-haired boy. "Where exactly did they find Georgie's raincoat?"

Bill approaches, wiping at his eyes. "N-near the st-storm drain on J-Jackson Street. By the b-big intersection with W-Witcham."

It's the same spot where you saw that kid in the yellow raincoat. Everything lines up exactly. Georgie went missing yesterday afternoon, right after you and Richie drove past Jackson Street on your way back from Neibolt. Georgie Denbrough was right there, and you didn't do a thing to help. The confirmation of it makes your vision blur at the edges. You grab the closest locker to steady yourself, and Richie is at your side in an instant.

"Are you okay? Is it your arm?"

"I'm fine." The lie tastes like poison. "It’s the medication."

Stan is watching you closely, his sharp eyes missing nothing. "Are you sure? You look like you might pass out."

"I'm fine," you repeat, forcing strength into your voice. "Just be careful out there. All of you. Stay together. Don't split up. And Bill-" You meet the boy's devastated eyes. "I'm so sorry about your brother. I hope they find him safe."

Another lie.

The boys and the girl head out, a tight cluster moving toward the exit.

Richie lingers for a moment, clearly torn between his friends and his concern for you. "You're sure you're okay?"

"Go," you tell him. "Help your friends. Just remember what I said. Call me every hour."

He nods and jogs to catch up with the others. You watch them disappear through the doors, five boys heading out into the rain to search for a child who's already gone.

Driving home usually takes fifteen minutes, but tonight you go through every light, barely going above a crawl. You keep flicking your eyes to the rearview mirror and out into the shadows, scanning every corner and crossing. The rain pounds so hard on the windshield that your wipers can’t keep up, and the streets look deserted. Most folks know to stay inside on a night like this.

When you reach Jackson Street, you slow even more. You can’t help it. You have to look.

The intersection is blocked with police tape, and officers in rain gear stand watch as the rain comes down even harder. Someone’s already started a little memorial for him with flowers and a teddy bear sitting by the storm drain, both getting drenched. You roll to a stop and stare at that drain, heart pounding. It’s just a regular grate in the street, nothing special, the kind you see all the time. Water rushes past, carrying leaves and trash. Everything looks normal, but you can’t shake the feeling that something is watching.

One of the officers notices you slowing down and waves you on. You drive, hands shaking on the wheel, and don't look back.

Your house, through the rain, appears like a sanctuary. You pull into the driveway and sit for a moment with the engine running, staring at the front door.

The door is closed, just like you left it this morning. You remember locking it, double-checking, like you always do now. Lately, you can’t help getting obsessed about locks, but as you stare at the front door, a strange feeling creeps in.

You're being paranoid. Nothing's wrong.

You gather your bag and make a run for the porch, getting soaked in the few seconds it takes to reach shelter. Your keys are slippery in your good hand as you fit them into the lock. The door swings open.

The house looks just the way you left it. The living room hasn’t been touched, the kitchen’s still tidy, and everything’s in its place. The air hits you as soon as you step inside. It’s cold and makes your breath fog up in front of your face. You rub your arms and try to shake it off, but the chill just hangs there.

"Hello?" Your voice sounds small in the empty house. "Is someone here?"

No response.

You move through the first floor quickly, checking each room, and the cold seems to emanate from upstairs.

You make your way up the stairs, every step creaking a little louder than you remember. The hallway on the second floor feels longer at night, with all the doors closed tight. Richie’s room sits on the left, the bathroom is in the middle, and your own door waits on the right. You pause for a second, listening to the quiet, and then keep going, heart pounding as you move toward your room.

Your bedroom door is open.

You left it closed this morning. You're certain of it. You've been closing and locking it every night, checking it twice before leaving for school.

You push the door open slowly, peering into your bedroom.

Ingrid is on your bed.

You try to scream, but it gets stuck somewhere in your chest and barely makes it out. Ingrid sits on your bed, looking like always, her skin so pale it almost glows in the gray light. Her hair is pulled back in that signature braid, and she sits up straight, posture perfect as ever. She’s wearing a white dress with a black cardigan, Mary Janes hanging off the edge of your bed, and her hands folded neatly in her lap. The soft afternoon light, filtered through rain streaks on the window, makes her look almost see-through. She doesn’t seem completely real, more like a ghost than a girl.

"I'm sorry for frightening you," she says in that flat, emotionless voice that's somehow more unnerving than any display of feeling. "I let myself in. We need to talk."

Every part of you wants to bolt, but your legs won’t cooperate. You stand there in the doorway, frozen, staring at this girl who shouldn’t be in your house, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing.

"Get out." Your voice shakes despite your best efforts. "Get out of my house right now or I'm calling the police."

"The police won't help you." She tilts her head slightly, studying you like you're a specimen in a jar. "They can't see what I am. They couldn't stop my father even if they believed you, which they won't. I've already learned this. The police are... ineffective against beings like us."

"Beings like-" You can't finish the sentence. "You're a child. You're a little girl. You're-"

"I'm neither a child nor fully human anymore." She says casually. "I'm sorry. That must be frightening to hear, but we need to speak honestly if you're going to survive what's coming."

"What's coming?" The question escapes before you can stop it.

"Him. My father. The thing wearing his face." She gestures to the space beside her on the bed. "Please sit. This will be easier if you're not hovering in the doorway, like you might run at any second."

"I'm calling the police." Though you say it, your hand stays put. Deep down, you know she’s right. The police aren’t going to help you. They already think you’re making things up or losing your mind over Bob Gray. If you tried telling them his daughter broke in and claimed she isn’t even human, they’d just write you off as unstable or worse.

Ingrid seems to sense your hesitation. "I'm the one who called them. When the... incident happened with your disposal. I reported a domestic disturbance to get them there faster. I was trying to help."

The words hit you like cold water. "That was you? How did you even know-"

"My father knows everything that happens in Derry. Every fear, every nightmare, every moment of terror, and what he knows, I know, because he keeps me close. He uses me as his eyes and ears when he can't be present himself." She pats the bed beside her again. "Please. Sit. You look like you might faint, and head injuries would complicate things further."

You step into the room, trying to keep your breathing steady. You don’t even glance at the bed. Instead, you pull out your desk chair and sit right on the edge, leaving plenty of space between you and Ingrid. Your arm pulses with pain as you shift, a sharp memory of the last time you let yourself relax and believed for just a second that things might be safe. You keep your eyes on her, not missing the way her hands stay perfectly folded in her lap, and you grip the chair’s armrest tight enough that your knuckles go paler than usual.

"Why are you here?" you ask. "What do you want from me?"

"To warn you and explain things that you need to understand if you want any chance of surviving." She looks right at you, her eyes softer than before, and for a second, you catch a flicker of sadness, and maybe even pity. "My father has decided he wants you. And when he wants something, he doesn't let go easily."

"Stop calling him your father." The words come out harsh and angry. "You said he's not human. So what is he? What are you?"

Ingrid goes quiet, her eyes drifting to the window. Her mouth tightens, and her shoulders slump just a little. "Bob Gray was my father. The real Bob Gray. We immigrated from Sweden in 1908. It was me, my father, and my mother who'd died of fever during the crossing. It was just the two of us when we arrived in Derry. He was a kind man. He opened a circus because he loved children and wanted to entertain them. He loved this country and loved the opportunity it represented. He wanted to give me a good life."

Her voice drifts a little, taking on that faraway sound people get when they’re telling a story they’ve repeated a hundred times.

"We were happy here for a while. Derry was smaller then, but growing. My father was well-liked. We had friends, a routine, a life." She pauses. "And then, in the spring of 1909, children started disappearing."

Your stomach clenches.

"The town started to worry, but nobody really panicked. People said kids wander off, that accidents happen, and it was sad but not unheard of in a place like Derry." Ingrid's hands tighten in her lap. "But it kept happening. And some of us started to notice patterns. The missing kids always seemed to vanish near water, or close to drains and sewers. Before they disappeared, a few even talked about seeing a clown. A man in white clothes who gave out crimson balloons and promised to show them something. He called himself Pennywise."

You feel a chill run down your spine. "Pennywise?"

Ingrid nods. "That's one of the names he’s used. He changes them the way he changes his appearance."

She looks at you directly now. "In June of 1909, my father was working late. I'd gone home already because he said he had a show to finish and didn’t want me waiting. The next morning, when he didn’t come home, I went looking for him."

She trails off and goes quiet, her eyes fixed on a spot in the distance.

"I found him in the alley behind the circus. Or what was left of him. The thing had torn him apart and consumed most of him, but it kept the face." Her voice drops, and the energy drains from her face, and her words come out cold and even. You watch her shut herself down. "It was wearing my father when I found it. It was standing there in his clothes, his face, smiling at me with his mouth, but his eyes were wrong. The way it moved was wrong. Everything about it was wrong."

"Why didn't it kill you?"

“I just stood there, frozen, while it explained what it was. Why it killed my father." She looks down at her hands. "It feeds on fear, you see. That's its primary sustenance. The terror of its victims is food and drink and breath altogether, but I wasn't running, and I wasn't screaming. I'd gone beyond fear into some place where nothing feels real anymore. It found that... interesting."

"So it kept you alive."

"It kept me as camouflage. Bob Gray had a daughter, and daughters don't just disappear when their fathers do. People ask questions, so it kept me and told me I could live as long as I never tried to escape, never tried to warn anyone, and never stopped playing my role as the dutiful daughter of Bob Gray, the upstanding citizen of Derry, when it was useful to it." Her voice takes on a bitter edge. "And every twenty-seven years, when it wakes to feed, I'm pulled back here. No matter where I try to go during its dormant periods, when it wakes, I return. Like a fish on a hook, and I watch it take children. I watch it destroy families. I watch it tear apart lives. Over and over and over."

She’s spent more than a hundred years stuck with her father’s murderer, forced to stay close and watch while he picks off innocent people, unable to do anything but survive. Every time she tries to help, she risks everything, but staying silent means watching it all happen again and again with nothing but fear and guilt for company.

"How many cycles?" you ask quietly. "How many times has it happened?"

"This is the fourth I've witnessed. The one in 1909 when my father died. Then 1935. Then 1962." She counts them off on her fingers like reciting a grocery list. "And now 1988. Each time, it takes its fill of children and terror, and then it sleeps. And each time, I think maybe this will be the cycle where I finally fade away entirely, but I never do."

"Why not? If you're not really human anymore, if it's keeping you alive somehow, what sustains you?"

"I don't know." She looks at you, and there's real confusion in her expression. "I don't age. I don't get sick. I barely need to eat. It's as if I'm stuck in time, preserved in the moment my father died and this nightmare began. Sometimes I think I'm not really here at all, and that I'm just another illusion it maintains, no more real than the house on Neibolt Street that you saw perfect one day and condemned the next."

The mention of the house makes you flinch. "That was an illusion? All of it?"

"Yes and no. The house is real. It's where my father actually lived when we first came to Derry, and it’s here I grew up before he died, but it's been abandoned for decades, rotting from the inside out. What you saw before...that was what it wanted you to see. It’s what it made you see. It's very good at that. At showing people what they expect, what they want, what will lower their defenses." She stands, moving to your window and looking out at the rain. "The house on Neibolt Street is one of its main access points. It connects to the sewers, to its true domain. When it needs to come and go from there in a form that neighbors won't question, it makes them see it as well-maintained, respectable, and normal."

"But I saw you come out of that house. Multiple times."

"Yes. Because I do live there, in a sense. In a room that exists in the space between what's real and what's illusion. I don't need much. I have a bed and a few belongings, and it keeps me close to it so it can monitor me. It makes sure I don't try to run or rebel." She turns back to face you. "That's why I can help you, at least a little, because it doesn't fear me anymore. I've been its prisoner for so long that I'm part of the background noise. It doesn't watch me as closely as it should."

"And you called the police when I was being attacked because...?"

"Because, despite everything, I don't want to watch more people die. I've seen too much death. I can't stop it. I can't kill it. I can't even significantly inconvenience it, but I can sometimes... nudge things. I make small choices that might help its victims survive a little longer."

"Like warning me now."

"Yes." She moves away from the window, back toward the bed, where she sits again. "You need to understand what you're dealing with if you have any hope of surviving. My father, the thing wearing his face, is not like anything you've encountered before. It's not human. It's never been human. It's something ancient that was here before Derry existed, before Maine existed, before humans built their first cities."

"What is he? What species, what-"

"It doesn't have a species in any sense you'd understand. It's... an entity. A force." She struggles to find words. "The closest thing I can compare it to is a parasite, but that's not quite right either. It feeds on the fear of living things, primarily humans. The terror that happens just before death, that's what sustains it. That's what it hunts, and Derry is its hunting ground."

"Why Derry specifically?"

"I don't know. Maybe something about how humans built their settlement here, unknowingly constructing it over its territory, or maybe it chose it randomly and has simply returned here out of habit." She shakes her head. "I've spent over a century trying to understand it, and I still can't. It's too alien. Too other."

You sit there, barely breathing, your mind doing cartwheels as you try to make sense of what Ingrid just told you. You tap your fingers on your knee, searching for some explanation that feels normal, but nothing comes. The world isn’t what you thought it was, and you can’t pretend otherwise now. "And its cycle? The twenty-seven years between feedings?"

"I don't know why that specific timeframe. Maybe it's how long it takes to fully digest its previous meal. Maybe it's tied to some cosmic rhythm I don't understand, but yes, approximately every twenty-seven years, it wakes, and the killings start. First a few, then accelerating as it regains strength. Children primarily, though it'll take adults if the opportunity presents itself. The disappearances continue for months, sometimes over a year, and then, satiated, it returns to sleep in the depths beneath Derry."

"And everyone just... forgets?"

"People want to forget. It's easier than believing something impossible is happening in their safe, normal town. The police investigate, find no solid leads, and eventually the cases go cold. Parents grieve but eventually learn to function around the hole in their lives. New families move to Derry, unaware of its history, and the cycle continues."

"Someone must have noticed the pattern."

"A few have. But what can they do? Who would believe them? My father is very good at making sure that anyone who gets too close to the truth either stops investigating or..." She doesn't finish the sentence. "It’s protective of its hunting ground. It won't let anyone threaten its food supply."

The casual way she talks about people as if they were food makes your stomach turn. "And Georgie Denbrough? The boy who went missing yesterday?"

Ingrid's expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind her eyes. "Yes. It took the boy."

"Is he..." You can't finish the question. You don't want to hear the answer.

"Dead? Almost certainly. My father likes to play with its food sometimes, especially children who entertain it with particularly vivid fear, but they don't survive long. A few hours, maybe a day at most. The fear eventually kills them, or it does once its extracted every drop of terror it can."

Bill Denbrough’s face flashes through your mind, eyes hollow from hope slipping away. You picture those boys, soaked and shivering in the rain, calling Georgie’s name as they search the empty streets and overgrown lots. You can almost see them refusing to give up, even though you know what they’re really looking for. The truth presses down on you. They won’t find Georgie. Not alive at least.

"We have to tell someone," you say, but the words sound hollow even to you. "The police, Bill's parents, someone who can-"

"Do what? Search the sewers? It would kill the searchers. It’s very territorial about his domain."

"So we just do nothing, and let Bill think his brother might be alive somewhere, waiting to be rescued?"

"What would you have me tell him? That a monster killed his brother? That would only traumatize him further. It’s better to let him keep his hope, however false, than to crush him with a truth he can't possibly accept." She stands again, restless in a way you haven't seen before. "I know it's cruel. I know it's cold, but I've learned that sometimes the kind thing is to let people believe comfortable lies rather than forcing them to confront impossible truths."

"That's not your decision to make."

"Isn't it? I've lived through many cycles of this. I've seen what happens when people learn the truth. They go mad. They become obsessed. They throw their lives away trying to fight something they can't possibly defeat, and in the end, they die anyway, and my father gains nothing except another meal." She meets your eyes. "You're alive right now because you don't fully believe yet. Part of you still thinks this is all trauma response, medication side effects, and stress-induced delusion. That willful ignorance is protecting you. If you truly accepted what it is, if you really understood the hopelessness of fighting it, your fear would spike so high that it'd be compelled to come finish what it started."

The words send ice through your veins. "It started something with me? The garbage disposal-"

"Was it, yes. It was testing you. Playing with you. It was seeing how much fear it could generate and how you'd respond to a real physical threat. It enjoys the buildup. The anticipation. It takes some victims quickly, but others, especially adults who interest it, it likes to cultivate over time. It grooms them, drawing out their fear and making the terror last as long as possible."

"Why me? What did I do to interest it?"

"You're useful," Ingrid says simply. "You're a teacher, which means access to children. You're isolated, new to town, with no deep roots or extensive social networks. You have Richie, whom it can use as leverage, and you're..." She pauses, seeming to search for words. "You're responsive. You provide good fear. Terror that it finds more satisfying than simple childhood fright."

"So I'm entertainment."

"In a sense, but also a tool. It wants to keep you, use you, and manipulate you into helping it hunt." She moves closer, her voice dropping. "That's why you can't leave Derry anymore. Its influence is already in your mind and in your home. You can pack your bags tonight, take Richie, and try to drive away, but you'll find reasons to turn back. Forgotten items. Car trouble. A sudden conviction that leaving is wrong, and if you push through all that, if you somehow make it to the Derry town limits..." She shakes her head. "You won't remember why you were leaving. You'll turn around and come home, and by the next morning you'll have convinced yourself it was always your idea."

The helplessness of it is crushing. "There's no way out?"

"I don't know. I've never managed it, but then, I've been its prisoner for over a century. The hooks it has in me go deeper than anything it's had time to build in you." She reaches into her cardigan pocket and pulls out a small silver compass. "This belonged to my father. The real Bob Gray, I mean. He brought it with him when we crossed from Sweden, using it to find our way by the stars whenever the seas got rough, or the sky was too dark for charts. If you look closely, you’ll see an engraving of a turtle on the back. He used to say the turtle would always point you in the right direction, as long as you remembered where home was. I always thought that was just a story, but he really believed it. He’d tell me, if you keep your direction, you’ll always find your way home."

She holds it out to you. You take it automatically, the metal cold against your palm. The needle spins lazily before settling on north.

"I don't know if it will help," Ingrid admits. "But it's one of the few things I have from before, before my father died, and before I became this." She gestures at herself vaguely. "Maybe escape might be possible for someone not as far gone as I am."

You close your fist around the compass, feeling its edges dig into your skin. "Why are you helping me? If it's kept you alive for so long as his prisoner, why risk its anger by warning me?"

"I'm tired." You can tell she’s running out of hope. "So very tired. I don't fear it anymore. I used up my fear decades ago, and that's the only reason I still exist. It has nothing to feed on from me, but existing without purpose, without hope, watching it kill again and again while I do nothing..." She looks away. "If I can help save someone, it will mean something, and give my existence some small meaning beyond being an accessory to murder."

"What if it finds out you warned me?"

"It already knows. It knows everything that happens in Derry, but it won't punish me because I'm not important enough to bother with. As long as I maintain my role, as long as I don't actively interfere with its hunts, it tolerates my small rebellions. This conversation included."

"You did interfere, though. You called the police when I was being attacked."

"I called them after you'd already pulled yourself free with Richie's help. By the time they arrived, you were gone. It changed nothing except perhaps getting you medical attention slightly faster." She looks at you over her shoulder. "I can't save you. I can barely nudge the odds in your favor, but I can give you information. I can arm you with knowledge even if I can't provide you with weapons."

"Then tell me how to kill it."

"I don't know if it can be killed. I've certainly never found a way, though admittedly I haven't tried very hard. What would be the point? It’s immortal, or close enough that the distinction doesn't matter." She turns fully to face you. "Keep Richie close. Don't let him be alone, especially not near drains, sewers, or any dark, enclosed places. Children are his preferred prey, and Richie is full of fear. He has grief over his parents, anxiety about his new life with you, and the trauma of witnessing what happened to your arm. All that makes him particularly appetizing."

"Jesus Christ." Your voice barely makes a sound, and you can't help picturing it out there, lurking in the dark and waiting for its chance. It has its sights set on your cousin, circling closer every day, and you keep looking for ways to keep him safe. No matter how hard you try, though, it always seems one step ahead, playing its own game while you scramble to catch up.

"Avoid being alone yourself," Ingrid continues. "My father likes privacy for its games. The more witnesses and potential interference, the less likely it is to make a move. Stay in public spaces when possible. Keep lights on at night. Don't investigate strange sounds or follow things that seem out of place."

"That's it? That's all your advice? Hide and hope it gets bored?"

"I'm sorry it's not more helpful, but my father is patient. It has all the time in the world, while you're human, fragile, and finite. Eventually, you'll make a mistake. You'll let your guard down. You'll be alone at the wrong moment, and it'll be there. The best you can hope for is to delay that moment and make yourself too difficult a target. It might decide the effort isn't worth the reward and move on to easier prey."

"But then it would just kill someone else instead."

"Yes." She doesn't try to sugarcoat it. "That's the horrible calculus of survival in Derry. You can try to protect yourself and Richie, but every day you survive means someone else becomes the easier target. Someone else's child gets taken. Someone else's family gets destroyed. There's no heroic option here, and there’s no way to win that doesn't involve other people losing."

You keep watching the rain streak down the window, thinking about all the ways you can keep Richie safe. You want to warn every parent in town, run door to door until someone listens, but you can’t shake the thought that if it came down to Richie or someone else’s kid, you’d pick Richie every time. The idea makes your skin crawl. You try to push it away, but you know you’d do whatever it took, even if it meant someone else had to pay the price. Just the thought of losing Richie is enough to drown out everything else.

You rub your eyes and try to picture what would happen if you told the truth. Maybe you’d sound unhinged. Maybe they’d lock you up, or maybe you’d just end up spreading the panic it feeds on. Ingrid’s words echo in your mind, and you realize that every time you try to help, you’re giving it exactly what it wants. The more fear in Derry, the stronger it gets. The harder you fight, the faster it feeds.

"This is impossible," you say, and you can hear the desperation in your own voice. "I can't just watch children die. I can't let Richie be targeted, but I can't warn people without making it worse. I can’t do anything."

"No," Ingrid agrees. "You can’t. That's what makes it so effective. It's created a situation where the victims can't help themselves or each other without feeding it more power. It's elegant, in its cruelty."

"Don't call it elegant. Don't talk about child murder like it's-" You can't finish.

"I'm sorry. I've been watching this for so long that I've become detached. I’m disconnected from the reality of what it does. It's the only way I can function." She moves toward your bedroom door. "I should go. I've told you what I can. The rest is up to you."

"Wait." You stand, following her. "You said it wants me specifically. For what? What's its plan?"

"I don't fully know. It doesn't share its complete plans with me. But I think..." She pauses in the doorway. "I think it wants to keep you around and use you as a lure for Richie and other children. You're a teacher, someone kids trust. If it can manipulate you into being its access point to victims, into helping it hunt even unknowingly, that would please it. Give it steady food supply and entertainment both."

"I would never-"

"It's very good at manipulation, and at creating situations where you think you're making your own choices when really you're dancing to its design." Her expression is as close to sympathetic as you've seen it. "Be careful, and question your impulses. If something feels slightly wrong, trust that instinct. It might be the only warning you get before it moves."

She heads down the stairs before you can get a word out. You trail after her, your feet heavy on each step, but she’s already at the front door before you catch up. When you open it, you spot her standing in the rain. For a second, it looks like she isn't getting wet at all. The rain pours all around her, but her hair and dress stay perfectly dry, as if the storm can't touch her anymore. You grip the doorframe tightly.

"One more thing," she says, turning back. "Georgie Denbrough...when they find his body, and they will eventually, my father likes to let some be found to maintain the cycle of fear, don't let Richie see it. Don't let him be part of any recovery effort. The things my father does to its victims..." She trails off. "No child should see that. It will mark Richie in ways you can't anticipate."

"The boys are out searching right now. Bill won't give up looking."

"I know, and they won't find anything today. My father won't leave evidence until it’s ready to be found, but when it is, when the mangled body surfaces or washes up somewhere, you need to keep Richie away." Her eyes meet yours one last time. "Promise me."

"I promise."

Ingrid nods and heads down your driveway, her steps quiet on the slick pavement. You stand under the porch light, watching her until she turns the corner and vanishes into the rain. You just stare at the empty street, half-expecting her to reappear. When you finally look down, you realize the wet ground shows nothing. There are no footprints, no trace that anyone ever walked there except you.

You linger in the doorway, rain blowing in and clinging to your skin while you try to piece together everything Ingrid told you. The compass feels heavy in your palm, the needle unwavering as it points north. For a few seconds, you let yourself picture what it would be like to follow that direction all the way to Canada, to some place where Bob Gray is just a bad story and not a living nightmare.

You imagine packing up Richie, getting in the car, and driving until you finally feel safe. You know how it would really go. No matter how far you tried to run, something would always pull you back. You’d find yourself circling home again. You’re trapped in Derry’s orbit, going nowhere at all.

You close the door and lock it, checking it twice. You need to do something normal. You need to...Make dinner. Yes. Dinner. Food. Normal human activity that doesn't involve monsters, sewers, or children being dragged into the dark.

You move to the kitchen and stop in the doorway.

You stand in the doorway, staring at the sink. Everything looks normal. The dishes are stacked in the rack, the basin is empty, and the faucet isn’t making any strange noises. Your feet still won’t budge. Your hands start to tremble at the thought of reaching for the sink, and your chest tightens until you have to step back.

You grab your phone and pull up the pizza place’s number without even thinking about it. Ordering dinner feels safer than the idea of going anywhere near that drain. You tell yourself you’ll try again tomorrow, but you already know you’ll find another excuse when the time comes. For now, delivery will have to do.

The hours stretch out. Richie calls right on time at five, then again at six, his voice a little tired but still trying to sound upbeat. They’ve searched all over the Barrens and come up empty. Now they’re thinking maybe Georgie wandered near the library, so that’s where they’re headed next.

You pick up the receiver on the kitchen wall when he calls and simply say, “Come straight home after. No detours.”

By six-thirty, you’re circling your living room, nerves twisting you up so you can’t even sit. The pizza you ordered is still on the coffee table, gone cold, most of it untouched. Rain keeps up a steady drumbeat on the windows, and outside, the sky’s gone pitch black, like the evening is pushing in early.

The phone rings, sharp and shrill, loud enough to make you jump and bump your bad arm.

You almost don't answer. But what if it's about Richie? What if something happened?

You accept the call. "Hello?"

"Is this the Tozier residence?" A woman's voice, thick with tears. You provide your name. "This is Sharon Denbrough. Bill's mother."

Your heart stops. "Is everything okay? Is Bill-"

"Bill's fine. He's here, but he said you talked to him and the others today at school about Georgie." She takes a shaky breath. "I just wanted to thank you for checking on Bill. Most of the teachers..." Another pause. "They've been sympathetic but distant."

"I'm so sorry about Georgie. I hope they find him safe."

"They will." She says it with fierce determination. "They have to. He's only six. He's just a baby. He wouldn't... he wouldn't just disappear. Someone must have seen something."

"I'm sure they will. Derry's a small town. Someone must have seen him."

Sharon Denbrough makes a small, broken sound. "Bill wanted to keep searching. He wanted to stay out all night if necessary, but his father made him come home. He said it wasn't safe for children to be out after dark with..." She stops, her voice trailing off. The word 'kidnapper' hangs between you. If she names it, maybe it really is true.

"Bill has good friends," you offer. "They were all searching together. Richie included."

"Yes, your cousin. Bill speaks highly of him. He says he makes everyone laugh, and that's a gift, being able to find humor. I wish I had it right now."

"I understand, or at least, I'm trying to. I can't imagine what you're going through."

"I hope you never have to." Her voice breaks fully. "I hope you never know what it's like to lose a child. To not know where they are, if they're scared, if they're..." A sob cuts her off.

You're gripping the phone so hard your hand hurts. "Mrs. Denbrough, I-"

"I should go. My husband needs me. I just wanted to call to thank you for being kind to Bill. He needs that right now." She hangs up before you can respond.

You stand there, the phone pressed to your ear, long after the line goes dead. Funny how easy it is to choose comfort, even when someone else pays the price.

The phone rings again immediately. You answer without checking, assuming it's Sharon calling back.

"Hello?"

"Such a lovely conversation you had." Bob Gray's voice pours through the speaker like honey laced with arsenic. "Mother to... well, almost-mother, I suppose. You don't have children, do you? It’s just Richie. Your orphaned cousin who depends on you for almost everything."

Your blood turns to ice. "How did you-"

"You should know by now I hear everything in Derry. It all comes back to me eventually." He sounds pleased with himself. "Sharon Denbrough's hope is particularly delicious right now. When it shatters soon her terror will be exquisite."

"You sick fuck. He was a child. A baby. How could you-"

"How could I what? Follow my nature?" Bob's voice remains calm, almost amused. "You eat animals who were raised in cages and slaughtered in factories, yet you call me a monster for hunting prey that at least had the chance to run. The hypocrisy is fascinating."

"That's not the same, and you know it."

"Isn't it? Both involve killing to sustain life. The only difference is scale and species. You dismiss the suffering of creatures you deem lesser, while I simply include humans in that category." He laughs softly. "But I'm not calling to debate moral philosophy. I'm calling to check on you, sweetheart. How's the arm healing?"

The casual concern in his voice makes you want to vomit. "Stay away from me."

"Now, why would I do that when we’re just getting started? There’s a lot for us to talk about, don’t you think?" His voice gets smooth, almost like he’s sharing a secret. "I can’t get you out of my head since the carnival. That kiss keeps coming back to me."

"I know what you are. Ingrid told me everything."

"Did she?" He doesn't sound concerned. "Sweet girl. She means well, in her way, but she doesn't understand everything about me. She can't, really. She's been my prisoner so long that she's forgotten what it means to be truly human. All her warnings and explanations are theory without practice."

"She told me you killed her father and stole his identity."

"I did. He was easy to claim. All it took was the right amount of fear. It was nothing complicated, just the kind that comes from caring too much about someone else. I took it from him, took everything, and his identity has worked out just fine for me." Bob lets the question hang in the air for a moment. "Do you know how many faces I've worn over the centuries? How many people I’ve been? Bob Gray is just the latest. When this cycle ends, and I return to sleep, I might emerge as someone different next time. Someone younger, perhaps. Though I've grown fond of Bob. He suits me."

"You're insane."

He lets out a long, dramatic sigh, and you can't shake the feeling that you just failed a test. "I'm calling with an offer, actually. A proposition that I think you'll find interesting once you overcome your initial revulsion."

"I want nothing from you."

"Not even curious about Richie's safety? I suppose that's something you might worry about." He sounds almost bored, like the topic is beneath him. "Right now, he's out there, and you know how easily things can happen in Derry. Not that I'd waste my time on him, but there are always creatures prowling around when I'm awake. The leftovers, the things too small for me to notice, are always eager to snatch up whatever I overlook."

Your throat tightens. "What other things?"

"Oh, nothing as powerful as me, but still dangerous to a fragile human child. Richie is walking home right now, did you know? Eddie's mother picked up Eddie, Ben, and Stan, but the others are walking. Richie, Beverly, and Mike. Three people in the dark, in the rain, moving through streets where anything could be hiding."

Panic surges through you. "If you touch him-"

"I won't. Not right now. I've got better things to do than chase after one scared kid, but you can't really know he'll get home safe, can you? The world is full of dangers for someone like Richie. If you want him protected, you'll have to make it worth my time."

"What kind of deal?"

"Nothing complicated right now, at least. I want you to stop pretending you can change any of this. Let go of all that hope and resistance. Accept your place here, with me, and don’t waste energy trying to run or make sense of it all. You belong in Derry now, and you belong to me. That’s how it is." He pauses, almost like he’s giving you time to catch up, but there’s no real invitation in his voice. "If you can manage that, if you can really accept it, I’ll make sure Richie stays safe. For as long as I’m awake, he won’t be touched, but that’s only if you’re honest about it. I’ll know if you’re not."

"And after? When you wake again in twenty-seven years?"

"Well, he'll be an adult by then. Adults are such a different flavor, and often not worth the effort." A dark chuckle. "But let's not worry about decades from now. Let's focus on keeping him alive through the next few months."

"In exchange for what? What do you really want from me?"

"What do I want from you? I want you right here, in Derry, doing what you do best. I want you in your classroom, in the halls, surrounded by children who trust you and look up to you. I want to see you go about your day, pretending everything is fine, while you know exactly what’s prowling the shadows. I want you to open those doors and let them come in, let them laugh, learn, and feel safe. I want you to lead them to me. Yes, even knowing what it will mean. I want you to stand at the front of that bright little classroom and guide them, one after another, right into my hands because you will do it, no matter how grotesque you find it, no matter how it sickens you, if that’s what it takes to keep your precious Richie alive. That’s the bargain. You, the trusted teacher, shepherding the lambs to slaughter with a smile. Your presence, your trust, and your influence will serve me. That’s what I want. That’s what you’ll give, and you know you will, because you already agreed to do anything to save him."

What if this is the only way to keep Richie alive? What if letting one more child vanish means your cousin gets one more day?

Bob’s voice softens, almost teasing. "That’s what I want. I want you playing your part, pretending you’re not involved, while you help me feed. I want to see how long it takes before you start to accept it, before you start to rationalize it, before you wonder if maybe it’s not so bad as long as Richie stays safe. That’s what I’m hungry for, sweetheart. Everything else is just a bonus."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then Richie takes his chances. Children like him are irresistible when they’re trembling. If you refuse me, I’ll swallow every last scrap. Children are so fragile. Accidents happen." His voice is almost sing-song, mocking you with how little your protests matter. "Your choice, sweetheart."

"I need time to think."

"Of course. Take all the time you need. Really, I mean it. But let's be honest, Richie should be home in about fifteen minutes if he keeps up that little shuffle of his. So, you've got until he walks through that door to make up your mind. If you say yes, just call me. If you don't... well, maybe I'll just eat him myself. Wouldn't that be something? So make sure you choose carefully."

He hangs up.

You stare at your landline and at Bob Gray's number on the crumpled piece of paper from weeks ago. You should ignore it, but he has you cornered. If there's even a chance that your refusal might put Richie in danger, how can you say no?

Fifteen minutes. You have fifteen minutes to decide whether to surrender completely or take your chances with whatever might be hunting your cousin through the rainy streets of Derry. You barely wait one.

You pick up the phone and dial his number, your hands shaking so hard you almost drop the receiver. The line rings only once before he answers again, voice smooth and amused like he’s been waiting all along. You don’t bother with pleasantries, just say, "I agree. Keep Richie safe." There’s a pause, and then Bob laughs. It’s a sound that sends chills right through you.

"Wise choice. You won’t regret this. Well, you will, but not in any way that matters. See you soon, sweetheart."

You slam the receiver back in its cradle, hands shaking so badly you nearly miss. Every part of you wants to throw up or break something or just run out into the rain and keep running until you can’t breathe, but you don’t move. You just sit there on the edge of the couch, staring at the wall and hoping you didn’t just doom both yourself and Richie by making a bargain you can’t ever take back. The house is so quiet you can hear every tick of the clock. All you can do is wait for Richie to come home and pretend, for a little while, that you still have a choice.

Exactly fourteen minutes later, the front door opens. Richie stumbles in, soaking wet, looking exhausted and defeated.

"Hey," he says, pulling off his dripping jacket. "Sorry, I'm late. Lost track of time."

You're across the room in an instant, pulling him into a fierce hug that makes him yelp in surprise.

"Ow, careful, you're crushing me-"

"You're okay." It comes out strangled. "You're home, and you're okay."

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" He pulls back, studying your face. "Did something happen? You look freaked."

"I’m just worried." You force yourself to release him. "Did you find anything? Any sign of Georgie?"

His expression falls. "No. Nothing. It's like he just vanished. Bill's really messed up about it. He keeps blaming himself."

"It's not his fault."

"I know that. You know that, but try telling Bill." Richie pulls off his shoes and leaves them by the door. "We're gonna meet tomorrow after school, keep searching. Maybe check the old steel mill area, or-"

"No, you're not going searching tomorrow."

He stares at you. "What? Why not?"

"Because it's not safe. Because..." You scramble for a justification that won't reveal too much. "Because whoever took Georgie might still be around. Because I need you home where I can see you."

"But Bill needs-"

"Bill has other friends. Bill has his parents and the police and half the town helping search. He doesn't need you specifically." The words sound harsh even to you, but you can't back down. "You're staying home until this is over."

"That's not fair!" Richie’s voice gets louder. "You can't just lock me up because you're scared. I have friends. I have a life. You said we couldn't hide forever!"

"And I was wrong." You meet his eyes, seeing the anger and confusion there. "I was wrong, Rich. It's not safe out there. And until it is, you're staying where I can protect you."

"Protect me from what? What do you know that you're not telling me?" He steps closer, crowding you a little, trying to show he’s not just a kid you can push around. "Because I'm not stupid. And now you won't let me help search for my friend's brother?"

You can't tell him about the deal you just made. There’s no way to explain that you traded his safety for your own freedom, or that you agreed to play by Bob Gray’s rules to keep Richie safe. Even if you tried, he wouldn’t believe that kind of bargain is real. You just have to hope you made the right choice, even if the price isn’t fully clear yet.

"I'm just trying to keep you safe," you say weakly.

"By making me a prisoner? By cutting me off from my friends when they need me most?" He shakes his head.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Before you can even get a word out, Richie storms up the stairs, and a second later, his bedroom door slams so hard it rattles the walls.

You just stand there in the living room, feeling like a failure from every angle. You let Sharon Denbrough believe her son might still come home, even though you knew it wasn't true. You made deals with a monster for Richie, and now you’re not even sure it’ll be enough. You gave in to Bob Gray’s demands without even putting up a fight.

And somewhere in the dark sewers of Derry, Georgie Denbrough’s little body is split open and left to rot, his skin chewed through, his bones picked clean, while Bob Gray grins in the dark and waits for you to lead him another meal.

Upstairs, Richie is still just a kid who thinks you can protect him, and you’re the one who made the deal. The worst part is, you know you’d do it again. You’d do anything to keep him safe, no matter how many children have to die. Outside, the rain keeps falling, and nobody’s coming to save you.

Chapter Text

The nerve pain yanks you out of sleep at exactly 4:47 AM, a jagged jolt that shoots up your arm like somebody's dragging a serrated knife through all that damaged tissue, sawing back and forth through muscle and tendon that won't ever really heal.

You just lie there in the dark, clinging to your right hand with your left, like you can somehow will the pain away, but it doesn't work. The doctors told you the nerve damage is permanent now. Sure, physical therapy helps you move, but the pain is something you're stuck with. Every damn day for the rest of your life, you'll wake up to this reminder of what happened in your kitchen sink.

Your right hand just sits on top of the blanket, fingers curling in like they’re stuck that way, always reaching for something you’ll never quite grab. At least you can move them now, thanks to weeks of grueling sessions with your physical therapist, Jessica.

She’d cheer you on while you tried not to swear at her under your breath, but your grip is still shit. Pens slip from your fingers, jars might as well be locked with steel bands, and nothing feels right. Sometimes it’s like your hand doesn’t belong to you at all. You get weird phantom tingles, like bugs crawling just under your skin or icy, burning shocks that make you snatch your hand away and drop whatever you’re holding.

You've been learning to write with your left hand. Your penmanship looks like a child's, with the letters slanting the wrong way, words barely legible. You practice every night before bed, filling pages with "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog" over and over, trying to train your non-dominant hand to do what your right hand used to do without thinking. It's humiliating. You're an English teacher. Your job is literally built around written communication, and now you write like a second-grader.

The thought hits and your stomach twists, making you breathe slow and careful through your nose so you don't lose it. This keeps happening to you lately, that sick, shaky feeling creeping up at the worst times. It’s like your insides have learned a new trick, tightening up with worry and churning acid until your throat burns.

You finally surrender to insomnia around 5:15 and haul yourself out of bed. The floor chills your feet the second you stand. October in Maine is creeping toward winter, and the old heating system just can’t keep up. Sure, you should get it serviced before the real cold hits, but that would mean letting some stranger into your space. The idea makes your skin itch. You can’t handle anyone being in your house now. Not the repair guys, not friends (not that you’ve got many), not even family.

The house is silent except for the usual creaks and groans of old wood settling. Richie's door is still closed, and you can hear the faint sound of his breathing through the thin walls if you stand very still and listen.

He's been homeschooled for the last two weeks, ever since you decided Derry High just wasn't safe enough. When you showed up in Mr. Langley's office and told him your plan, he tried to push back. He brought up truancy rules, talked about how kids need friends, and how routines matter when life goes sideways. But then he caught sight of your right hand, all wrapped up with the drain tube poking out, and you watched his face change. Suddenly, he just looked sorry for you.

"It’s a temporary measure," you'd said, your voice flat and brooking no argument. "Just until things settle down. I can oversee his education at home for now. I am a licensed teacher, after all."

"Of course, of course," Langley had said, backing down immediately. "We'll need some paperwork filed, but under the circumstances..." He'd trailed off, not specifying what circumstances he meant. Your injury? The fact that you'd just taken guardianship of Richie after his parents died?

Things aren't ever going to settle down, and deep down, you know it. Derry won't get better. The disappearances will keep piling up. You're stuck, moving through life like some ghost, pretending everything's fine while you feel yourself rotting away inside.

You stumble through your morning routine, not really awake. The bathroom light is harsh as you splash water on your face with your left hand, since your right hand can barely turn the faucet. Brushing your teeth left-handed is still a struggle, and you’ve bitten your cheek more than once trying to get the hang of it. When you finally look in the mirror, you barely recognize the tired stranger staring back at you, her eyes so dull you wonder if there’s anything left inside.

The dark circles under your eyes are here to stay now, deep purple shadows that laugh at any attempt to cover them up. You’ve dropped so much weight your clothes sag on you, making you look like you’re wearing someone else’s life. Your hair’s a mess and needs a good wash, but honestly, you just can’t be bothered. When you catch a glimpse of your skin in the mirror, the gray tinge makes you think of bodies pulled from water, something lifeless.

You can't shake the feeling that the real you never made it out of that kitchen sink, that everything since has just been drifting through some weird, endless in-between.

You step into the kitchen and your eyes skip right over the sink. You haven't touched it since Ingrid stopped by two weeks ago. These days, you stick to paper plates and disposable cups, letting the real dishes stack up in the dishwasher because even the idea of washing them makes your skin crawl. The thought of turning on the tap, hearing the water foam down the drain, or letting your hands get anywhere near the garbage disposal twists your stomach and sends your pulse racing.

You need to get out of the house.

The decision forms without conscious thought, bubbling up from some survival instinct that still exists beneath all the fear and self-loathing. You can't stay here. You can't sit in this kitchen with that sink for one more minute.

You grab your purse from where it hangs on the back of a kitchen chair, check for your wallet and keys with your functional left hand. Your fingers find something metal and out of place, hidden deep in the bottom of your bag. When you pull it free, you realize what it is: Richie's switchblade.

The knife is small and fits easily in your palm. Its handle is polished wood with brass rivets, the kind of detail you notice right away. You found it in Richie's backpack three days ago while searching for a permission slip he said needed signing. It was wrapped in a dirty sock and stuffed beneath all those crumpled folders and textbooks. At first, you just stared at it, trying to figure out where he could’ve picked up something like this. Then the worry hit you. What was Richie planning to do with a switchblade?

You'd confiscated it immediately, confronted him when he got home from (what you'd thought was) a day with his friends, but was probably just him wandering Derry alone because you'd become too paranoid to let him have a real social life.

You know you should put the knife away somewhere safe, out of Richie's reach, like in your nightstand or buried in the back of your closet, but you just drop it back in your purse, telling yourself you'll deal with it later. Honestly, you'll deal with everything later. Right now, you need to get out of this house before the walls squeeze you any tighter.

The morning air bites at your lungs when you finally step outside. October in Maine means the temperature is already close to freezing, and your breath fogs in the dark, swirling and fading as you cross the porch.

Your car sits in the driveway, crusted with a thin layer of frost that glitters under the streetlamp. Scraping the windshield with numb fingers is a struggle. Your right hand’s mostly useless, so you fumble with both hands, and the ice scraper keeps slipping away. What used to take half a minute now drags on for five, and by the end your hand's screaming with pain.

You slide into the driver’s seat and wait for the engine to warm up, cupping your hands and blowing on them to warm them back up. The dashboard clock glows 5:42 AM. It’s way too early for most places, but the McDonald’s on Jackson Street never closes.

You roll past downtown, see the library, the post office, all the shops locked up tight. The Aladdin Theater marquee is dark, and the pharmacy where you pick up pain meds (not that they help much) is closed.

Jackson Street stretches out longer than you remember, or maybe you’re just dragging your feet, not wanting to arrive because that means admitting you’re going to McDonald’s at six in the morning just to avoid your own kitchen. The streetlights throw out long shadows, and you watch them slide across your windshield, shapes that look too much like fingers reaching for you.

The McDonald’s comes into view, bright and harsh against the dark, those golden arches burning against the sky. You pull into the parking lot, almost empty except for a battered pickup truck, which is probably the night shift manager’s ride. You have to park twice to get the car straight in the lines.

You sit in the car for a second, engine running, staring at the neon lights. Inside, a tired worker mops the floors, her movements slow and automatic. Everything looks so normal. Another day in small-town America. Another minimum-wage worker doing her job. Another customer is about to go inside for breakfast.

Except you’re not just another customer. You’re the woman who made a deal with a monster. You’re about to help him hunt children.

The realization crashes over you, sharp and cold, and suddenly you can’t breathe.

Your left hand clamps on the steering wheel until your knuckles ache. Your bad right hand twitches uselessly on your lap, fingers curling tight. The car lurches forward a few inches (you must’ve knocked it out of park), and you have to scramble to hit the brake and shove it back into gear, heart racing.

You're shaking. Your whole body is trembling like you're freezing, even though the heater is blasting. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps that fog up the windshield. Black spots dance at the edges of your vision.

You're having a panic attack right here in the McDonald's parking lot at 5:47 in the morning, you're falling apart.

You close your eyes and try to do the breathing exercises the hospital therapist taught you. In for four counts. Hold for seven. Out for eight. But you can't hold the counts steady. Your breath keeps hitching. Your chest feels like it's being crushed in a vice.

Think of Richie, you tell yourself desperately. Think of keeping him safe. That's all that matters. Whatever you have to do, whoever you have to hurt, it's worth it if Richie survives.

You break down, tears running hot down your cheeks as your breath stutters and catches in your throat. You press your good hand to your mouth, trying to hold back the sounds, even though there's nobody around. You cry until your eyes ache and your throat feels scraped raw, until there's nothing left in you but emptiness.

After a while, the panic fades. It doesn't leave because you found any peace; it’s because your body can't keep it going forever. You're empty, wrung out, every part of you heavy with exhaustion.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand and check your reflection in the rearview mirror. Your eyes are red and swollen. Your mascara has run. You look like shit, but then again, you always look like shit these days. What's a little crying going to change?

You turn off the engine and force yourself to get out of the car.

Crossing the parking lot feels like you're heading for the gallows. The automatic doors sigh open as you get close, and suddenly you’re inside. The place is blindingly bright, way too warm, and the air thick with the smell of fryer grease and eggs.

The woman working the counter looks like she’s been up all night. Her gray-streaked hair is pulled into a bun and her name tag says DIANE, but she doesn’t meet your eyes. She just asks what you want in a voice that sounds worn. You order hash browns, a breakfast sandwich, and a large black coffee. The words tumble out as you dig out the exact change with your left hand, bills and coins awkward and slow because your right can’t handle the small stuff anymore.

"Have a nice day," Diane says automatically, her voice completely flat.

"You too," you lie, accepting the bag with your functional hand.

You step out into the parking lot and the sun should be coming up, but the light never really arrives. Fog creeps in from the river, swallowing the cars and turning the world soft and blurry. You keep your bag tight against your chest and head for your car, but your stomach drops when you see it.

Someone is in your driver's seat.

You freeze.

The person in the car turns to look at you. Even with the fog clinging to the windows, you know exactly who it is.

Bob Gray is sitting in your driver's seat.

He rolls down the window with a smooth, practiced motion. "Good morning, sweetheart," he says, his voice warm and pleasant, as if he's genuinely happy to see you and as if this is a normal occurrence. "Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to get in?"

His voice comes out smooth and warm, the sort of tone you’d expect from a friend who’s glad to see you.

You stand there, frozen, clutching your McDonald's bag. The fog swirls around your legs, cold and damp. Your breath comes out in puffs of white. You open the passenger door and slide in, putting the McDonald's bag on your lap, your hands shaking despite your best efforts to keep them steady.

Bob looks exactly the same as always. Unfairly handsome, the kind of good looks that make you wonder if he was designed in a lab. His face is perfectly symmetrical, features so sharp and polished they barely seem real. It’s like someone took the idea of an attractive man and pushed every trait to the extreme. His dark hair falls across his forehead just so, styled to look effortless but you know it’s deliberate. When the streetlamp catches his blue-green eyes, they almost glow, shifting color like deep water as he glances your way.

He's wearing dark jeans that hug his legs just right and a black leather jacket over a crisp white shirt. The whole outfit looks like it belongs in a magazine, and he wears it with the kind of confidence that makes you feel both drawn in and a little uneasy. You can't help noticing how he sits so relaxed, but you also sense that awareness in him, the way he knows exactly how intimidating he is and plays it up. His hands rest on your steering wheel, fingers long and nails perfectly neat, and he drums a steady rhythm as he watches you, waiting for you to say something.

Those hands were inside your garbage disposal. Those hands pulled you toward spinning blades. Those hands are responsible for Georgie Denbrough's death and all the other missing children.

"You look terrible," Bob observes, his eyes scanning your face with clinical interest. "When's the last time you slept? Really slept, I mean, and not lying in bed staring at the ceiling while your mind replays every horrible moment."

"Why are you here?" Your voice comes out steadier than you expected.

"Because we need to talk." He settles back into the driver's seat, completely at ease, like this is his car and you're the intruder. "You've been doing everything you can to avoid thinking about our deal. You keep trying to pretend it's not real, wishing I'll just lose interest and go bother someone else. But that's not how I work, sweetheart, and you know it. If anything, I stick around until I've gotten exactly what I want."

The casual cruelty of it makes your stomach twist. "I haven't forgotten."

"Haven't you? You've been holed up in that house for two weeks, barely leaving except for your little teaching gig and physical therapy appointments. You pull Richie from school, cut him off from his friends, and turn your home into a prison."

"I'm keeping him safe-"

"By suffocating him?" Bob's smile sharpens slightly. "How long do you think you can keep that up? He's fourteen years old, full of energy, rebellion, and a desperate need for independence. Every day you lock him down tighter, every friend you keep him from seeing, every normal teenage experience you deny him... you're building resentment. Eventually, he'll snap, he'll sneak out, and when he does-"

"Don't." The word comes out harsh. "Don't threaten him."

"I'm not threatening anyone. I'm observing patterns." Bob's drumming stops, and he turns to face you fully. "You made me a promise. You agreed to help me hunt in exchange for Richie's safety, but you haven't actually done anything except hide. That's not how deals work."

Your grip tightens on the McDonald's bag. The paper crinkles loudly in the car's silence. "What do you want from me?"

"Tonight," Bob says the word simply, letting it hang in the air. "We need to discuss tonight."

Your heart drops into your stomach. "Tonight?"

"Yes. You've had two weeks to adjust to our arrangement. Two weeks to come to terms with what you've agreed to. Two weeks is more than generous, don't you think? Time to start fulfilling your end of the bargain." He leans slightly toward you, and you can smell him. "You're going to help me hunt."

Hunt. He tosses it out there like it's nothing, as if he's just asking you to pick up milk at the store or swing by the post office. He doesn't say it like he's talking about murder at all, but you hear the truth underneath. He's telling you to help him kill a child, and he makes it sound as ordinary as any other errand.

"I can't-" Your voice cracks, and you have to swallow hard before continuing. "I can't do that. I can't help you kill children."

"Can't, or won't?" Bob tilts his head, studying you like you're a fascinating specimen. "Because those are very different things. 'Can't' implies impossibility, but we both know you can. You have hands that work well enough. You have a car. You have access to potential victims through your job. You absolutely can help me. The question is whether you will."

"I won't." But even as you say it, you know it's a lie. You will. When faced with the choice between helping Bob or watching Richie die, you'll choose Richie every time. You're weak. You're selfish.

"Yes, you will." Bob's voice is gentle now, almost kind, which makes it worse somehow. "Because the alternative is unthinkable. Isn't it? The alternative is me taking Richie, and I won't be quick about it."

He pauses, letting the words sink in. Then he continues, his voice taking on a dreamy quality that makes your skin crawl. "I'll start with his eyes. Did you know that's one of the most painful injuries a human can experience? The eyes have so many nerve endings. I'll take my time removing them while he's still conscious, still screaming for you. Then maybe his tongue, and make sure he can't call for help. Then his fingers, one joint at a time. Then-"

"Stop." You're shaking again, your whole body trembling. "Please stop."

"Then Richie dies," Bob says it without inflection, completely matter-of-fact. "That was the deal, sweetheart. You help me, and Richie stays safe. You refuse, and I take him piece by piece slowly and very painfully, starting with his eyes. He has such pretty eyes behind those glasses, doesn't he? Such an expressive brown. I wonder how they'd taste fresh from the socket. Probably sweet. Children's eyes usually are, and all that innocence and hope make them delicious."

You feel bile rising in your throat, and you force yourself to swallow it, but the taste hangs on your tongue. "You're a monster."

"I'm exactly what I've always been." His hand slides from the steering wheel and settles on your thigh, and even through the thick denim, you feel every icy inch of his palm. The chill sinks straight through your skin, seeming to pulse there. The touch is clinical and careful, but you can sense something hungry in it, as if he's taking his time and enjoying the power he holds over you. "You're the one who's changing. You're the one learning what you're capable of when properly motivated. That's what makes humans so fascinating. You're all monsters underneath. You just need the right circumstances to bring it out."

"I'm nothing like you."

"Not yet." His fingers squeeze, and the pressure is firm enough to hurt. "But you will be. Give it time. Give it one child delivered into darkness. Give it the weight of knowing you chose who lived and who died. You'll be surprised how quickly you develop a taste for it."

"I hate you." The words come out barely above a whisper.

"I know, but hatred is just another flavor of fear, and fear is what I eat." Bob leans back in the seat, releasing your leg. His eyes never leave your face, watching every micro-expression, cataloging every response. "So tonight we're going to start simple. A test run, if you will. I want to see if you actually have the stomach for this or if I'm going to need to find more... persuasive methods of ensuring your cooperation."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Pick a child." Bob says it lightly, almost playfully. "Someone from your school. Someone you can access easily without raising suspicion. We'll set a trap, you'll deliver them to me, and I'll handle the actual... consumption. All you have to do is play your role as the trusted teacher. Lure them somewhere isolated. Leave them for me."

You close your eyes, and all you can see are the faces of your students, each one popping up behind your eyelids like a roll call you can't escape. There's Melissa Hartford, always dressed like she's about to step onto a runway, who stays after class just to ask about the symbolism in Gatsby, and who sometimes makes you believe teaching has a point. Then there's Jennifer Chen, who not only does the reading but turns in essays that challenge you as much as they impress you, and she makes you proud every time she raises her hand. Brad Sullivan slouches in the back row, pretending he's too cool to care, but you know he pays attention because his test scores are almost perfect, and sometimes you catch him smirking when you make a bad pun. And you can't forget the rest, these juniors, all sixteen and seventeen, with lives that haven't even started yet, bursting with big dreams and endless questions, and futures you can almost see shining ahead of them if you let yourself hope for a second. And here you are, about to choose one to die.

You can't. You can't choose one of them to die.

But you can think of someone you hate. Someone who makes other students' lives miserable. Someone who, in some twisted rationalization, might even deserve it.

"I can't choose," you say, but your voice wavers. "I can't just... pick a child to die."

"Then I'll choose Richie." Bob's voice hardens. "I'll go to your house right now. I'll wait until he wakes up, until he comes downstairs looking for breakfast, and then I'll take him. I'll drag him down into the sewers where no one will ever find him, and I'll spend days making him scream before I finally let him die."

"Stop-"

"Choose." The word is a command. "Choose someone else, or I choose Richie. You have ten seconds. Ten. Nine. Eight—"

"Victor Criss!" The name bursts from your lips before you can stop it. "Victor Criss. I'll... I'll bring you Victor Criss."

Bob stops counting. A slow smile spreads across his face. "Interesting choice. I wouldn't have expected you to pick a student with such obvious behavioral problems. Usually people go for the easy targets. Normally, it’s the quiet ones, the loners, and the ones no one will miss quite as much."

"You said to pick someone." Your voice sounds hollow, distant, like it belongs to someone else. "I picked him."

"You did indeed." Bob studies you with those impossible eyes that seem to see right through you. "And why Victor Criss specifically? Is it because he's a bully? Because he makes other students' lives miserable? Or is it because picking him lets you pretend you're not really committing murder...You're just removing a problem?"

The accuracy of his observation makes you flinch. "Does it matter?"

"Oh, sweetheart." Bob laughs, and the sound is genuinely amused. "It matters enormously because you're already doing it. You're already learning to justify the unjustifiable. You're rationalizing murder by telling yourself that at least Victor deserves it more than some innocent child, and that his death will be less tragic because he's cruel. Because he hurts people."

"He does hurt people-"

"So do you." Bob cuts you off. "You're about to hurt him worse than he's ever hurt anyone. You're going to deliver him to me for slaughter, but it's okay because he's not a good person, right? Because if someone has to die, better the bully than the sweet kid who helps old ladies cross the street."

"Why are you doing this?" You're crying now, hot tears streaming down your face. "Why can't you just tell me what you want me to do without... without dissecting every horrible thing I'm thinking?"

"Because watching you break down is delicious." Bob reaches over and wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. "Because the emotional torture is almost as satisfying as the physical terror I'll get from your victims. You're giving me two meals for the price of one. Your anguish and their fear. It's efficient."

He brings his thumb to his mouth and licks the tear away, rolling the taste of your pain over his tongue like he’s savoring it. His face stays perfectly still, but you notice something shift in his eyes. There’s a hunger there, nothing like a person at all. It makes your skin crawl, and you realize he’s enjoying every bit of your suffering, as if your pain is a delicacy he’s been craving.

"Here's what's going to happen," Bob says, settling back into the seat. "You'll go to school today. Act normal. Teach your classes. Around fifth period, you'll make contact with Victor Criss. Tell him he needs to stay after to discuss his grades. Convince him it's important. Then offer to drive him home afterward. Make up some excuse about why you're being so helpful. Be a concerned teacher, trying to help a troubled student. He'll be suspicious, but teenage boys are predictable creatures. A young, attractive teacher paying him special attention? He'll convince himself to take the risk."

The way Bob says it makes you feel sick. The implication that Victor might think you're interested in him that way, that he might agree to go with you because he thinks-

"You'll drive to the Barrens," Bob continues, ignoring your distress. "The old drainage area near the abandoned train tracks. I'll be waiting there. You'll deliver him to me, and I'll handle the rest."

"What if he refuses?" Your voice is barely audible. "What if he won't stay after or won't get in the car?"

"Make him." Bob's hand returns to your thigh, higher this time, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "You're clever. You'll figure it out. Threaten to fail him if you have to. Tell him his parents will be called. Use whatever leverage you need. The specifics don't concern me, only the result matters."

"And if I can't do it? If I can't convince him?"

"Then you'll try harder." Bob leans close, his face inches from yours. "Because if you fail tonight, tomorrow I will visit Richie, and I won't be gentle. I won't be quick. I'll make sure every moment is agony. I'll make sure he knows it's your fault for not cooperating."

The threat hangs in the air between you. You know he means it. You've seen what he can do.

"I'll do it." The words feel like signing your soul away. "I'll bring him to you."

"Good girl." Bob pats your thigh like you're a pet that's performed a trick successfully. The condescension in the gesture makes your skin crawl. "I knew you'd see reason eventually. Humans always do when properly motivated. Love makes you all so wonderfully predictable."

He shifts as if he’s about to lean away, and for a moment you almost believe he’s going to let you leave, that maybe this whole nightmare is finally over. But then his hand slides up from your thigh, and he cups your face with those cold fingers. The chill seeps into your skin and makes you shiver, and you can feel your cheeks burn beneath his touch. His grip is gentle, too gentle for someone like him, and it unsettles you even more because you don’t know what’s coming next. You can’t help holding your breath as he studies you.

"Before you go," Bob says, his voice dropping lower, more intimate, "I think we should seal our arrangement properly. Don't you?"

Before you can ask what he means, he leans in and kisses you.

His mouth meets yours, colder than you expect, and it sends a jolt down your spine. It’s not just the chill that gets you, either. His lips press in, almost too smooth, and you realize right away they don’t really feel like skin. You keep waiting for a familiar breath or something human, like the bitterness of coffee or the faint sweetness of mint. Instead, there’s nothing at all. No scent, no warmth, just the unnatural blankness where a person should be.

His tongue moves deeper, exploring with a purpose that feels too precise. It glides along your teeth and the roof of your mouth, reaching farther than it should, and you realize with a sick jolt that it’s longer than any human tongue. Your jaw aches as you try to move, but his grip only tightens, his fingers digging into your scalp until the sting brings tears to your eyes.

Your lungs start to burn. Every instinct screams at you to shove him off, to claw at his hand or bite down, but you barely get the chance. Just when you think you might black out, he breaks the kiss and lets you suck in a ragged breath. The relief is instant, but it doesn’t last. He drags you back in, his mouth rougher, teeth scraping along your lower lip.

He’s rougher this time, and when his teeth catch your lower lip, you’re sure there are too many, more than anyone should have. The bite is hard enough to break the skin, and you can’t help the little sound that slips out of you. He hears it, he likes it, and you can feel him smile into the kiss. His tongue flicks out, tasting the blood. He makes a low noise, almost a growl, and it sends a shiver down your spine you wish you could ignore.

Your own blood mixes with the taste of him, and your heart is pounding so loud you wonder if he can feel it. You tell yourself to fight back, to bite down, to do anything that’ll make him stop, but deep down, you know the truth. If you really wanted out, maybe you’d claw at him or scream, but you don’t. You let it happen, hating yourself for it, because you know what happens if you fight. He’ll go after Richie, or worse, and if you’re being honest, there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to escape, not really. It’s easier to give in than to face what you’ve become.

So you don’t fight. When he finally pulls away, you’re shaking all over, your lips swollen and tingling, your mouth full of the taste of blood (probably yours, but with him, you never really know). You want to spit, but you just sit there, catching your breath and trying to pretend you didn’t like it, even though you know you did.

Bob licks his lips slowly, his tongue darting out to catch a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth. His expression is one of genuine disgust. "Revolting," he says, sounding truly repulsed. "Human food taints everything it touches. Your mouth tastes like grease and processed sugar and decay. It’s like eating from a garbage can."

You stare at him, confused and horrified and still trying to catch your breath. "Then why-" You have to stop and swallow, your throat raw. "Why did you just--if you think it's so disgusting, why did you kiss me?"

"Because I enjoy the illusion of things." Bob settles back into the driver's seat, looking completely at ease despite what just happened, "The pretense of human intimacy. The performance of desire. These things amuse me."

He turns those impossible eyes on you, and in the growing dawn light you notice their color refuses to settle. They keep sliding from blue to green to gray, and then to something stranger, a shade that doesn’t even exist in your vocabulary.

"I have no need for sustenance beyond fear," he continues, his voice taking on a lecturing tone, like he's explaining something to a particularly slow student. "No biological imperative for sex or food or any of the things that drive your species. I don't eat because I'm hungry in the way you understand hunger. I don't pursue sexual contact because of hormones or reproduction. Those are human limitations. Human weaknesses."

His hand drifts back to your thigh, but this time he slides it up, his fingers wandering higher until they're pressing into the soft skin on your inner thigh, even through the denim. You tense up, holding completely still, because you can't quite believe he's touching you like this, and you're not stopping him.

"But I like the theater of it," Bob says, his voice almost dreamy now. "The way humans perform these rituals of intimacy. The way you kiss and touch and fuck, thinking it means something. It doesn't, of course. It's just meat pressing against meat, chemical reactions in primitive brains, but the illusion is... entertaining."

His fingers press in harder, and you can’t ignore the way your body reacts. He grins because he sees it all: how you stiffen up but don’t pull away, and how your breath starts to come faster when his hand moves. He leans in, not letting you look away, and says, "It’s almost funny, watching you pretend you don’t want this. I can see you fighting it, but your cheeks are flushed, and your heart’s pounding. You keep telling yourself you’re disgusted, but you haven’t stopped me. Is it fear, or is it something else? Maybe you can’t even tell the difference anymore."

"It's fear," you say, but your voice shakes, and you know he can hear the lie in it.

"Is it?" His hand slides higher still, cupping you through your jeans, and your breath hitches involuntarily. "But your body’s giving you away, isn’t it? Your pupils are blown wide, and your pulse is pounding so hard I can practically feel it through your jeans. You can try to play innocent, but your cunt’s probably soaking wet for me right now, isn’t it?"

You’re desperate to shove his hand away and tell him he’s full of shit, that he’s not getting to you at all, but his thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles right over your clit, even through your jeans, and your whole body betrays you. You squirm in your seat, trying to keep still, but your hips buck into his touch before you can stop them.

Your breath stutters, and you bite down on a moan, hoping he doesn’t notice how wet you’re getting for him because you’re not supposed to want this, not from him, and definitely not like this, but the more you try to fight it, the more your body aches for it, heat blooming low in your belly and making your legs tremble. You can’t even lie to yourself anymore. You don’t want to want this, but you do, and it’s humiliating because he didn’t even ask before putting his hands on you.

"There it is," Bob says, sounding pleased. "That's what I wanted to see. The moment when you stop lying to yourself about what you want."

"I don't want this-"

"You do." His hand presses harder, grinding against you through your jeans. "Some sick, broken part of you craves this attention."

His other hand slides from your hair to your throat, and this time, he’s not gentle about it. His fingers wrap all the way around your neck, cool and solid, and you can feel just how strong he is. He doesn’t squeeze, not enough to stop you from breathing, but you know he’s only letting you have air because he wants to. Your pulse hammers against his palm, and you can’t help thinking that he could snap your neck in a second if he wanted.

"I'm not fond of you," Bob says, his voice conversational despite what his hands are doing. "Don't mistake my interest for affection. You're beneath me. You’re a tool and a means to an end. Humans are insects compared to what I am. You live for a handful of decades and then rot in the ground, while I've existed for eons and will exist for eons more."

His thumb strokes along your jugular. "But you're useful, and watching you break down, seeing self-loathing war with arousal in your eyes... satisfies something in me."

His grip on your throat gets a little firmer, and you know he’s reminding you just how easily he could kill you right here. His other hand is pressing between your legs, grinding his palm against you through your jeans. The friction sends a jolt of heat straight to your core, and no matter how much you hate it, your hips push up into his touch.

"And it's not entirely fake on my end either," he murmurs against your ear. "You can't do a thing to stop me, and you know it. I could take whatever I want from you, and you'd just let it happen. It’s better than anything else I could do to you."

Your damaged right hand lies useless in your lap. Your good hand grips the McDonald's bag so hard the paper is tearing.

"Please," you whisper, not even sure what you're begging for. For him to stop? For him to continue? For this nightmare to end?

"Please what?" Bob's voice is mocking. "Please stop touching you? But you haven't actually said stop. You haven't fought back. You're just sitting there, letting it happen. You want to feel something other than grief and fear and crushing responsibility, even if that something is wrong. Even if it comes from a monster."

His hand slides off your throat and finds the button of your jeans, and your breath stutters in your chest because you know exactly what he's about to do. He doesn't ask; he just pops the button open, and you can't help but tense up. Your breath catches. This is—he's going to—

"Relax," Bob says, and there's amusement in his voice. "I'm not going to fuck you. Not today. That's for later, when I've broken you down further. When you'll spread your legs willingly and hate yourself for wanting it."

He pops the button on your jeans and drags the zipper down, making a sound that fills the car and makes your heart jump. His hand is still so cold, and you feel every inch of it as he slides past the waistband, pushing inside your underwear like he owns you. His fingers make contact with your bare skin, and you jerk in your seat, caught between wanting to pull away and desperately needing more.

You can't hold back the sound that escapes you, some mix of a gasp and a whimper, because his fingers are ice cold against your heated skin. The shock of it makes you arch into his touch, and he doesn't hesitate as he slides his fingers lower, spreading you open and finding just how wet you are for him. Your cheeks burn with shame, but your body is pulsing for more, and you can't hide how badly you want it, no matter how much you try to deny it.

"Oh, sweetheart," Bob says, and he sounds genuinely delighted. "You're soaked. All this talk about hating me, about being disgusted, and you're absolutely dripping. The human body is so wonderfully honest, isn't it? Even when the mind lies, the flesh tells the truth."

His fingers move with a slow, unhurried precision, and you feel every inch of it as he works you over. He’s not rough, but he’s not soft either. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and he keeps his eyes locked on your face, watching every little twitch, every tiny sound you make. One finger finds your clit and starts circling it with just enough pressure to tease you, never enough to actually satisfy. You can feel yourself straining for more, your hips rolling up into his hand, desperate for him to press harder.

"This is fascinating," he muses, his finger continuing its slow circles. "You're terrified. I can smell the fear-sweat on you, but you're also aroused, genuinely, physically aroused. The two states existing simultaneously. Beautiful."

His finger presses harder, and your hips jerk involuntarily. You bite your lip to keep from making noise, but a small sound escapes anyway.

"Don't hold back," Bob says. "I want to hear you. I want to know exactly how this makes you feel. Does it feel good? Does it make you sick? Both?"

"Both," you admit in a broken whisper, because lying seems pointless when his fingers are literally inside your underwear, feeling the evidence of your shame.

"Good." He sounds pleased. "Self-awareness is the first step toward acceptance. You're going to do terrible things tonight. You're going to lure a child to his death, and you're going to live with that, but right now, in this moment, you're going to let a monster touch you, and you're going to come from it."

His finger moves faster and the pressure is just right. He’s not fumbling or guessing at what you like. He knows exactly where to touch, and he’s not shy about making you feel every bit of it. He’s studied human bodies for centuries, probably knows more about what gets you off than any partner you’ve ever had, and he uses that knowledge without a hint of care for what you want. He’s not doing this out of desire or affection. It’s about getting you off just to prove that he can, and you feel yourself getting closer with every practiced movement.

The pleasure is humiliating, and it makes you want to scream because you know he’s doing it for his own twisted satisfaction. Still, your body won’t stop responding. His fingers keep circling and pressing, and you can feel the heat building low in your belly, tightening with every stroke despite everything. Your breathing gets ragged. Your thighs start to tremble.

"That's it," Bob murmurs encouragingly, like he's coaxing a frightened animal. "Let it happen. Stop fighting."

And you give in, because you can’t fight it anymore. The pleasure climbs higher and higher, so sharp it almost hurts, and your whole body is straining for more. You can feel how close you are, the heat coiling tight in your belly and spreading through your thighs. Your hips rock up into his hand without you meaning to, desperate for all the friction you can get, and you bite your lip to keep from making noise. Your damaged hand is still clenched on your lap, useless, while your good one clings to the seat like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Every muscle is tight and shaking, and you’re right on the edge, hanging there, breathless and frantic, knowing you’re about to tip over and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

Right when you're about to tip over into orgasm, Bob stops.

He pulls his hand away completely, leaving you aching and empty and so close to release you could scream. You make a sound of frustration before you can stop yourself.

Bob brings his fingers to his mouth and you can see them shining with your slick in the early light. He doesn’t hide what he’s doing, and he licks his fingers one by one, slow and showy, swirling his tongue around each digit like he’s savoring every taste. He keeps his eyes on you the whole time, and you can’t look away as he sucks each finger clean, making it clear just how much he’s enjoying what you gave him. The way his mouth moves is obscene, and you feel your cheeks flush as heat rushes through you again, even though you’re shaking with frustration and shame.

"Interesting," he says after a moment. "Your arousal doesn’t taste anything like your fear. It’s sweeter, thicker, almost addictive. I can taste how desperate you are, and how much you hate yourself for wanting this. There’s guilt in it, and shame, but your body can’t help it. All mixed together with basic animal need." He licks his fingers again, savoring. "I can taste the exact moment you stopped resisting. It's delicious."

Tears start sliding down your cheeks before you even realize it, hot and relentless, and you can't keep your body from trembling. You feel exposed, and your breath comes in little shudders because you can't find any relief or comfort in your own skin. You can't stop shaking, no matter how hard you try.

"Why?" The word comes out choked. "Why did you stop?"

"Because I wanted to." Bob's smile is sharp and cruel. "I want you squirming and frustrated all day, desperate to finish what I started. You’re going to remember how close you got, and how I made you feel good even though you knew it was wrong."

He zips your jeans back up, buttons them with the same careful precision he used to undo them. His movements are almost tender, which makes it worse.

"Tonight, you'll bring me Victor Criss," he says, his voice returning to that business-like tone as if he didn't just have his hand in your pants. "You'll deliver him to the Barrens, and when you do, when you've proven you're willing to follow through... maybe I'll let you finish what we started here. Maybe I'll touch you again and make you come while you watch me eat your victim. Wouldn't that be poetic?"

The image makes you want to vomit. The fact that part of you, that sick, broken part, wants it anyway makes you want to die.

"You're a monster," you say again, but your voice sounds flat and worn out, like you’ve been emptied from the inside. The words spill out because there’s nothing else left to say, and the weight of everything you’ve done hangs between you and him. The exhaustion is bone-deep, and you can feel it in every part of your body. You’re not even trying to hide how hollow you feel, and your eyes sting with fresh tears as you finally let yourself admit the truth.

"Yes," Bob agrees easily. "And you're becoming one too. That's what makes this so delightful." He reaches over and wipes the tears from your face with surprising gentleness. "Now. Get out of my seat. You have work to do, and I have preparations to make for tonight."

He opens the driver's door and slides out. You watch him walk around the car, expecting him to leave, but instead, he opens your door. You're still clutching the McDonald's bag, your breakfast long since gone cold and forgotten.

"Eat," he says, gesturing to the bag. "You'll need your strength today. You can't be passing out in the middle of class. That would raise questions."

He waits, watching you, and you know he expects you to slide into the driver’s seat like nothing just happened. Your legs are shaking so badly they almost give out, but you force yourself up anyway. The denim of your jeans drags over your skin, and every inch feels raw and oversensitized from where his hands were. You can’t ignore the slick heat between your thighs, or the way your underwear sticks to you, damp and uncomfortable, a constant reminder of how much your body reacted to him.

You slide into the driver's seat on shaking legs. Bob closes the door for you, then leans down so his face is level with yours through the window.

"One more thing," he says, his voice dropping low. "Don't touch yourself today. Don't try to finish what I started. I'll know if you do, and there will be consequences.”

Your throat is too tight to get any words out, and you just sit there staring at him with tears running down your cheeks. Your chest heaves with shallow, shaky breaths, and all you can do is sit there while he stands over you.

"Good girl," Bob says, straightening up. "I'll see you tonight at seven o'clock in the Barrens. Don't be late."

He steps back from the car, and you keep your eyes on him in the rearview mirror. The fog rolls in and swallows him up, making him vanish into the gray, and when it thins out a little, he’s just gone. It’s like he never existed at all, but your body still remembers every place he touched. You can still feel the shape of his hands on your skin, and your lips tingle from his kiss because his taste is still lingering in your mouth. The ache between your legs is sharp and persistent, a throbbing need he left behind on purpose, and you hate how badly you want to finish what he started.

You stay in the car for a while, shaking and trying to pull yourself together, but your hands are trembling when you grab the cold McDonald’s bag and choke down the greasy hash browns. The coffee is lukewarm and bitter, but you force yourself to drink it anyway because you know you need the strength. You have to look normal today, just another teacher in the parking lot, but you feel anything but normal.

You keep telling yourself you need to get it together, that you have to go through the motions and pretend everything is fine, but the truth is, nothing will ever be normal again. Not after the way he touched you, not after the way your body still wants him even as your mind screams for it to stop. You’re stuck in this new reality, and there’s no going back.

Chapter Text

The drive to Derry High School slips by so fast you barely remember any of it, and you can’t shake the knot of dread sitting in your gut. You shove the last bites of your breakfast down, but it tastes like nothing, just dry and heavy in your mouth. When you finally park, you grab the mirror and try to pull yourself together, using your sleeve to wipe away the streaks where tears left your makeup smudged. 

You smooth your hair down and dab extra lipstick over the bite on your lower lip, hoping the color hides the scab. You don’t want anyone asking questions.

By the time you finally pull into the school lot, the sun is already up, and the place is buzzing with early arrivals. You spot other teachers wandering in with travel mugs and hurried looks, and you see students hauling backpacks, some heading to zero period or morning practice. You slide into your spot in the faculty lot and just grip the steering wheel, hanging on for a second. You’re trying to breathe slow, trying to pull yourself together, but your heart’s pounding and you know you need to fake it until you make it.

You tell yourself you can do this. You’ve been faking it for weeks, acting like everything’s fine. One more day shouldn’t be so hard, right? As long as you smile and keep moving, no one will know what’s really going on inside.

But you can’t lie to yourself about what today really is. This isn’t just another day. Today, you’re going to cross a line you can’t ever uncross. You’re about to lure a seventeen-year-old kid to his death, and no amount of pretending is going to change that.

Just thinking about it makes your stomach twist, and you have to close your eyes and breathe slow through your nose until the wave of nausea eases up a little. When you finally open your eyes again, you spot Victor Criss across the parking lot. He’s leaning against a car with his usual crew while they laugh and shove each other around. The Bowers gang has a reputation, and you can see the way other kids give them a wide berth, everyone knowing those boys are trouble.

Victor is tall and lean, with hair that needs cutting and a mean smirk that never quite leaves his face. He’s wearing a denim jacket over a Metallica shirt, jeans that are probably against dress code, and boots that have seen better days. He’s got a fresh black eye that’s starting to fade to yellow-green, probably from some fight. His knuckles are scabbed over.

You watch Victor crack up at something Henry spits out, and it’s not even funny unless you’re an asshole. Victor swings an arm and shoves a freshman who’s just trying to get to class, and the kid almost faceplants right there on the pavement. The freshman bolts, staring at his shoes while Victor and his crew snicker behind him. Victor stands there grinning like he owns the place, and you can see the way everyone else steers clear because nobody’s got the guts (or the stupidity) to call him out on his shit.

Victor Criss is a total asshole, and he goes out of his way to make everyone else’s life hell. He bombed your last test, hasn’t bothered to turn in homework for weeks, and you’re pretty sure his home life is a dumpster fire because bullies like him usually don’t turnout that way for no reason. Still, just because his life might be shit doesn’t mean he deserves to die. Being a prick at school doesn’t mean you’re supposed to get a death sentence, right?

No, of course not. But if it really comes down to it, if somebody has to die, and you’re forced to pick between Richie and some kid you barely know, you’re always going to choose Richie. Every time.

The rationalization tastes like poison, but you swallow it down.

You haul yourself out of the car, grab your bag, and head for the doors. The hallway smells like coffee and cleaning supplies, and you try to keep your head down, but other teachers are already saying hi as you pass. Susan Harper corners you first, asking how you’re holding up, her eyes darting to your bandaged hand like she’s dying to know what happened. Linda Sullivan swoops in right after, and Margaret Chen is right behind them, already reminding you that parent-teacher conferences are coming up soon, and you just keep smiling and nodding like everything’s fine.

You’re fine, thank you for asking. Yes, you’ll make sure to prepare for conferences. Normal. Everything is normal.

The morning drags by in a fog, and you barely remember teaching your first period junior English class. You try to explain symbolism in The Great Gatsby and scrawl key themes on the whiteboard, doing your best to act normal while you awkwardly write with your left hand because your right still won’t cooperate. Students toss out questions, and you manage to answer, but your mind is somewhere else the whole time. Melissa Hartford lingers after class, asking about extra credit, and you just nod and tell her you’ll think it over, even though you know you won’t.

Second period is supposed to be your planning period, but you don’t get anything done. You just sit at your desk, staring at the clutter and pretending you’re working, but all you can see are flashes of this morning. The ache between your legs hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s worse now, a gnawing reminder of how fucked up this day has already become.

Third period is just another blur of junior English with a different batch of kids, and you run through the same lesson plan, barely hearing yourself talk. 

Fourth period isn’t any better. 

When lunch finally rolls around, you shut yourself in your classroom and don’t even think about going to the staff lounge. There’s no way you can handle Linda’s fake cheer or Susan’s prying questions right now. So you just sit at your desk, staring at your hands, the right one aching and half-useless, the left trying to make up for it, and you can’t stop thinking about what they’re going to do in a few hours. These hands are going to deliver Victor Criss straight to his death, and you wonder how you’ll ever wash that guilt off.

You know you should eat something because breakfast was hours ago, but your stomach is twisted up with anxiety, and you’re sure anything you try to swallow will just come right back up. So you skip lunch and just sit there, counting the minutes until you have to face Victor and do something you’ll never be able to take back.

Fifth period approaches with the inevitability of execution.

Victor Criss strolls into your classroom at 1:15, five minutes late like he doesn’t give a damn, and drops into a seat at the back. He’s sporting another fresh black eye that wasn’t there this morning, so he must have gotten into a fight during lunch again, and his knuckles are all busted up, probably from swinging at someone or something. He shoots you a look like you’re just another pain-in-the-ass adult he has to put up with until you give up on him like everyone else. He doesn’t even bother hiding the fact that he’d rather be anywhere but here.

You go through the motions, teaching the class and talking about themes in Chapter 7 of The Great Gatsby. You drill into the big showdown at the Plaza Hotel, and you try to get the students thinking about how everything finally blows up in everyone’s face and how every secret and lie spills out for everyone to see. You can’t help noticing the irony, not when you’re standing up there pretending you haven’t spent the whole day planning to get a kid killed.

Victor keeps to himself, slouching in the back row, and doodling in his notebook. You’d bet money he’s sketching something violent or dirty. A couple of students try to rope him into the discussion, but he just shoots them a look that says fuck off and goes back to his own thing. 

The class discussion continues. You call on Jennifer Chen, and you redirect Brad Sullivan when he starts zoning out. You keep an eye on the clock, watching the minutes tick down.

Forty minutes left of class. Thirty-five. Thirty.

Your heart is hammering. Your damaged hand throbs in time with your pulse. You can feel sweat prickling under your arms despite the classroom’s chill.

Twenty-five minutes. Twenty.

Your mouth is spitting out whatever lesson you’ve drilled a hundred times before, and you barely hear yourself. Part of your brain is busy plotting your next move, rehearsing every word you’ll say to keep Victor after class. Everything you do feels fake, and you can’t stop glancing at the clock, counting down the minutes until you have to make your move.

Fifteen minutes. Ten.

The clock seems to be moving too fast now, time accelerating toward the moment when you’ll have to commit. You could still back out. You could let Victor leave with everyone else, pretend you never made the deal with Bob, take your chances with-

With what? With Bob killing Richie? With your cousin being tortured for days before finally dying in the sewers?

No. You can’t risk that. You won’t risk that.

Five minutes until the bell.

You pause your lecture and announce, “Don’t forget, your essays on the symbolism of color in Gatsby are due Friday. No extensions and no excuses.” A few students groan, but most just nod.

Three minutes.

Your mouth is dry. You take a sip from your water bottle with your left hand. The water tastes like metal.

One minute.

The bell is going to ring. Victor is going to get up and leave. This is your last chance.

The bell rings, finally.

Students start gathering their things, zipping backpacks, and shuffling toward the door. Victor stands and slings his bag over one shoulder, already heading for the exit.

“Victor,” you hear yourself call out, your voice surprisingly steady. “Can you stay for a moment? I need to discuss your grades.”

He stops, turning back with obvious annoyance. “I got work. I can’t stay.”

Several other students are lingering, curious about the interaction. You need them gone. “The rest of you are dismissed. Victor, please have a seat. This won’t take long.”

The other students file out, some shooting sympathetic looks at Victor (thinking he’s about to get lectured), and others clearly relieved it’s not them being held after. The door closes, and you’re alone with him.

Victor slouches back into his desk, arms crossed defensively. “What’s this about? I didn’t do anything.”

“It’s about your grade,” you say, moving to your desk and pulling out your grade book. The lie comes easily. You’ve been practicing it in your head all day. “You’re currently failing this class.”

“So? Who gives a shit?”

“You should.” You lower your voice, letting it turn gentle, like you actually care. “Victor, you’re sitting at a 58 right now. If this keeps up, you won’t make it through junior English. That means no graduation, not on time, not at all.”

He shrugs, but you can see the flicker of concern in his eyes. “My old man doesn’t care if I graduate.”

“But you should care.” You lean against your desk, trying to appear relaxed and approachable. “Look, I know you’ve got a lot going on. I know school probably isn’t your top priority, but failing this class closes doors for you. It limits your options.”

“What options?” His voice is bitter. “I’m gonna work at my cousin’s auto shop whether I graduate or not. It’s already lined up. School’s just a waste of time.” 

“Maybe.” You’re choosing your words carefully now, feeling your way through the conversation. “But what if something happens to that job? What if your cousin’s shop closes, or you decide you want something different? Having a high school diploma keeps those options open.”

He’s listening now, even if he’s trying to pretend he’s not.

“I can help you,” you offer, and the words taste like ash. “If you’re willing to put in some extra work, I can tutor you through the material you’ve missed. We could meet after school-”

“I told you, I got work.”

“What if I drove you afterward? We could spend an hour going over the key concepts, and then I’d drop you at work. That way you don’t have to choose between getting help and making your shift.”

Victor studies you suspiciously. “Why would you do that?”

Because I’m going to deliver you to a monster. Because I’m choosing you to die instead of my cousin. Because I’m a coward and a murderer and this is the only way I can keep Richie safe.

“Because it’s my job,” you say instead. “To help students succeed, and I think you can do better than you’re currently doing. You just need someone to give you a chance.”

The appeal to his ego works. You can see him softening slightly, the defensive posture relaxing just a fraction.

“Where do you work?” you ask, even though you already know you’re not taking him there.

“Auto shop on Witcham Road. My cousin Rick owns it.”

“Perfect. That’s basically on my way home anyway. So what do you say? After school today? Just an hour to go over Chapter 7 since that’s what the next test covers, and then I’ll drop you at work. If it doesn’t help, we don’t have to do it again.”

He shifts in his seat, pulling at a loose thread on his sleeve like he can’t decide what to do. You catch the guarded look in his eyes, and you know he’s wondering why anyone would go out of their way for him. Still, you see that bit of pride flicker across his face, like he’s weighing the chance to prove he matters, even if he doesn’t quite trust it yet.

“I guess,” he says finally, reluctant but agreeing. “Yeah, okay. One time, see if it helps.”

“Great.” The word almost sticks in your throat, but you force it out with a smile. “Meet me at my car after the final bell. You know which one is mine?”

“The shitty old car in the faculty lot?”

“That’s the one.” You manage to sound totally normal, even though inside your head feels like it’s about to crack open from panic. Your voice holds steady and your smile stays in place, but you want to scream. “Don’t forget, or I’ll mark you absent, and it’ll hurt your grade even more.”

He nods and grabs his stuff. “Yeah, okay. After school. Don’t forget or whatever.”

“I won’t forget,” you say, and watch him leave.

As soon as the door clicks shut, you drop into your chair because your legs are threatening to give out. Your whole body is trembling, and you can barely catch your breath. You fucking did it. You convinced a seventeen-year-old kid to trust you, just so you could lead him to his death. The rest of the period crawls by, every second crawling over your skin, and you can’t stop thinking about what you’ve done.

When the last bell finally rings at 2:30, you sit at your desk and watch the kids pour out into the hallway, yelling and shoving and joking with each other. You pack your bag with hands that don’t want to stop shaking, pretending like you’re just another teacher at the end of a long day. Tomorrow’s lesson plans go in first, then your grade book, and finally, you reach for your purse. You almost leave it locked in your desk, but your fingers close around it tight, remembering Richie’s switchblade buried at the bottom. You tell yourself you’re keeping it for insurance, or maybe just because you want something sharp close by. Either way, you can’t let it go.

Victor is waiting by your car when you arrive, leaning against the passenger door with his backpack at his feet and a cigarette in his mouth. He quickly stubs it out when he sees you approaching.

“Ready?” you ask, unlocking the doors with hands that only shake slightly.

Victor chucks his backpack in the back and drops into the passenger seat like he owns the place. The car fills up with the smell of cigarettes, cheap cologne, and the type of sweat that clings to boys who think deodorant is optional. He sprawls out, stretching his legs and slouching deep so he takes up as much space as possible.

“So,” he says, smirking at you as you start the engine. “Private tutoring, huh? That’s real nice of you, Miss.” 

“I told you, it’s my job to help students who are struggling.” You pull out of the parking lot, very aware of other teachers and students still around. Everything needs to look normal.

“Yeah, but most teachers don’t offer to drive kids around.” He’s studying you now, eyes traveling over your face, down to your chest, and back up. “Especially not the young, hot teachers.”

The comment makes your skin crawl. “Victor, that’s inappropriate.”

“What? I’m just saying you’re not like the other teachers. You’re what, like twenty-five? Still remember what it’s like to be our age, probably, and not like old Harper with her stick up her ass.” He shifts in his seat, angling his body toward you. “Plus you actually look good.”

You keep your eyes on the road, with your jaw tight. “We’re here to discuss your English grade. Nothing else.”

“Sure, sure. English.” But the way he says it makes it clear he thinks that’s just a cover story. “So where we going? This ain’t the way to the auto shop.”

“I thought we’d find somewhere quiet to talk first.” Your hands are sweating on the steering wheel. “Somewhere without distractions where I can really focus on helping you understand the material.”

“Somewhere quiet.” He grins. “I get it. Don’t want people seeing us together, right? Might give them the wrong idea or maybe the right idea.”

“Victor-”

“Come on, Miss. I’m not stupid.” He leans closer, invading your space. “Teachers don’t just offer private tutoring and drives home unless they want something, and you watched me throughout the entire class today.. I noticed.”

Your stomach turns over. He thinks…oh god, he actually thinks you’re interested in him sexually. That this is some kind of-

“That’s not what this is,” you say firmly, taking a turn toward the Barrens. The afternoon sun is already starting to sink lower in the sky. It’s almost 3:00. Four hours until your meeting time with Bob, but you need to get Victor there early, and you need to make sure he doesn’t have time to tell anyone where he went.

“No? Then why are we going out to the Barrens?” He’s not even pretending anymore. “That’s where people go to fuck, Miss. Everyone knows that. You taking me out there to ‘tutor’ me?” He makes air quotes around the word tutor, his grin widening.

“I’m taking you somewhere we can talk without interruptions.”

“Talk. Sure.” He slides his hand onto your thigh, way higher than it should go, squeezing like he owns it. “I knew it,” he says, watching your reaction. “You look at me in class like you want something. Last week, when you bent over for that paper, you totally let me see down your shirt. Teachers don’t do that by accident, not unless they’re hoping for attention.”

You grab his hand and shove it off your leg, revulsion making your voice sharp. “Don’t touch me. This is completely inappropriate, and if you can’t behave professionally, I’m turning this car around right now.”

“Professionally?” He laughs, but there’s an edge to it now. “You’re the one driving me out to the Barrens. You’re the one who offered private time alone. Don’t play innocent now, Miss. You want this as much as I do.”

“I don’t want anything from you except to help you pass my class.” But your voice wavers because you’re lying. You do want something from him. You want him to get out of this car at the Barrens and walk into Bob Gray’s trap. You’re using him, but not in the way he thinks.

“Bullshit.” He’s getting aggressive now. “You’re out here alone with me. If you really just wanted to tutor me, we could’ve stayed at school, and used your classroom, but you wanted privacy. You wanted-”

“Stop.” You whip the car around each turn too fast, and the tires screech against the wet pavement. Somewhere along the way, rain started coming down, and now everything outside is shiny and slick. The windshield wipers can barely keep up, and your grip on the wheel is so tight your knuckles are white. You keep telling yourself to slow down, but your foot won’t listen. “You need to stop talking and listen to me very carefully. This is not what you think it is.”

“Then what is it?” His voice gets sharper, and you can hear the suspicion building. He isn’t cocky anymore, and instead, there’s a new edge to his words. You watch his eyes narrow as he leans forward, like he’s sizing you up, and you know he’s not buying any of your story now. “Because I’m starting to think maybe you’re just fucking with me. Maybe this is some kind of setup, get me alone and then, what? Report me for sexual harassment? Say I came onto you?”

“That’s not-”

“Because that’s bullshit!” He’s yelling now. “You started this! You asked me to stay, you offered me a ride, you brought me out here! If anyone’s being inappropriate, it’s you!”

You can see the Barrens entrance ahead. The old dirt road leads down into the drainage area. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. “Victor, I need you to calm down-”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” He slams his hand against the dashboard. “What the fuck is going on? Where are you taking me?”

“I told you, somewhere quiet-”

“Bullshit! This is the fucking Barrens! Nobody comes out here unless they’re dealing drugs or fucking or dumping bodies!” His voice cracks slightly on the last word. “Let me out. Let me out right fucking now!”

You turn onto the dirt road. The car bumps over ruts and potholes, branches scraping against the windows. The rain is coming down harder now, turning the windshield into a blur. Your wipers scrape across the glass frantically.

“Let me OUT!” Victor lunges for the door handle, but when he tugs it, nothing happens. You remember flicking on the child locks early this morning, telling yourself it was just a habit, but now you know you were getting ready for exactly this. He’s yanking harder, starting to panic, and you can hear the thump of his fist against the window as he realizes he’s trapped.

“I can’t do that.” Your voice sounds strange to your own ears.  “I’m sorry, Victor. I’m really sorry, but I can’t let you leave.”

“What the fuck?! ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?” He’s pulling at the door handle desperately now, then turning to try the window. When it won’t roll down, he starts looking around frantically for something to break it with. “Let me out! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!”

You pull the car into the clearing where Bob’s supposed to be waiting, and your headlights splash across muddy ground and tangled weeds. The rain is coming down so hard now that it drums on the roof and makes the world outside look blurry. You scan the shadows for any sign of him, eyes darting between the dark mouths of drainage pipes and the trees crowding the edge of the lot. But there’s nothing out there except rain and mud and the echo of your own heartbeat. He said he’d be here. This was the plan. You leave the engine running and just sit there, staring into the empty clearing.

“What the fuck is this?” Victor has stopped yelling; his voice has dropped to something quieter. “Some kind of sick game? You get off on scaring students?”

“No, I-” You’re scanning the tree line, looking for any sign of Bob. “He’s supposed to be here.”

“Who’s supposed to be here?” Victor’s fear is shifting back to anger. “What the fuck are you talking about? Is someone else coming? Is this a fucking ambush?”

“Please just stay in the car.” But even as you say it, you know how ridiculous it sounds. “Just wait, he’ll be here-”

“Fuck this!” Victor unlocks his seatbelt and lunges across the center console, grabbing for your keys. His hand closes around them and yanks, and suddenly the engine cuts out.

You grab for the keys, but he’s stronger and faster. He shoves you back against your door hard enough to make your head bounce off the window. Stars burst across your vision.

“Crazy bitch!” He’s got the keys now, fumbling with them, trying to find the unlock button. “I’m getting the fuck out of here and I’m calling the cops! You’re fucking done! You hear me? You’re going to jail!”

“Victor, wait-” You reach for him but your right hand is useless and your left can’t get a good grip on his jacket. “Please, just listen-”

“Fuck you!” He finds the unlock button. The locks pop up with a click that sounds impossibly loud.

He shoves his door open and tumbles out into the rain.

You scramble out your side, your heels immediately sinking into mud. The rain is cold and heavy, soaking through your clothes in seconds. “Victor, stop!”

But he’s already tearing off through the underbrush toward the road, moving fast even with the rain coming down so hard it feels like needles. He leaves his backpack behind in the car, and it’s only a matter of minutes before he tells the world that his teacher dragged him out to the Barrens and tried to- 

You don’t even think. You just run after him, feet pounding the muddy ground. Your heels are useless for this, so you kick them off and go stumbling forward, bare feet slipping and sliding, sharp rocks and sticks cutting into your skin. Victor’s out ahead, his dark jacket easy to spot through the sheets of rain and the dying light, and you know that if you let him get too far, you’ll never catch up.

“VICTOR!” Your voice is raw. “Please, you don’t understand!”

“Stay away from me!” He’s running now, genuine terror in his voice. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

Victor’s still sprinting flat out when his foot catches on something. A root, a rock, maybe just a patch of slick mud, and he goes down hard. You hear the thud as he hits the ground, and the air leaves his lungs in a sharp grunt. He’s scrambling to get up, but you’re already closing in, adrenaline driving you forward. You barely think about it; your body just reacts, and you tackle him. The two of you hit the mud and go down in a mess of tangled arms and legs. He’s yelling at you, cursing and fighting to get free, and his elbow slams into your ribs so hard you can’t breathe for a second.

“Get OFF!” He rolls, and suddenly he’s on top of you, pinning you down. His hands find your throat and squeeze. “Crazy fucking bitch! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You can’t breathe. His hands are cutting off your air, thumbs digging into your windpipe. Black spots dance across your vision. You claw at his hands with your left hand, but your right is useless, can’t grip hard enough to make him let go.

You’re going to die here. In the mud and rain, killed by the boy you were supposed to deliver to a monster. The irony would be funny if you weren’t choking.

Your purse. Where’s your purse?

Your hand scrabbles in the mud, searching. Your fingers close around leather. Your purse fell when you tackled him and landed nearby. You drag it toward you, fumbling with the zipper.

“Stop moving!” Victor’s hands tighten. “Stop fucking-”

Your fingers dig through the mud until you finally grab hold of something cold and hard. It’s Richie’s switchblade, right where you prayed it would be. You fumble with it for a second, but your thumb finds the button, and the blade pops out with a snick that somehow cuts through the rain and Victor’s shouts. All you can think is that this tiny piece of metal is your last hope, and you hold onto it like your life depends on it because it does.

“Let go,” you try to say, but no sound comes out. Your vision is tunneling. You’re seconds away from passing out.

So you do the only thing you can.

You stab him.

You shove the knife in below his ribs, and it slides between the bones easier than you ever thought it would. You expect to have to fight for every inch, but the blade just pushes through his jacket, his shirt, and his skin, and then finally sinks into that soft, awful place inside him. For a second, you can’t believe how little effort it takes to do something so horrible.

Victor’s hands release your throat immediately. His scream is high and startling, more surprise than pain. “WHAT—OH FUCK-”

You suck in air, coughing and gasping. He’s trying to scramble backward, one hand pressed to his side where dark blood is already blooming through his shirt.

“You fucking stabbed me!” His voice is incredulous, shock overwhelming everything else. “You fucking bitch -”

Victor scrambles to his feet, and you can see the panic in his eyes. He’s going to run again, and it’s only a matter of seconds before he runs for help and blows up everything you’ve done. You know you can’t let him escape, so you throw yourself at him with the knife clutched tight, not even thinking about what you’re about to do. 

He tries to fight you off, his arms flailing, but he’s hurt and off balance, and you’re running on pure fear and adrenaline. You slam into him again and take him down hard, landing in the mud with your knees digging into his side. You’re on top now, and your hand brings the knife down again and again. The blade punches into his shoulder, then his chest, and his screams tear at the air, but you barely hear them over your own ragged breathing. He tries to protect himself, hands coming up, but you keep stabbing because you can’t stop. 

Blood is everywhere. It’s hot and slick, sliding down your arms, spattering your face, mixing with the rain and mud until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. His screams turn to wet, ragged gasps, and you just keep going.

His hands keep trying to scrabble weakly at you, trying to push you away, but there’s no strength in them anymore. He’s trying to say something but blood bubbles from his mouth instead of words.

The knife keeps moving. You can’t stop. Some part of you has completely disconnected. Your body is doing this while your mind watches from somewhere far away, horrified but unable to intervene.

Stab. Withdraw. Stab again. The blade slides in easier now, finding paths through torn flesh. You hit bone and the impact jars your arm, but you adjust and try again. His chest. His stomach. His neck.

So. Much. Blood.

One more stab. This one sinks deep into his chest, and you feel something give way inside him. His body jerks once, twice, then goes still.

You’re still sitting on him, knife raised for another blow, when you realize he’s not moving anymore.

His eyes stay open, glazed and empty, and you can tell he isn’t seeing a thing anymore. Blood drips from his mouth and nose, mixing with the rain and mud, and you watch his chest for a long time, waiting for it to rise, but it never does. He’s dead.

You killed him.

The knife falls from your hand.

You scramble backward, off his body, and immediately vomit into the mud. Everything comes up: the McDonald’s breakfast, the lunch you didn’t eat, acid, and bile. Your whole body convulses with it, retching until there’s nothing left.

You’re shaking violently. Your hands are covered in blood up to the elbows. Your clothes are soaked through with rain, blood, and mud. You can taste copper in your mouth.

Victor’s body lies in front of you, torn open, bleeding out into the muddy ground. You did that, with your own hands. You stabbed him over and over and over until he died.

“Oh god,” you hear yourself saying, the words barely coherent through your sobs. “Oh god oh god oh god-”

You killed someone. You murdered a seventeen-year-old boy. A child, really. A child with his whole life ahead of him, and you took that away.

“I’m sorry,” you’re saying to his corpse, rocking back and forth in the mud. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry-”

“Well.”

The voice makes you jump violently. You spin around, still on your knees in the mud, and there he is.

Bob Gray steps out from behind a tree and somehow, the rain isn’t touching him at all. He looks just like he did this morning. He’s wearing black jeans, a leather jacket, and a crisp white shirt. His hair doesn’t have a single strand out of place, and there isn’t a splash of mud on him, which makes you want to scream. He just looks at the mess you made and lets disappointment settle across his features, like you burned dinner.

“That was not the plan,” Bob says, walking toward you with measured steps. His shoes don’t sink into the mud. He moves across the ground like he’s walking on solid pavement. “You were supposed to deliver him to me. I was supposed to feed on his fear while he died. That was the arrangement.”

You can’t speak. You’re just staring at him, covered in blood, shaking so hard your teeth are chattering.

Bob crouches down next to Victor’s body, studying it with clinical interest. “But you went ahead and killed him yourself. How ambitious.” He reaches out and touches the blood pooling around the body, bringing his fingers to his mouth to taste. “Still warm. The fear mostly bled out with his life, but there was some. Not as much as I would have gotten if I’d done it myself, but something.”

“You weren’t here,” you manage to choke out. “You said you’d be here and you weren’t-”

“I was watching the whole time.” Bob stands up and casually wipes his fingers on his jeans, and the blood just disappears like it never happened. “I wanted to see if you’d actually do it. If you’d really bring him to me like you said you would.”

The casual admission makes you want to scream. “You let this happen? You watched me-! You could have stopped this!”

“Why would I stop it? This was the whole point.” Bob tilts his head, studying you like you’re a particularly interesting insect. “You agreed to help me hunt. This was your first hunt, and you succeeded, even if not in the way I originally envisioned.”

“He tried to run!” The words are a desperate justification. “He was going to tell people, he was going to call the cops, I didn’t have a choice-”

“You always have a choice.” Bob’s smile is sharp. “You chose to lure him here. You chose to chase him. You chose to stab him. Multiple times, I might add. That first wound wouldn’t have been fatal if you’d stopped there. He might have survived, but you kept going. Over and over until you were certain he was dead.”

You know he’s right, and it makes you want to throw up all over again. That first stab was pure panic, maybe even self-defense, but every one after that was different. You kept going, stabbing and stabbing, even when Victor wasn’t fighting back anymore, even when he was already down in the mud. 

“I killed him,” you whisper. The reality of it is crushing. “I actually killed him.”

“You did.” Bob sounds almost proud. “Brutally, efficiently, desperately. It was quite the performance. The fear radiating off both of you was exquisite. I fed well on that, even if I didn’t get to do the actual killing myself.”

He strolls over and drops down in the mud across from you, close enough that you have to look him in the eye. “You killed a kid, and you did it to save your own skin. You’re becoming a killer, all on your own.”

“I’m not—I’m not a killer, I just-”

“What would you call someone who stabs a seventeen-year-old boy to death?” Bob’s voice is gentle, almost kind, which makes it worse. “You can rationalize it however you want, but the end result is the same. Victor Criss is dead by your hand.”

You’re crying again, silent tears mixing with rain and blood. Your whole body is shaking so hard you think you might fall apart.

“The good news,” Bob continues, standing back up, “is that you passed the test. You’re willing to do what’s necessary. That’s valuable.” He looks down at Victor’s mutilated body. “The bad news is you killed him too quickly, and didn’t leave me much fear to feed on. All that adrenaline-fueled stabbing meant he went into shock fast. He died before the real terror could build. Wasteful.”

“I’m going to be sick again.” You lean over and dry-heave, but there’s nothing left to come up.

“While you do that, I’m going to eat.” Bob kneels beside Victor’s body “No sense letting good meat go to waste, even if the fear-flavor is mostly gone.”

You want to look away. You should look away, but some horrible part of you can’t stop watching as Bob’s face begins to change.

You watch as Bob’s jaw drops open with a sickening crack, stretching way wider than any person’s ever could. Teeth start popping up everywhere, crowding his mouth in row after row, and his gums tear and ooze some kind of oily black stuff. Then his tongue comes slithering out. It’s huge and gray and glistening, studded with nasty hooks that catch the rain and reflect the light. You’ve never seen anything this wrong outside of your nightmares.

He leans down over Victor’s body and takes a bite.

The sound is worse than anything you’ve ever heard. Wet crunching, tearing, the crack of bone breaking. Bob’s impossible jaws saw through Victor’s chest, teeth grinding through ribs like they’re made of chalk. He tears away a chunk of flesh and muscle, chewing with those multiple rows of teeth, black tongue lapping at the blood that gushes from the wound.

You watch, unable to move, as Bob devours Victor Criss.

You watch Bob work in a way that’s almost casual, like he’s just cleaning up after dinner. He digs into Victor’s body with those freakish tongue-appendages, and you can’t look away as he pulls out organs and slurps them up like he’s eating pasta. He cracks open the ribcage with no effort at all, going after the internal organs and lungs, and then he peels the skin back in long, wet strips, showing off the raw muscle underneath. And the smell…God, the stench hits you all at once, a mix of blood, shit, and something chemical that makes your throat burn. It fills your nose and settles at the back of your tongue, and you want to gag, but you can’t even move.

The rain keeps pouring down, washing some of the blood away, but there’s always more, no matter how hard it falls. Bob’s hands don’t even look human anymore, his fingers way too long, ending in claws slick with blood. He scoops out Victor’s intestines and stuffs them into his mouth, chewing with a kind of sick pleasure, and the wet, slurping sounds crawl all over your skin while the rain drums on.

You can see inside Victor’s body cavity now, see the spine and ribs stripped mostly clean, see organs being systematically removed and consumed. Bob is eating him from the inside out, hollowing him like a jack-o-lantern.

Victor’s face is the only thing left untouched, and his eyes are wide open, frozen in that last moment of terror and hurt. He’s staring straight ahead, but there’s nothing behind those eyes now. Whatever made him Victor is long gone, and all that’s left is an empty shell, still holding on to that last awful expression.

And you did that. You put him here. You killed him.

Bob lets out this awful, happy noise and yanks Victor’s heart from his chest with a sound you feel in your bones. He turns it over in his hands, giving it a little squeeze, and then he just bites right in like he’s eating a piece of fruit. Blood spills down his chin, and somehow his face looks as neat and untouched as ever, even with all those impossible teeth.

You finally turn away and vomit again, but there’s still nothing to come up. Just painful dry heaves that make your ribs ache.

You sit there with your back to the horror, but you can’t block out the noises behind you. Bob’s still at it, and the sounds are awful. It’s the wet tearing, bones cracking, the gross little noises he makes like he’s eating something delicious. Each minute drags out, so it feels like you’re stuck in that moment forever, even though it’s probably only fifteen minutes.

Finally, mercifully, the feeding stops.

You finally force yourself to look back, and what you see barely counts as a body at all. Victor’s skeleton lies sprawled in the mud, stripped almost clean, with just a few shreds of flesh and bits of organ still clinging to the bones. The ribcage is splayed wide open, and the skull has a crack running through it with the inside scraped out. It’s hard to believe this mess of bones and blood and scraps was a person at all. It was Victor, just a little while ago. Now he’s just a ruin, scattered across the mud, and you can’t stop staring at what’s left, even though every part of you wants to look away.

Bob stands up, and you watch as his face just melts back into place, all those extra teeth vanishing with squishy, wet sounds. His jaw snaps into a shape that actually belongs on a person, and his tongue shrinks until it looks normal again. In no time at all, he’s back to looking like Bob Gray, that same annoyingly perfect, movie-star guy you met this morning. Only now, his mouth and chin are streaked with blood, and his hands are coated in it, while his white shirt is splattered with dark, arterial stains that stand out against the fabric. He doesn’t seem to care at all. If anything, he looks even more pleased with himself.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean with that too-long tongue, savoring the taste. “Not my best meal,” he says conversationally. “The fear was mostly gone by the time I got to eat.”

He glances over at you, kneeling from what’s left of Victor. His eyes catch the dying light, and somehow they’re shining in a way that’s not natural at all. “You did good, sweetheart. Way better than I thought you would. I have to say, I’m impressed. There’s a real killer hiding underneath all that guilt and good-girl act you put on.”

“Stop.” Your voice is hoarse from screaming and vomiting, throat raw and broken. “Just stop talking.”

“But we’re not done yet.” Bob walks toward you with measured steps. He crouches down in front of you, reaching out to cup your face with hands still sticky with Victor’s blood. “We need to celebrate your first kill. Properly.”

“I’m going to turn myself in.” You say it, but your voice sounds empty, just going through the motions because you know it won’t matter. You hear yourself promise to turn yourself in, but it’s not like anything you could actually do. “I’m going to call the police and tell them what I did. I can’t-I can’t live with this.”

“You can and you will.” His grip tightens on your face, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, smearing Victor’s blood across your cheeks and jaw. “Because if you turn yourself in, if you confess, what happens to Richie? He becomes a ward of the state. He gets shuffled into foster care, and I’ll find him there. I’ll visit him in whatever group home or foster family they stick him in. I’ll make good on every single threat I made this morning.”

The reminder hits you hard and leaves you shivering. Richie. That’s what all of this was for. You killed someone so your cousin could keep living his normal life, and now you’re a murderer with blood on your hands, and you’re stuck with it because you’d do anything to protect him.

Bob’s thumbs stroke across your cheekbones almost tenderly, the gesture grotesque given the blood he’s smearing into your skin. “Besides, who says they’ll believe you? You’ll tell them you killed Victor Criss and they’ll ask where the body is. You’ll bring them here and find… nothing.” His eyes flick toward Victor’s skeleton. “I’ve eaten most of him. What’s left I’ll dispose of. I’ll scatter the bones in the sewers where no one will ever find them. Victor Criss simply disappeared on his way home from school.”

His hand drops from your cheek to your throat, and his fingers wrap around your neck. He isn’t choking you, not really, but you can feel just how much power he has with every beat of your pulse under his hand. “You’re mine now.”

Before you can respond, his mouth crashes down on yours.

Bob’s kiss is rough and invasive, and the moment his mouth crushes yours, you taste blood and something rotten underneath, like you’re making out with a corpse. You know right away it’s Victor’s blood on his lips, and you can taste the copper, can taste all that flesh and those organs Bob just devoured. Your stomach lurches, but his hand tightens on your throat, and you can’t even pull away because he’s got you locked in place, and you have no choice but to let the taste of death and horror flood your mouth.

His tongue slides into your mouth, and it’s way too long, wriggling around like it’s got a mind of its own. You can feel it tracing your teeth and your gums, even pushing up against the roof of your mouth. It goes so far back you start to gag, and the taste hits you all at once: blood, raw meat, and something so off it makes your skin crawl. It’s like licking a slab of granite.

You try to jerk back but his hand fists in your hair, yanking hard enough to make your scalp burn with pain.

When he finally pulls back, you’re gasping for air, tears streaming down your face mixing with rain and blood. “Please,” you whisper, not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. “Please just let me go-”

“Let you go?” Bob laughs, the sound genuinely amused. “Sweetheart, we’re just getting started.”

His hand slips off your throat and grabs your left wrist, the only hand you’ve got that works right now. He yanks your arm straight out and plants your palm right against the front of his jeans. You can feel how hard he is through the denim, and your stomach twists, but you can’t pull away because his grip is so strong.

The realization hits you like a physical blow. No. No no no-

“I told you this morning,” Bob says, his voice taking on that lecturing tone even as he grinds your palm against his erection through the denim. “You know, I don’t even get anything out of this, not the way people do, but you’re all for me.”

“Don’t-” You try to pull your hand back, but his grip is bruising, forcing your palm to stay pressed against him.

“And right now,” Bob continues, his voice dropping lower, “I want you to touch me. I want you to wrap your murderer’s hand around my cock and stroke me while kneeling in the mud next to your victim’s corpse.”

He lets go of your wrist, but you know exactly what he expects. You can either do what he wants, or you can find out what happens if you don’t. Your hand just hangs there in the space between you, shaking so much it barely feels like yours. For a second, you almost tell him off, almost pull away and spit in his face, but then you remember Richie and you can’t risk it. 

“Richie’s probably finishing dinner right now,” Bob says conversationally. “Wondering where you are. Worrying because you’re not home yet. I could be there in seconds. I could manifest in your house, in his room. He’d see me and recognize something was wrong, but it would be too late. I’d grab him before he could scream and drag him down through the nearest drain-”

“Stop!” The word bursts out of you. “Stop, I’ll–I’ll do it, just stop-”

“Then do it.” Bob’s voice is hard now. “Unzip my jeans and take out my cock. Now.”

Your hands are trembling so hard you can barely get the button undone, and your fingers keep slipping while you fumble with it. When you finally get it open, you tug down the zipper, and the sound is embarrassingly loud like the rain wants to drown it out but can’t. 

Bob doesn’t bother with underwear. You pull his jeans open and there it is, his cock, already hard and thick and all kinds of wrong. The skin practically glows in the dim light, so pale it almost looks sickly.

“Take it out,” Bob instructs. “Put your hand around it.”

You reach in, fingers shaking so bad you almost miss, and grab hold of him. The cold hits you right away, and you want to pull back. He’s huge. Your hand can’t even wrap all the way around him. You know he’s made himself this way on purpose, and the size of him is meant to scare you as much as anything else.

“Good girl,” Bob says, and the praise makes you want to vomit. “Now stroke. Up and down. Just like that.”

You let your hand move, forcing it to keep working even though every part of you wants to pull away. You stroke him, up and down, trying to pretend you’re somewhere else, someone else. You’re watching yourself from far away, and your body’s just going through the motions because you know if you stop, Richie’s as good as dead. 

Your palm glides over his cock, and the sensation is so wrong it makes your skin crawl. It’s too smooth, too hard, and as you keep stroking him, you can feel the texture shifting under your touch, like it can’t decide what it wants to be. You try to focus on the rhythm, on anything except the way his flesh feels under your hand, but it’s impossible to ignore.

“Do you realize where you are right now?” Bob says, his voice conversational like you’re not currently giving him a handjob. 

You try not to look, but your eyes can’t help it. They drift to the side, and you spot Victor’s skeleton lying in the mud, not even ten feet from where you’re kneeling. His skull is turned right at you, those empty eye sockets locked on your face, and it’s impossible to pretend you don’t feel the weight of that stare. You know exactly what he’s saying, even though he can’t speak. He’s blaming you. He’s judging you for what you’re doing, and you can’t escape the feeling that you deserve it.

“That’s right,” Bob continues, following your gaze. “You’re jerking me off next to the boy you murdered. The blood is barely dry and here you are, on your knees in the mud, your hand wrapped around a monster’s cock. How does that feel?”

“I hate you,” you choke out, but your hand doesn’t stop moving.

“I know.” His hips start moving, fucking into your hand with slow, deliberate thrusts. “Faster. Put some effort into it.”

You squeeze him tighter and start stroking faster, doing whatever you can to finish this quickly. Your palm glides up and down his length, and you can actually feel him changing under your hand again. He gets harder, thicker, and somehow even colder, the chill biting into your skin and making you shudder. 

“That’s it,” Bob murmurs, and you feel his hand slide into your hair again, his fingers twining through the strands. “You’re getting the hang of this. You’re figuring out how to give me what I want, and every time you do, it gets a little easier, doesn’t it? In a little while, you won’t even think it’s wrong. You’ll make up excuses in your head, -!; tell yourself it’s just what you have to do to survive.”

Bob’s breathing gets heavier, and you realize it’s all for show because he doesn’t even need to breathe. Still, he makes it sound deep and echoing, like it’s coming from somewhere huge and empty inside him. The noise fills the space between you, and it’s so wrong that your skin prickles.

Bob leans in close, and you can see the wicked glint in his eyes as he grins. “You want to know something funny? I can smell it, you know. That sweet, unmistakable scent. You’re wet, right here in the mud, and you can’t even hide it from me.”

“I’m not-”

“Yes, you are.” He slides his hand down between your legs, grabbing you through your muddy jeans, and you can’t stop the way your hips twitch at the contact. His palm presses right against your clit, even through the thick, and you feel the heat pulse up your spine. You hate it, but your body reacts anyway, and he knows it. “See? Even now, you’re getting wet for me. That’s the beautiful thing about human physiology. It responds to stimulus regardless of context.”

He grinds his palm against you, pressing hard enough that you can’t ignore the jolt of sensation. It’s so very wrong, and you hate that it’s happening, but your hips jerk on their own, chasing the friction even though you’re desperate for it to stop. You can feel the shame burning in your cheeks, but your body keeps reacting, betraying you in a way you can’t control.

“There it is,” Bob says with satisfaction. “Keep stroking. Don’t stop.”

You keep stroking him, your hand moving up and down his cold cock while he rubs you through your jeans. You try to focus on anything but the heat building between your legs, but his hand is relentless, and the friction makes your breath hitch. 

Bob leans in so close you can feel his breath on your ear. “You’re a murderer who’s turned on by the monster she’s serving. You can try to lie to yourself, but this is the real you, the one underneath all that guilt and fake morality.”

“Stop talking,” you beg, your voice breaking. “Please just-”

“Just what? Want me to come? Is that it? You want me to finish so you can get out of here?” He starts thrusting his hips harder into your hand, making it impossible to ignore how desperate he is for you to keep going. “Then do it. Make me come.”

You adjust your grip, desperate to end this as soon as possible, and stroke him even faster, squeezing him until your hand aches. Your palm slides up and down his cock in quick, rough strokes, and the cold is so intense it almost burns, making your skin tingle and your stomach twist. 

Bob’s hand keeps working between your legs, pressing harder and rubbing your clit right through your jeans. The fabric is rough and wet, and it’s not enough to make you come, but it’s more than enough to make your whole body light up. 

“That’s it,” Bob murmurs, sounding proud and a little too pleased with himself. “Good girl. Such a good little murderer. You’re really getting the hang of this. You don’t even realize you’re selling your soul for scraps of hope.”

His cock throbs in your grip, getting even harder. The temperature changes too, shifting from that ice-cold chill to something just a little warmer, and you know he’s about to finish. Your hand is slick with his pre-cum, and every movement makes his hips jerk a little. You can’t look away from what you’re doing, even though you want to, and your whole body is tense with dread and anticipation.

“I’m going to come on your hand,” Bob says matter-of-factly. “And then you’re going to lick it off. You’re going to taste what comes out of a higher being when it wants to act human, and you’re going to swallow every drop because I’m not giving you a choice. “

“No, I can’t-”

“Yes, you can.” His hand fists tighter in your hair, yanking your head back so you’re forced to look up at him. “You can and you will because I own you. You’ll do whatever I tell you to do.”

You can’t help the sound that slips out, even though you want to bite it back; it’s there anyway, a mixture of a sob and a moan. You hate that you’re making any noise at all.

“You’re close too, aren’t you?” Bob observes. “About to come in your pants like a desperate whore by my hand.”

“Please-”

Bob’s movements get more erratic, his cock pulsing harder in your grip. “Now,” he commands. “Make me come. Do it.”

You grip him even tighter and stroke as fast as you can, your hand sliding up and down his cock in a blur. His hips snap forward, first once, then again, and the noise he makes doesn’t sound human at all. It’s deep and strange, almost like it’s coming from the bottom of a well. The sound rattles something loose in you, but you keep going, desperate to finish this and get it over with.

His cock pulses violently in your hand.

His cum shoots across your palm and fingers in thick, messy spurts, and it’s shockingly hot, almost burning your skin, even though the rest of him is ice-cold. The texture throws you off completely because it’s so much thicker and stickier than it should be, almost syrupy, and when you look at it, you see this pearly, shifting color that doesn’t make sense. It’s not white, not really clear either, but somewhere in between, and the way it glows in the dim light makes you queasy just trying to understand it.

There’s more with every pulse, spilling over your hand, coating your fingers, and dripping down your wrist in heavy, gloppy strands. It doesn’t act like anything you’ve touched before. It clings to your skin, almost crawling, like it’s got a mind of its own and it’s not letting go. You can feel it spreading, trying to cover every bit of you it can reach, and the wrongness of it makes you shiver.

Bob lets out a deep, low groan, and it rumbles right through your chest, making your teeth ache. He pushes into your hand again, working every last drop out of himself. His cum coats your palm, hot and thick, pooling in your hand until it’s spilling over and dripping down between your fingers. It’s everywhere, and the mess is running down onto the mud below while you’re left staring at it, stunned and shivering.

“There,” he says, finally releasing your hair and stepping back slightly. His cock is still hard, glistening with cum and rain. “That’s much better.”

You try to yank your hand back, but Bob grabs your wrist and holds it up, showing off the mess he’s made. His cum is still dripping from your fingers, thick and shiny, and you can feel how sticky it is. The sight of it makes your stomach twist.

“Look at it,” Bob commands. “Look at what you’ve done.”

He reaches out with his free hand and swipes his fingers through the cum pooling in your palm, gathering a thick glob of it. “Open your mouth.”

“What? No-” You try to jerk back but he still has your wrist locked in his grip.

“Open. Your. Mouth.” Each word is precisely enunciated, leaving no room for argument. “Or I go visit Richie. Right now. Tonight.”

The threat works, just like it always does. You open your mouth a little, just enough for him to get what he wants. Bob grins and shoves his cum-slick fingers right past your lips, not caring if you’re ready or if you want it. There’s no warning, just his fingers pushing onto your tongue, smearing his thick mess across your taste buds. The taste crashes into you all at once, and you can’t pretend it’s anything but awful.

The taste hits you and your body instantly rebels because nothing about this is right. It isn’t salty like you’d expect. Instead, it’s bitter and weirdly sweet, with a metallic tang that makes your mouth water for all the wrong reasons. You pick up flavors like a sharp chemical burn, too, and it makes your tongue tingle and start to go numb, but you keep swallowing because you know you have to.

You try to pull away, but Bob grabs your jaw and holds your mouth open, pushing his fingers in deeper until you almost gag. His cum is everywhere, coating your tongue, the roof of your mouth, sliding back toward your throat. The sensation makes you want to choke, but you can’t get away, and he makes sure you take every last bit of it.

“Don’t you dare spit it out,” Bob warns. His other hand, still holding your cum-covered palm, moves closer, more cum dripping off your fingers. “You’re going to swallow every drop, and you’re going to take what I give you. Understand?”

You can’t nod with his hand gripping your jaw, but your eyes must show your compliance because he smiles.

“Good girl.” He finally pulls his fingers out of your mouth, dragging them slowly over your tongue. He grins while he does it, watching your face for any reaction. Then he grabs your own cum-smeared hand and brings it right up to your lips, holding it there like he wants to see what you’ll do now that you’re covered in his mess. “Now lick your palm clean. Every drop.”

“Please,” you try to say, but it comes out garbled because your mouth is still full of his cum.

“Now.” 

You lift your shaking hand to your lips, and you force yourself to stick out your tongue and lap at the mess pooling in your palm. As soon as it hits your tongue, the taste gets even worse, coating your whole mouth in a sharp chemical-like burn. You gag, but you keep licking, dragging your tongue through the thick cum, scooping up every bit because you know you don’t have a choice. Your stomach lurches with every swallow, but you keep going, desperate to get this over with and hoping he’ll let you stop once your hand is clean.

Bob instructs. “Lick between your fingers. Clean yourself thoroughly.”

You do what he wants, dragging your tongue between your fingers and scooping up the thick cum, forcing yourself to swallow every last bit of it. The taste is so strong that your eyes water, and you almost gag more than once, but you just keep going because you know you can’t stop. Each swallow feels worse than the last, the cum sliding down your throat in heavy, sticky globs, clinging to every part of you it touches. It settles into your stomach like a weight that you know you’ll never get rid of. You keep licking, collecting more, and you try not to think about how completely wrong it all feels, but the taste just lingers, stubborn and awful.

“Swallow,” Bob commands when your mouth is full. “All of it. Down your throat where it belongs.”

You swallow. The cum slides down in one thick, nauseating mass. Your stomach immediately rebels but you clamp down on the urge to vomit, knowing that would only make him angrier.

“Again. Keep licking.”

Your tongue returns to your palm, gathering more. Lick, swallow. Lick, swallow. The rhythm is degrading. With each swallow, the taste seems to intensify rather than fade, coating your mouth and throat with wrongness that won’t wash away.

Finally (mercifully), your hand is clean. Saliva-slick but free of cum.

Bob releases your wrist, and you immediately pull your hand back, cradling it against your chest. Your whole body is shaking violently.

“There,” Bob says with satisfaction, tucking himself back into his jeans and zipping up. 

You can’t get a word out, and you just kneel there, shaking so hard your teeth are chattering. The taste of him is still everywhere. You want to vomit it out, but you know you can’t, so you just sit there with that shame burning in your chest.

Bob crouches down in front of you again, reaching out to cup your face almost tenderly. His thumb brushes across your lower lip, still swollen from his earlier bite. “Spit and gargle all you like, but the taste will linger. You’ll taste it for days, and you’ll remember this moment.”

He starts walking back toward where your car is parked, presumably expecting you to follow. After a moment, you do, your bare feet numb and torn from rocks and sticks.

Your car looks normal sitting there in the clearing. The driver’s side door is still open from when you got out to chase Victor. Your heels are lying in the mud. Your purse is on the ground.

“Clean yourself up,” Bob says, gesturing to your blood-covered appearance. “Best you can, anyway. The rain helps. Then drive home. Act normal. If Richie asks about your day, tell him it was fine. Don’t give him any reason to suspect something’s wrong.”

“How am I supposed to-” You gesture helplessly at yourself, at the blood, at everything. “How am I supposed to pretend everything’s okay?”

“The same way you’ve been pretending for weeks.” Bob’s voice is matter-of-fact. “You smile and nod and act like a functional human being. It’s what people do.”

He steps close again, invading your space. His hand comes up to tilt your chin, forcing you to meet those impossible eyes.

“You did well today,” he says softly. 

He releases you and steps back, looking completely composed despite the blood and rain. “Go home now, and go back to teaching. Take care of Richie, and wait for my next instructions.”

“I can’t do this again.” The words are barely a whisper. “Please. I can’t kill anyone else.”

“You won’t have to. Not immediately anyway.” Bob’s smile is almost kind. “Tonight was a special case. It was a test. Going forward, you’ll just help set the traps. Lure them to me. I’ll handle the actual killing. Unless,” his smile sharpens, “you develop a taste for it. Some people do, you know. Once they cross that line the first time, it gets easier. You might surprise yourself.”

The thought makes you want to die.

“Now go.” Bob gestures toward the car. “Before hypothermia sets in. You’re shivering quite dramatically.”

You are shivering. Your whole body is shaking with cold and shock and horror. You stumble toward the car on numb feet, your legs barely holding you up.

“Oh, and sweetheart?” Bob calls after you. “Don’t forget the knife. You might want to clean that too before you get home.”

You look back and see Richie’s switchblade lying in the mud near what’s left of Victor’s body. The blade is dark with blood. You force yourself to walk back and pick it up, the metal cold and slick in your hand.

Bob is already gone when you turn around. He’s disappeared, like he was never there. Only the skeleton remains as proof that any of this happened.

You close the knife and shove it into your pocket, trying not to think about the blood still sticky on your skin. You slide into the driver’s seat and look around until you spot your keys where Victor dropped them on the floor. Your fingers fumble as you pick them up, and it takes two tries to get the key in the ignition, but eventually you manage to start the engine, your whole body shaking so much you can barely hold on. The car rumbles to life, and you grip the wheel tight, trying to convince yourself you’re still in control even though you know you’re not.

The drive home feels endless, and you have to pull over twice just to cry your eyes out before you can force yourself to keep going. You grip the steering wheel so tight your knuckles ache, but you know you can’t let yourself fall apart yet. The rain keeps coming down, and even though it washes some of the blood off your clothes and skin, it can’t get rid of all of it. The car reeks of iron, and you breathe through your mouth, hoping you won’t throw up again before you reach home.

By the time you finally pull into the driveway, it’s almost six. The house looks the same as always, lights on inside, and Richie’s shadow is flickering past the living room window. It looks so normal that for a second you almost believe you could just walk in and pretend today never happened, but you know better. 

You sit in the car a long time, trying to get yourself together. You wiped off as much blood as you could with napkins from the glove box, but you still look like you’ve been in a brawl. Mud cakes your jeans, your shirt’s torn and soaked through, and your lip is throbbing where Bob bit it, swollen and aching every time you move your mouth. You catch sight of yourself in the rearview mirror and almost don’t recognize the person staring back.

You drag yourself toward the house. Your feet are shredded from running barefoot through the Barrens, and your ribs throb where Victor caught you with his elbow. Every muscle hurts, and you feel new bruises blooming with every movement. 

You killed someone. You stabbed a seventeen-year-old boy to death with your own hands, and now you’re going to walk into your house and hug your cousin and pretend everything is fine.

The house is warm when you step inside, and the contrast with the cold rain makes you shiver violently. Richie closes the door behind you and immediately starts fussing, trying to help you out of your muddy jacket.

“Seriously, what the hell happened?” His voice cracks slightly with worry. “You look like shit.”

“I fell in the parking lot-”

“Bullshit. People don’t look like this from falling. Did someone hurt you? Did something happen?”

Yes. Everything happened. I lured a student to his death and when he tried to escape I chased him down and stabbed him twenty times and watched a monster eat his corpse.

“No one hurt me,” you say instead. “I’m just… it was a bad day, Rich. A really bad day. And I’m exhausted and I hurt everywhere and I just want to take a shower and forget this day ever happened.”

The desperation in your voice must convince him because he backs off slightly, though the concern doesn’t leave his eyes. “Okay. Okay. Go shower. I’ll… I’ll make some tea or something, and we should probably look at your feet because they’re bleeding.”

You look down and realize he’s right. Your feet are leaving bloody footprints on the floor, red smears across the old hardwood. More evidence to clean up. 

“I’ll clean that up after I shower.” You’re moving toward the stairs now, desperate to get away from his worried eyes. “Just give me some time.”

“Wait-” Richie grabs your arm gently. “Are you sure you’re okay? Like, really okay?”

No. You’ll never be okay again. 

So you just go with your gut and grab him, pulling him into a hug and holding on like you might float away if you let go. He freezes at first, probably because you’re getting mud and blood all over his clean hoodie, but you don’t care and you squeeze him tighter anyway. After a second, he gives in and hugs you back, and you can feel him holding on just as hard, like he needs this as much as you do.

“I’m okay,” you lie into his shoulder. “I promise. I’m okay.”

He holds you for a long moment, and you can feel him shaking slightly. He’s scared. You can see it in his eyes. Your battered, bloody state scared him, and every bit of worry flashes across his face. He’s remembering what it felt like to lose people before, and he’s terrified that one day you’ll disappear too. You wish you could promise he’ll never have to feel that way again, but the truth sticks in your throat, and you let him hang on as long as he needs.

“I can’t lose you too,” he whispers. “You’re all I have left.”

The words break something inside you. You hold him tighter, feeling tears burn behind your eyes. “You’re not going to lose me. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Go shower,” Richie says finally, pulling back and wiping at his eyes quickly. “You’re getting mud everywhere and it’s gross.”

You manage a weak smile. “Yeah. Sorry about your hoodie.”

“It’s fine. It’s just… go. Get clean. I’ll order pizza or something for dinner.”

You nod and head upstairs, each step an effort. Your damaged right hand throbs in time with your heartbeat. Your whole body aches.

The bathroom feels too bright when you turn on the light. You avoid looking in the mirror as you start stripping off your ruined clothes. Your shirt is caked with mud and blood, torn in several places. Your jeans are even worse. The knees are blown out, and there are dark stains everywhere. Your bra and underwear are somehow also muddy, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin.

You ball everything up and shove it into a garbage bag you pull from under the sink. Evidence. You’ll need to dispose of it somewhere it won’t be found. Burn it, maybe, or cut it into pieces and scatter it across multiple dumpsters.

The thought that you’re thinking like a criminal, planning how to destroy evidence, makes you want to scream.

You turn on the shower as hot as it will go and step under the spray. The water hitting your torn feet makes you gasp with pain, but you welcome it. Physical pain to distract from the mental anguish.

The water at your feet runs red at first with blood and mud swirling down the drain. Victor’s blood. His life is washing away like it never mattered.

You scrub at your skin with a washcloth, trying to get every trace of blood off. Under your fingernails. Between your fingers. Up your arms, where it splattered when you were stabbing him. You scrub until your skin is raw, until the water finally runs clear, but you still don’t feel clean.

Your hair is matted with mud and possibly blood. You wash it twice with shampoo, then a third time just to be sure. The conditioner stings where your scalp is scraped raw by Victor’s hands, which grabbed your hair during the fight.

The fight. That’s what you’re calling it now like it was mutual combat instead of murder.

You stay in the shower until the water starts to run cold, until your skin is pruned and raw from scrubbing. When you finally turn off the tap, the silence is deafening.

You dry off carefully, wincing at every touch on your bruised body. You find clean clothes in your bedroom, soft pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt. 

Your purse is still downstairs where you dropped it. The switchblade is in your pocket, still stained with blood. You need to clean it before Richie sees.

You pad downstairs barefoot, moving carefully because every step hurts. Richie is in the kitchen, and you can smell pizza. He must have ordered while you were showering. 

“Feel better?” he asks when you appear in the doorway.

“A little.” You spot your purse on the chair where you left it and grab it, tucking it under your arm. “I’m going to put some bandages on my feet. They’re pretty cut up.”

“Want help?”

“No, I’ve got it.” You need to be alone. You need to clean that knife before anyone sees it.

Back in the bathroom, you lock the door and pull out the switchblade. It’s still crusty with dried blood, the blade dark with it. You run it under hot water and scrub it with an old toothbrush until the metal is clean and shining again.

The blood swirls down the drain.

You dry the knife carefully and close it, then tuck it into your toiletry bag in the cabinet under the sink. 

You bandage your feet with gauze and medical tape from the first aid kit, wrapping them until they look like you’re preparing for a boxing match. Wrap, tape, wrap again. Don’t think about what those feet ran through. Don’t think about chasing Victor through the mud.

When you finally emerge from the bathroom, Richie has set out pizza on paper plates in the living room. He’s set up a movie on the TV.

“Eat,” he says, gesturing to your plate. “You look like you haven’t eaten all day.”

He’s right. Your last meal was the cold McDonald’s breakfast this morning. 

The pizza tastes like ash in your mouth, but you force yourself to eat.

Richie chatters while you eat, filling the silence with his usual rapid-fire commentary on the movie, on his day (he finished his English homework, worked through some math problems, and went to the arcade). Normal teenage stuff. 

“You’re being quiet,” he observes eventually. “More than usual, I mean.”

“Just tired.” You manage a small smile. “It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah, I bet falling on your ass multiple times will do that.” He’s trying to joke, but you can see the concern still lurking in his eyes.

You excuse yourself before the movie ends, claiming exhaustion. Richie hugs you goodnight, another hug, because he’s clingy now, afraid of losing you, and you hold him tight for a moment before heading upstairs.

The stairs feel like climbing a mountain. Your bedroom door closes behind you with a soft click, and finally, you’re alone.

You should clean the car. You should go out there right now with cleaning supplies and scrub away any trace of Victor, but you can’t. You physically cannot make yourself go back outside, back to that car where he sat just hours ago.

Tomorrow. You’ll do it tomorrow before school.

You climb into bed still wearing your clothes because the thought of being naked, vulnerable, is unbearable. The sheets are cold against your skin. The house is quiet except for the sound of Richie moving around downstairs, cleaning up dinner.

You close your eyes and immediately see Victor’s face. His eyes wide with terror. His mouth opening in a scream. The blood bubbling between his lips as the knife sank in again and again.

Your eyes snap open.

You can’t sleep. You won’t be able to sleep, not with those images burned into your brain, but your body has other ideas. Adrenaline crash is hitting hard now, exhaustion pulling you down like a riptide. Your eyes start to drift closed despite your best efforts.

The last thing you think before sleep takes you is. I’m a murderer.